The trouble was that for the last fifteen years, twelve at least, all the decisions had been made in advance, and the staff work had all been routine, but that had been when Zarathustra had been a Class-III planet and the Company had owned it outright. Great God, wasn’t a staff supposed to handle staff work? If only they wouldn’t come running back to him for decisions they ought to make themselves, or bother him with a lot of nit-picking details. By this evening all the division chiefs ought to know what had to be done. He hoped, not too optimistically, that this would be the end of it. Staff conferences, all day, of course, with everybody bickering and recriminating. He sipped the coffee, and began to feel himself rejoining the human race. This was going to be another Nifflheim of a day, and the night’s sleep had barely rested him from the last one and the ones before that. VICTOR GREGO FINISHED the chilled fruit juice and pushed the glass aside, then lit a cigarette and poured hot coffee into the half-filled cup that had been cooling. The classic sequel to the science fiction bestseller, Little Fuzzy.
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