puppet government BY GEORGE REVELLE _Year after year they came back, despite his constant refusals. And still Brandon couldn't figure out why he was so important...._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Brandon was looking at his desk again. An artificial grin spread across the narrow face of the Secretary of Interior who was watching him closely. The Secretary's pencil-thin fingers continued to toy with the small, wood figure he was holding. "Brandon," he tried to lie gracefully, "You're a card. A real card." Brandon shifted his position, brought his attention back to the thin man with the receding hairline. He couldn't, for the life of him, remember anything humorous he had said or done. He was too tired to be jovial. The past few days had sapped his strength. He was exhausted and there were still two more interviews scheduled. Good Lord, he thought. Two more! He found his eyes wandering back to his desk. He would never finish the papers in time. That would mean a severe penalty. "Come now, Brandon. Admit it. You _know_ you want to work for us in Interior." "Right now I don't know anything," Brandon said wearily. "My head is tired and clouded. I can't think straight." He rubbed his hand across his forehead, wondering how much longer he would be able to continue to say no to their requests. He had almost found himself agreeing with the thin man a few moments ago. That wasn't good. Brandon leaned back in the contour chair and let some of the strength seep back into his outstretched legs. Each year at this time they would begin to wander in with their strange, outlandish offers of positions with the government. It was perplexing. "Why me?" he asked suddenly. "Why in Interior? I know nothing about such work?" The thin man leaned foreward, "Because you are a good man, Brandon. And we need good men these days. Government is big business and we want the top positions filled with the best men we can get. Besides," the Secretary laughed softly, "you're wasting your time playing with dolls." "They aren't dolls!" Brandon said indignantly. "So they aren't dolls." "There is a difference," Brandon insisted. "You make it sound as if I'm in my second childhood." "All right. Puppets!" The thin man shifted in his chair. He ran his lean fingers over the hand-painted figure he was holding in one hand. "But you can see my point." Brandon shook his head. That was it. He couldn't see the point. His puppets were becoming world famous, the result of reviving the almost lost art of hand carving. He was earning a fair living at it. He could see no reason for a change.