The Velvet Glove
Jon had to wait a half hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally signalled him towards the door of the interviewer's room. He stepped in quickly and turned to face the man seated at the transplastic desk, an upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead. The little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily, occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. He flashed a birdlike glance up at Jon.
"Yes, yes, be quick. What is it you want?"
"You posted a help wanted notice, I--"
The man cut him off with a wave of his hand. "All right let me see your ID tag ... quickly, there are others waiting."
Jon thumbed the tag out of his waist slot and handed it across the desk. The interviewer read the code number, then began running his finger down a long list of similar figures. He stopped suddenly and looked sideways at Jon from under his lowered lids.
"You have made a mistake, we have no opening for you."
Jon began to exp