Free Maske: Thaery by Jack Vance Page B

Behind a semi-circular desk sat a stern old man wearing an official black quat. He thrust his head forward, scrutinized Jubal from head to foot, and seemed to arrive at no favorable opinion. “Your business, sir?”
    “I am Jubal Droad, an employee of this department. I wish to—”
    The functionary incisively interrupted him. “Your name is not on our lists; your person is not familiar to me. You have made a mistake. Return below and consult the proper index.”
    Jubal said coldly: “Notify the Eminent Eyvant Dasduke that I am being kept waiting by an underling.”
    The functionary reappraised Jubal. “You work for D3?”
    “I do indeed.”
    “What is your rating?”
    “I am a Junior Assistant Inspector.”
    The old man gave a hoarse chuckle. “Your time is of the least possible value. You will be kept waiting for hours on end; you might as well learn patience now!”
    Jubal raised his eyes to the ceiling; he must learn to ignore petty provocations. In an even voice he said: “Your opinions are not as absorbing as you may believe. Announce me, if you will, to Eyvant Dasduke.”
    The functionary spoke into a communicator. “Yes, sir… A fellow here to see you… What is your name?”
    “Have I not told you? Jubal Droad!”
    “He is called Jubal Droad, and looks to be a Glint… Admit him?”—a quaver of surprise. Then, in resignation: “Just as you say.” He turned to Jubal. “Enter by the blue door, follow the hall to the junction, turn left, proceed to the end and announce yourself.”
    Jubal marched to the blue door, which slid back at his approach. He passed through, into a high-ceilinged hall, painted a fusty green and broken at regular intervals by doors peculiarly tall and narrow through the caprice of some long-dead architect. The floor creaked underfoot; the air carried the bitter-acrid reek of decaying varnish.
    The hall angled, then joined another hall. Jubal turned left and presently was brought to a halt by a door even taller and more dilapidated than the others. The placard read: Bureau of Sanitary Inspection. Use the Admittance Signal .
    Jubal found a toggle, which he twitched without apparent effect. He rapped on the panels and rattled the latch, and presently the door opened. An old woman wearing a brown turban peered forth. “Yes sir: what are your needs?”
    “I am Jubal Droad, attached to this department. I wish to see Eyvant Dasduke.”
    “Enter, then.”
    Jubal stepped through the door. “This is a place most difficult of access.”
    “True. Too many folk with grievances bring them here to lay at our feet, like faithful hunting dogs. They are most difficult, and refuse to be consoled by a word or two, so we keep them away, and our lives are the easier for it. Come along; this is our waiting room.” She led Jubal into a chamber furnished with only a pair of benches and her own desk. She spoke into a mesh: “Jubal Droad awaits your convenience.”
    The response, which Jubal could not distinguish, satisfied her; she beckoned, and wheezing from the exertion trotted ahead to a door marked: Assistant Supervisor . Thrusting her head through, she remarked: “Here is the Glint.”
    Eyvant’s office was rather more pleasant than the waiting room. A Chrystosoram rug, in blocks of faded greens and blues, covered the floor. The furnishings were an eclectic set of antiques: a desk of carved blacking , a pale green velveteen settee, a table with a tea urn, a pair of Mork chieftain-chairs. Eyvant Dasduke, standing by the far wall, inspected Jubal with a supercilious expression. “You are confused, as well as very late,” he said in an even voice. “I ordered you to report to Chamber 95 at the first hour of the morning.”
    “I remember your instructions,” said Jubal. “I disregarded them for very good reason.”
    “Personal concerns?”
    “Yes, naturally.”
    “I emphasize that your official duties take absolute precedence over personal considerations.”
    “The ‘personal