Stanton Frelaine sat at his desk, trying to look as busy as an executive should at nine-thirty in the morning. It was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the advertisement he had written the previous night, couldn’t think about business. All he could do was wait until the mail came.
He had been waiting for his notification for two weeks now. The government was behind schedule, as usual.
The glass door of his office was marked Morger and Frelaine, Clothiers. It opened, and E. J. Morger walked in, limping slightly from his old gunshot wound. His shoulders were bent; but at the age of seventy-three, he wasn’t worrying too much about his posture.
“Well, Stan?” Morger asked. “What about that ad?”
Frelaine had joined Morger sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Together they had built Protec-Clothes into a million-dollar concern.
“I suppose you can run it,” Frelaine said, handing the slip of paper to Morger. If only the mail would come earlier, he thought.
“ ‘Do you own a ProtecSuit?’ ” Morger read aloud, holding the paper close to his eyes. “ ‘The finest tailoring in the world has gone into Morger and Frelaine’s Protec-Suit, to make it the leader in men’s fashions.’ ”
Morger cleared his throat and glancea at Frelaine. He smiled and read on.
“ ‘Protec-Suit is the safest as well as the smartest. Every Protec-Suit comes with special built-in gun pocket, guaranteed not to bulge. No one will know you are carrying a gun—except you. The gun pocket is exceptionally easy to get at, permitting fast, unhindered draw. Choice of hip or breast pocket.’ Very nice,” Morger commented.
Frelaine nodded morosely.