"Certainly not," said the personnel advisor, staring blandly at Ellaby. "This is a democratic country."
"Then—"
"But you've never known a man to refuse answering a question asked of him officially, have you?"
"I'm not sure I understand, sir."
"You don't have to be so obsequious, Ellaby. I'm less modal than you are, but I make the best of my divergencies. What I meant was this: did you ever hear of a criminal not confessing to his crime?"
"Well, no."
"I'll ask you the question again, Ellaby. Why did you want to work near the Dictator?"
The man leaned close, peered at Ellaby. The room was small, almost a cubicle, the bare walls seeming to close in on all four sides. Ellaby stifled a wild impulse to scream and run out of there, run any place as long as he could leave the room and the personnel advisor behind him. "I'm sorry, but I can't answer that question," he said finally.
"Tell me, Ellaby, did you ever hear your own voice?"
What a strange question. "Why, certainly. All the time, when I speak."