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Its his company, not yours. Why dont you let him do it? Why dont you let him sacrifice his soul upon the altar of efficiency? Yes, he thought, why dont you? Why dont you get out of it? When are you going to get out of it and save your self-respect? Never, he told himself. Because its been so long now you're afraid to find out if you've still got the self-respect to save. Have you got it? he asked himself. No, Milton, no, I dont think you have. Thats why you dont get out of it. You're hooked through the bag, like Leva said. He turned to the forms before him and went to work with that wild swift energy that is one hundred percent efficient, that makes no errors, and gets the work done so fast and sure that you are not even there, you are some place else and when you come back you see the work is done but you did not do it; the same energy with which Niccolo Leva behind him was working. They were still working an hour later when O'Hayer came in. He stood momentarily in the bright doorway, a wide shouldered shadow adjusting his eyes, and an aura of chill seemed to come in with him that killed the warm gush of energy for work that had been in the others. O'Hayer looked at the paper and equipment scattered around distastefully. "This place looks like hell," he said. "We've got to clean this place up, Leva." He moved to come in through the counter and Warden had to move all his papers and get up so O'Hayer could pass through. He watched the tall dapper Irishman step with the lithe delicacy of a fighter over the piles of equipment and lean down to peer over Leva's shoulder. O'Hayer was wearing one of his hand-tailored uniforms that were made for him in Honolulu and upon which the three stripes of sergeant had been hand-embroidered. Warden put his stuff back on the counter and went back to work. "How you coming, Leva?" O'Hayer said. Leva looked up wryly. "So-so, Sergeant. So-so." "Thats good. We're late, you know." O'Hayer's smile was easy, his dark eyes unchanged before the irony. Leva looked at him a moment and went back to work. O'Hayer took a turn around the small space, looking at the piles of equipment, turning some things over, straightening a pile or two. "These things are going to have to be separated for size," he said. "They already been separated," Warden said, without looking up. "Where were you when the shit hit the fan?" "They have?" O'Hayer said easily. "Well, we'll have to find a place for them. Cant leave them lying here. They'll be getting in everybody's way." "They may get in your way," Warden said, pleasantly. "They dont get in mine." This was a delicate situation, and he felt he had to restrain himself. Every time he talked to Jim O'Hayer it was a delicate situation, he thought. Delicate situations always irritated him. If they insisted on him being a supply sergeant, why didnt they send him to a goddamned school? "I want you to get this stuff up off the floor," O'Hayer said to Leva. "The Old Man wont like it, messy like this. This place is crummy." Leva leaned back from his desk and sighed. "Okay, Sergeant," he said. "You want me to do it now?" "Sometime today," O'Hayer said. He turned back to the room and began to look in all the big square pigeonholes. Warden put his mind back on the work with difficulty, feeling he should have spoken up just now, irritated because he didnt. A moment later he rose swiftly to check a size number and bumped into O'Hayer. He dropped his arms disgustedly and bent his head over to one side. "For Christ's sake!" he bellowed. "Get the hell out and go some place. Go any place. Go take a ride in your Duesenberg. Go over to the sheds and count last night's take. We're doin your work. Just go away and dont worry about it." It was a long bellow for one breath and the last of it tapered off. O'Hayer smiled at him slowly, his arms hanging half-loosely with readiness at his sides, and staring back out of his cool gambler's eyes that the smile did not ever reach. "Okay, Top," he said. "You