Free The Cat Who Walks Through Walls by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

in his office, you can counter his most reasonable arguments simply by being more stupidly stubborn than he is. Just sit tight and say no. Or say nothing. You can face him with the necessity of either assenting to your (oh so reasonable) demands or having you thrown out bodily.
    The latter probably will not fit his public persona .
    For these reasons I decided to skip calling Mr. Middlegaff, or anyone at the housing office, and went directly to the Manager’s office, in person. I had no hope of influencing Mr. Middlegaff, who clearly had had a policy handed to him, which he was now carrying out with bureaucratic indifference (“Have A Nice Day” indeed!). I had little hope of getting satisfaction from the Manager—but, at least, if the Manager turned me down, I would not have to waste time going higher. The Golden Rule, being a privately-owned company not chartered by any sovereign state (i.e., being itself sovereign) had no authority higher than the Manager—God Almighty Himself was not even a minority partner.
    Decisions by the Managing Partner might be utterly arbitrary…but they were utterly final. There was no possibility of years of litigation, no way a higher court could reverse his decision. The “Law’s Delays” that so blemished the workings of “justice” in democratic states down dirtside could not exist here. I recalled only a few capital cases in the five years I had lived here…but in each case the Manager had sat as magistrate, then the condemned had been spaced that same day.
    In such a system the question of miscarriage of justice becomes moot.
    Add to that the fact that the profession of law, like the profession of prostitution, is neither licensed nor forbidden and the result is a judicial system having little resemblance to the crazy ziggurat of precedent and tradition that passes for “justice” dirtside. Justice in the Golden Rule might be astigmatic if not totally blind; it could not be slow.
    We left Bill in the outer foyer of the Manager’s offices, with our baggage—my duffel bag and bundle, Gwen’s cases, the bonsai maple (watered before we left Gwen’s compartment)—with instructions to Bill to sit on the duffel bag, guard the bonsai with his life (Gwen’s phrasing), and watch the rest. We went inside.
    There we each, separately, left our names at the reception desk, then found seats. Gwen opened her purse, got out a Casio game board. “What’ll it be, dear? Chess, cribbage, backgammon, go, or what?”
    “You’re expecting a long wait?”
    “Yes, I am, sir. Unless we build a fire under the mule.”
    “I think you’re right. Any ideas about how to build that fire? Without setting fire to the wagon, I mean. Oh, what the devil!—go ahead and set fire to the wagon. But how?”
    “We could use a variation on the old standard: ‘My husband knows all.’ Or ‘Your wife has found out.’ But our variation would have to be quite novel, as the basic ploy has long white whiskers.” She added, “Or I can go into labor pains. That is always good for attention.”
    “But you don’t look pregnant.”
    “Want to bet? So far no one has taken a good look at me. Just give me five minutes alone in that ladies’ lounge across there and you’ll be certain I’m nine months gone. Richard, this ploy I learned years ago when I was a claims investigator for an insurance company. It will always get one inside, anywhere.”
    “You tempt me,” I admitted, “as it would be such fun to watch you work it. But the ploy we use not only has to get us inside, but also must keep us inside under circumstances in which the bloke will listen to our arguments.”
    “Dr. Ames.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Ames?”
    “The Manager isn’t going to listen to our arguments.”
    “Please amplify.”
    “I applauded your decision to go straight to the top because I saw that it would save time and tears to get all the bad news at once. We have leprosy; what has already been done to us makes that clear. The Manager