"Sorry, Mr. Forsyte," it was the operator, "but none of your staff can join you just now. They send their regrets."
"Regrets?" Sextus said icily. "Did you explain who called this meeting, young lady?"
Her voice dropped the synthetic sweetness and became a throaty rasp. "Look, Buster, we're short-handed enough without you should call meetings at eleven A. M. Plug the hole in your head. It's suckin' air." He broke the connection. The place was busy, he'd grant, but this was rank insubordination. His whole staff! Everyone seemed keyed to the boingg! point.
He decided to mull it over breakfast. The spacious, well-appointed coffee-shop served his juice gelid and his coffee hot, his egg tender and his toast crisp. The bit of tension vanished as he ate with relish. He signed the check with his tight, little introverted signature.
Now for a quick inspection tour to see just how rough things really were. He told the boy on the service elevator, "To the bottom." His stomach writhed as the cage plummeted four floors below the street level. The kitchens, laundry, warehouse, baggage-room, switchboard room, ice-plant and personnel spaces sprawled through an acre of underground levels. They boiled with sweating men and dishevelled women engaged in the intricate business of housing, feeding, clothing, liquoring and catering to a small city under one roof. Then he remembered how small the quarters were upstairs.
How could they house enough guests to justify all this?
Returning to his office he called the employment bureau. "Mr. Crowson? Forsyte here! I'm at the hotel."
"Oh dear, what's wrong now?"
"You didn't tell me to whom I should report. This, ah, is my first experience with employment agencies. Usually there is a board of directors."
"Is that all?" Crowson sighed audibly. "You are in full charge, I assure you. Our little interview was quite satisfactory. I have certified you to your bookkeeping department, and you may draw upon your salary after a week. Anything else?"