Free Brother Termite by Patricia Anthony Page A

Krupner seemed logical when Womack had first suggested it. Now Reen wasn’t so sure.
    “May I help you, sir?” the man on duty asked.
    Reen ignored him and walked to the West Wing.
    Once in the first level of the basement, Reen looked for Krupner’s office and found the nameplate, HANS KRUPNER , EDUCATION COUNSEL , at the end of a dark corridor next to the bathrooms. He opened the door. Krupner’s tiny office was a riotous origami zoo.
    “Dr. Krupner?” Reen called .
    Past a barrier of varied animals on the desk, a voice answered: “Yes?”
    As Reen approached, Krupner’s balding pate came into view, followed by his round, questioning brown eyes. Reen searched for a place on the desk to sit, failed, and at last took a seat on a steel folding chair.
    “Hans,” he began, peering over a spread-winged eagle. “We’re all very fond of you.”
    Brows rose over Krupner’s bonbon eyes. “Yes?”
    Reen, leaning forward to bring more of Krupner’s face into view, nearly crushed a paper horse. “But I’ve noticed lately that you’re not pulling weight.”
    Krupner’s face became very still.
    Reen blundered on. “We need a good half to carry a ball. You don’t advance the field.”
    Blood had drained from Krupner’s cheeks, leaving them the color of paper, as if the man had become an origami self-portrait. A line of perspiration salted his upper lip.
    Reen wanted more than anything to flee from the tiny office and Krupner’s agonizing stare. It hadn’t been his intention to hurt the man’s feelings. He had expected that Krupner would protest the firing, would perhaps indignantly resign. Instead the silence in the room was a soft but inescapable pressure, like a pillow forced against the face.
    The corners of Krupner’s mouth trembled. He was bent forward, straining; but Reen couldn’t tell what exactly he was straining for. Could the man be in pain? Could he be–God forbid–voiding his bowels in the chair? Then the answer hit Reen. What he was seeing was intense confusion. “Bitte?” Krupner asked uncertainly. “I’m sorry. I don’t–”
    “You’re fired.”
    Tears sprang to Krupner’s eyes. His head dropped into the cage of his hands. “Gott in Himmel. Gott sei dank,” he said. “I’d thought–”
    Reen backed quickly to the door. “Have your resignation on my desk in an hour.”
    Up and down went Krupner’s head. Up and down. He stared around the room, as though already planning how to pack his animals.
    “I’ll call Germany for you.”
    “Ja, ja,” Krupner agreed in a lackluster voice.
    Reen hurried upstairs to the Oval Office. The House majority whip, he noticed with relief, was gone. “Call Germany,” he ordered as he passed the reception area where Natalie sat reading a novel.
    Still clutching her book, finger marking the page, she stood and followed him. “Do you realize what time it is there?”
    “Call the governor–what’s his name?–at home.”
    “All right,” she replied doubtfully. “Werner Hassenbein.”
    “What?”
    “The governor’s name is Werner Hassenbein. You should at least know his name if you’re going to get him out of bed. You know, it’d be better if this could wait until morning. The Germans have been real agreeable. No sense pissing them–”
    “Just place the call.” Reen sat behind the uncluttered rosewood expanse of his own desk.
    “Videophone hookup?”
    “Yes, yes.” He waved her out.
    As she stalked from the room, he heard her mutter, “Your funeral,” and he wondered what she meant by that and if he should be afraid of her, too.
    A few minutes later Natalie’s voice came over the intercom: “Hassenbein’s on hold.”
    Reen swung around to his credenza and tapped a command on the AT&T unit. REFUSED VIDEO SEND flashed across the screen.
    “Governor Hassenbein?” Reen asked.
    A mumble came over the receiver. “Yes?”
    “I have just fired Hans Krupner.”
    “What?” The governor was awake now.
    “I must ask you to arrange a