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IT STINKS
chair, with one foot dangling against the water-cooler drain bucket.
"Now all of you pipe down !" Edgar demanded. "Whatcha think this is, a arena? We just gotta turn in a Special, the boss wants to call it. We'll be lucky if we get even a lousy idea before night, the way you're actin'. Furthermore, the boss'll break up this staff, surer 'n hell he will, if we don't have somethin' to offer. Most any minute he'll be askin' for an outline. Now everybody get quiet while I think!"
Horatio just had to say: "What with?"
Edgar's eyes snapped fire. His hand drummed an exasperating tattoo on the table.
"No more cracks, Horatio, or so help me, I'll go stool pigeon an' inform the boss." Thinking better of his remark on expose, Edgar temporized, "About your sneakin' out on us whenever that blonde stenographer passes our door to go nose powderin'. Now quiet! Everybody think!"
Violent silence ensued.
The long conference table bore the weight of human hulks. Some leaned forward on it; some placed their feet upon it; many elbows rested upon it, supporting tired chins in welcome palms. The silence grew thick, oppressive, like the moment before a table begins to move at a midnight seance.
A waiting public would have stood in awe, had they seen such thoughtful postures ready to create their entertainment at such mental cost. Tightly pressed lips. Palms cupped in foreheads. Postures in caricature, postures in the throes of concentration, postures, noble in the rough, that would outthink Rodin's famous masterpiece. God's man was penetrating the occult.
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