"Big deal," Brandon said harshly, remembering his desk piled high with papers. "They say you are a stubborn man, Brandon." "Stubborn?" "Quite." "Let's say I'm content with my lot." "Are you really, Brandon?" Brandon took in the young man's wide shoulders, the face that was almost too young for such a responsible position. For just an instant he had felt that this man would be different, that there might be a challenge here. He could see he was wrong. The man was going to offer him a position. "Let's get to the point," he said hurriedly. "I'm happy making puppets and I feel no need for a change." "I'm glad you are happy, Mr. Brandon." "Good. Then there is no need to continue. I refuse your offer." Brandon was getting irritated. He didn't wait for an answer, he walked past Evans, into the house. He stood by his desk. The pile of papers was still resting there, waiting for him. He had hoped, in some magical way, that they might have vanished. A foolish thought, he knew. "Income tax?" he heard Evans say from his shoulder. Brandon nodded wearily. Evans reached over and picked up a form. He frowned. "Complicated!" "Each year it gets worse," Brandon said listlessly. "I've never had to file one," Evans said. Brandon lifted one eyebrow. "Government employees never do. We are paid a flat sum and our subsistance is taken care of. Calculators and computers adjust our salary each year in proportion to the expense of the government. We have been operating out of the red that way for years. It works out fine." Brandon ran his hands through the papers and forms. Why then did he have to wade through this mess each year when it could be made so simple? He had been staggering under the load. "You're an independent, Brandon," Evans said. "You stay in business for yourself because you dislike working for someone else. Isn't that right?" "You might say that." Evans dangled a handful of papers in front of Brandon's brown eyes. "You are working for someone else now. The tax department." "Not exactly. I don't have to answer to anyone." Evans snorted. "Not even the tax collector?" "Not unless I make an error," Brandon said stubbornly. "And I won't. I'm becoming an expert on this. When a man spends one hundred days a year working on these damn things he learns quite a bit. There will be no errors." "One hundred days!" Evans laughed. "Soon it'll be every day of the year. Then where will you be?" He looked directly into Brandon's eyes. "Can't you see? You're in the web already, working a third of the year without compensation." Evans pulled from his pocket the the broken puppet he had picked up from the driveway outside Brandon's house. He laid it in front of Brandon on the pile of income tax blanks. "Soon you'll be without income; your business will deteriorate from lack of attention." Brandon said nothing.