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Illustrator: FREAS
The MERCHANTS Of Venus
Illustrated by FREAS
The telephone rang. Reluctantly, Rod Workham picked it up. Nothing good had come from that phone in six years, and his sour expression was almost an automatic reflex.
"Workham here," he said.
He held the phone an inch away from his ear, but the tirade exceeded his expectations--it would have been audible a foot away:
"Workham! How long do you think we're going to stand for this! At the rate you're going, there won't be a man left on Venus or a dollar in the budget! What kind of a personnel director are you? Don't you know this project is vital to every person on Earth? Thirty more resignations came in on this last mail flight."
Rod put the receiver gently on his desk. General Carlson raved and ranted this way every time a colonist quit, and Rod knew he was not expected to answer, even if given the chance. The general would carry on for about five minutes and then would slam down the phone himself.
He dialed another number on the other phone.
"This is Rod, Dave," he said when he got an answer. "Carlson is on the other phone, yelling at my desk blotter. He says thirty more resignations came in just now. That right?"
"Close enough, Rod--twenty-three pulled out. That makes seventy-eight per cent resigned in less than--"
"Spare me the statistics--Carlson's probably blatting them right now. How do they break down? Are they mostly farmers or technicians?"
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