"Good," he grunted. "I'll be right there." He hung up and started out.
"Troubles?" the chief called after him.
"Just a sick newt," he said, "if it's any of your business."
Chief Franklin's helicopter was parked in the empty lot next door when Norris drove up in front of the house. The official heard the truck and came out on the porch to watch his agent walk up the path. His lanky, emaciated body was loosely draped in gray tweeds, and his thin hawk face was a dark and solemn mask. He was a middle-aged man, his skin seamed with wrinkles, but his hair was still abnormally black. He greeted Norris with a slow, almost sarcastic nod.
"I see you don't read your mail. If you'd looked at it, you'd have known I was coming. I wrote you yesterday."
"Sorry, Chief, I didn't have a chance to stop by the message office this morning."
Franklin grunted. "Then you don't know why I'm here?"
"No, sir."
"Let's sit out on the porch," Franklin said, and perched his bony frame on the railing. "We've got to get busy on these Bermuda-K-99s, Norris. How many have you got?"