"And here are the forms and
cards, and the sound-recorder, and blank sound disks."
"Yes," Melroy added. "Be sure you get a recording of every interview and
oral test; we may need them for evidence."
He broke off as a man in white coveralls came pushing into the office.
He was a scrawny little fellow with a wide, loose-lipped mouth and a
protuberant Adam's apple; beside his identity badge, he wore a two-inch
celluloid button lettered: I.F.A.W. STEWARD.
"Wanta use the phone," he said. "Union business."
Melroy gestured toward a telephone on the desk beside him. The newcomer
shook his head, twisting his mouth into a smirk.
"Not that one; the one with the whisper mouthpiece," he said. "This is
private union business."
* * * * *
Melroy shrugged and indicated another phone. The man with the union
steward's badge picked it up, dialed, and held a lengthy conversation
into it, turning his head away in case Melroy might happen to be a lip
reader. Finally he turned.
"Mr. Crandall wants to talk to you," he said, grinning triumphantly, the
phone extended to Melroy.
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