Page 229 of Storm of Bells
Putting down the reporton the sales of salted herring in Wagga Wagga, Australia, I flickedmy wrist, jotting down a few brief words below the report.
Sales insufficient. Increase advertising. Halvesales director’s salary.
Ambrose
Satisfied withmy response, I nodded to myself, reached for the next pile ofdocuments—and froze in place at the sight of it. Ah, this was it,wasn’t it?Herwork. Her first attempt at actuallyconducting business.[38]
Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, I opened thefolder. What was the project about again? Quickly, I flickedthrough my mental archive…ah yes. The sales problem with thecocaine. She was supposed to devise a new marketing strategy. Hm…itwould be quite amusing to see what she had come up with for herfirst excuse of an attempt. I was already calculating how much Icould deduct from a certain secretary’s pay for the inevitableerrors in the work when my eyes fell on the title page.
My hand jerked, nearly spattering ink allover the paper.
I blinked.
I took a deep breath.
Then, for the very first time in my life, Ire-read something I had already read once, just to be sure my eyeswere not deceiving me. Not caring about the horrendous waste oftime, I read it for a third time. Still, the same words met myeyes. Slowly, I turned the page and, against my better judgement,started to read the first paragraph. And another. And another, andanother, faster and faster and faster.
Finally, the last page of the documentfluttered down to the desk. For a moment, I simply sat there. Then,taking a deep breath, I closed the folder and reached for the smallmetal horn resting on my desk.
‘Mr Pearson?’
‘Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?’ a distant voice camefrom the tube connected to the horn.
‘Send Mr Linton to my office thisinstant!’
There was a moment of silence. ‘Um…Sir? Isnot Mr Linton’s office right next to your office?’
‘Indeed,’ I replied, the horn in my handgroaning under the pressure of my grip. ‘It is.’
‘Err…then why don’t you simply go overand…?’
‘Because I do not wish to be charged withmanslaughter, that’s why! Now…’
‘I’ll send him over straight away, Sir!’
‘And buy me today’s newspaper!’
‘Err…today’s, Sir? Are you sure youdon’t want a used one from yesterday confiscated for free from oneof the employees?’
‘Did I stutter?’
‘No, Sir! I’ll send it up right away,Sir!’
‘Hm.’
Slamming the apparatus in my hand down ontothe desk, I began my least favourite activity: waiting.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The paper arrived. Immediately, I flicked tothe advertising section—and froze. I felt a muscle in my cheektwitch. Taking a deep breath, I continued to wait.
And waited some more.
And more.
