The procedure did not call for that remark, and so, for a second, Bozzy forgot what came next. Then, helped by the stimulant pill, he focused his thoughts, crossed the room, and turned a lighted red switch that glowed by the door. He heard a muffled clank as iron links froze to the magnetized armchair, sounding the signal for his speech. "Sir," he intoned, "the Company takes this opportunity to express its deep and heart-felt appreciation of the thirty-five years you have devoted to serving the Company, the furniture industry generally, and that great public, our customers." Without looking at Mr. Kojac, he bowed, turned, went out, and released the catch holding the door open. It closed automatically, and automatically set in motion the rest of the ceremony. From somewhere out of sight, fat Mr. Frewne waddled over and briefly shook Bozzy's hand. "You've done fine," he wheezed. "A little late getting started, but that's to be expected. Every-thing's fine--just fine!" Praise seemed a miscue. Bozzy didn't quite know how to answer. "Sir," he asked, mopping his forehead, "what about Mr. Kojac?" "Oh, he's all right," Mr. Frewne said. "Those fumes are fast. We can leave the rest to the undertaker." He slapped Bozzy on the back and pushed him down the corridor. "Come on into my office, boy. I'll pour you a drink--pour us each one, as a matter of fact. And hand over your iron jewelry, son. You won't need that stuff again for thirty-five years." --DAVE DRYFOOS * * * * *