Brandon turned and took in the lean individual who called himself Evans. Quite different from the one who had called last year. That one had been old and grumpy. Brandon's lips parted: "I assumed. All the other departments have been here except Revenue. I didn't see Wilson standing outside; I've heard he's out of the country. That leaves you." "You could have been wrong, you know," Evans said.
"How?" Brandon asked without fully caring.
"Revenue has been split. There are two departments now. Revenue and Taxation. Taxation handles income from taxpayers only."
"Big deal," Brandon said harshly, remembering his desk piled high with papers.
"They say you are a stubborn man, Brandon."
"Stubborn?"
"Quite."
"Let's say I'm content with my lot."
"Are you really, Brandon?"
Brandon took in the young man's wide shoulders, the face that was almost too young for such a responsible position. For just an instant he had felt that this man would be different, that there might be a challenge here. He could see he was wrong. The man was going to offer him a position.
"Let's get to the point," he said hurriedly. "I'm happy making puppets and I feel no need for a change."
"I'm glad you are happy, Mr. Brandon."
"Good. Then there is no need to continue. I refuse your offer." Brandon was getting irritated. He didn't wait for an answer, he walked past Evans, into the house.
He stood by his desk. The pile of papers was still resting there, waiting for him. He had hoped, in some magical way, that they might have vanished. A foolish thought, he knew.
"Income tax?" he heard Evans say from his shoulder.
Brandon nodded wearily. Evans reached over and picked up a form. He frowned. "Complicated!"
"Each year it gets worse," Brandon said listlessly.
"I've never had to file one," Evans said.
Brandon lifted one eyebrow.
"Government employees never do. We are paid a flat sum and our subsistance is taken care of. Calculators and computers adjust our salary each year in proportion to the expense of the government. We have been operating out of the red that way for years. It works out fine."
Brandon ran his hands through the papers and forms. Why then did he have to wade through this mess each year when it could be made so simple? He had been staggering under the load.
"You're an independent, Brandon," Evans said. "You stay in business for yourself because you dislike working for someone else. Isn't that right?"
"You might say that."
Evans dangled a handful of papers in front of Brandon's brown eyes. "You are working for someone else now. The tax department."
"Not exactly. I don't have to answer to anyone."
Evans snorted. "Not even the tax collector?"
"Not unless I make an error," Brandon said stubbornly. "And I won't. I'm becoming an expert on this. When a man spends one hundred days a year working on these damn things he learns quite a bit. There will be no errors."
"One hundred days!" Evans laughed. "Soon it'll be every day of the year. Then where will you be?" He looked directly into Brandon's eyes. "Can't you see? You're in the web already, working a third of the year without compensation."
Evans pulled from his pocket the the broken puppet he had picked up from the driveway outside Brandon's house. He laid it in front of Brandon on the pile of income tax blanks. "Soon you'll be without income; your business will deteriorate from lack of attention."
Brandon said nothing.
Evans moved to the contour chair and sat down. He closed his eyes. "You've been out of circulation a long time, Brandon. The world is changing. Government is big business, one of the largest, and it's expanding. We need more men, good men."
Evans opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "You said you've become an expert on forms. Would you consider taking a position as head of the tax department?" he asked abruptly.
Brandon lifted his gaze from the desk. "I thought you were with labor?"
"I could arrange it." Evans closed his eyes again.
"But...."
"Think, Brandon. As chief of the bureau, you won't have to answer to anyone, not even the President. You've seen the mess the forms have become. You can straighten it out."
"I don't think...."
"I'll have it put in writing that no one will bother you."
Brandon stared at the papers on his desk. For the first time they were offering him a position he understood, one he could handle. It would be a challenge. He would be in a position to eliminate three-quarters of that damn paperwork. God knew how many like himself were gradually getting snowed under each year.
Brandon played with the puppet. The silly face stared back at him with a fixed, smiling expression. "Tell me, Evans," he asked idly. "Why so much effort to locate me in a government position? I've had no special training; this is the first offer I'm even qualified enough to accept." He lifted the puppet face high, gazed at its face. "For ten years I've been pestered."
Evans laughed as he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. "You have determination and will-power. We need that type of nature these days more than ever." Evans' smile became wide. "And you will be one less taxpayer we will have to worry about now. You'll be on our side."
Evans pushed all the forms from Brandon's desk with a sweep of his tanned hand. "Forget all of that, Brandon, forever. No more taxes for you. This is the last form you will have to sign. It appoints you Secretary of Taxation, carte blanche."
"You had all this prepared?" Brand............