Brandon studied the other man's face before he reached over and picked up the little figure. It was a funny creature with a large, silly-looking balloon nose. Brandon handled it tenderly, looking at it thoughtfully. Finally he said: "My puppets. What happens to them?" "I don't understand?" "Children enjoy them," Brandon answered. "I'm afraid you don't understand, Brandon," Evans shook his head. "I'm offering you a full-time position. You can make them--as a hobby of course--give them away, but you can't sell them. That would give you an income again, mean more tax forms." "But I couldn't hope to produce them for nothing," Brandon insisted. "Not on a large scale, not on the fixed salary that you mentioned!" "They aren't important, Brandon." Brandon's lips became a firm, straight line. For the first time it was clear to him why he had been so reluctant to give up his work. His music had pleased people, just as his puppets were doing now. He was getting satisfaction out of his work. He was giving people something no one else seemed to be able to give them. Accepting a position he couldn't handle, working for someone else had nothing to do with it.... "I've changed my mind," he said quietly. "Changed your mind?" Evans stared at the pen Brandon had carefully laid down on the desk; disbelief disfiguring his face. "You intend fighting _that_ each year?" he pointed at the mad array of papers he had strewn at Brandon's feet. "You're willing to risk not having any time at all to work on your puppets against security and a life of ease?" "I'm willing," Brandon answered. "Now I think you'd better leave Mr....." "Evans!" "Mr. Evans. I might be able to finish these damn things before the midnight deadline." Evans opened his mouth but Brandon was already showing him the way to the door, shoving something in his hand. * * * * * Evans climbed into his car and slumped down on the seat beside the President. He looked at the new puppet Brandon had forced into his hand before he could refuse. "Is Brandon Secretary of Taxation?" the President asked hopefully. Evans shook his head from side to side. What had gone wrong? They had known Brandon was a stubborn man, that was why things were done as they were. The offering of worthless positions had been a feint. He should have grabbed at something he could handle. And the tax forms! That was supposed to be the last straw. They had been loaded, prepared just for Brandon, to break his resistence. Yet they had failed. Why? "Did he suspect?" The President eyed Evans. "I don't think so, Sir." Evans said. "I had the pen in his hand. He was ready to sign. Then something went wrong. I can't understand it!" The President looked the other way, found his eyes fastened on his own reflection on the window. The cabinet had been wrong thinking it was a job for a psychologist like Evans. Brandon was an individual, a decided rarity in this day and age.