“When I was hired,” Dillon continued, “I was promised an opportunity to do some actual work. This medical clinic makes three times I’ve lost an on-site job to men who are no more qualified. Frankly, I feel they were less qualified. Your system of advancement stinks, Mr. Pilot. Hard work and talent should be rewarded, not compressed into those little glass boxes you call offices.”
“Mr. Burke—”
“I’m an engineer. I want to build things. When other young boys were drawing cars and jet fighters, I was drawing buildings of the future and trying to figure out how to construct them.”
Exasperated, he stood up and began pacing. “What I’m doing out there,” he said, flinging his arm toward the door, “I was doing in my freshman engineering class at Tech.”
“Some men consider a drafting job at Pilot Engineering a real plum.”
“Sitting at a drafting table all day long, waiting for the five o’clock bell to ring, isn’t my idea of challenging work. Anyway, in a few years computers will be doing the drafting. Draftsmen will become keyboard operators.”
Pilot leaned back in his chair. “What is your idea of challenging work, Mr. Burke?”
“Working with the architect, hiring all the subs, overseeing the whole project. I want to be there from the time the first shovel of dirt is turned until the last light bulb is screwed in.”
“Then I can’t accommodate you.”
Even though he had been expecting termination, when Dillon actually heard the words, they gave him a start. Jesus, what had he been thinking of to paint himself into such an inescapable corner? What was he going to do? How was he going to support himself and his bride?
“The first shovel of dirt has already been turned.”
Dillon blinked Forrest G. Pilot back into focus. “Sir?”
“In fact, the ironwork was already up before the project was put on hold due to poor management.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sit down, Mr. Burke.” When Dillon was reseated, he went on, “While you were getting pissed off at me for not assigning you the medical-clinic job, I was considering you for another.”
Dillon swallowed hard, but prudently kept his mouth shut.
“Contrary to what you believe,” Pilot said, “your work has not gone unnoticed. Nor have your leadership qualities. I pride myself on having a nose for sniffing out bright, ambitious young talent. As you said, some people are content with regimented work. Others are not. You’re one of the latter.
“Unfortunately, having ambition and youth and talent isn’t sufficient. To be really successful, one must also develop patience and self-discipline. What I should do is fire you on the spot for your insolence. But I’m not, chiefly because you’re too valuable a talent
to hand over to my competitors. And secondly, because the job I have in mind requires somebody who has the guts to be abrasive when it’s called for.
“So, I think that now is the time for you to take your foot out of your mouth and tell me whether you’re interested in the project I have in mind for you.”
Dillon managed to maintain his dignity. “Naturally, I’m very interested.”
“Before we go any further, I should tell you that there is one major drawback to this job.”
There would be, Dillon thought dismally. The devil always got his due. Something good was always followed by something equally bad—that was Dillon Burke’s version of Newton’s law. It was the cosmic scorekeeper’s system of checks and balances. However, nothing could be as bad as returning to that glass box and a drafting table. Motion was always preferable to stagnation.
“I’m willing to tackle just about anything, Mr. Pilot.”
* * *
That night Dillon brought home a bouquet of flowers, a loaf of bakery-fresh bread, and a bottle of wine. “What’s the occasion?” Debra gasped breathlessly after he released her from a searing hello kiss.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Hamburgers. Why?”
“Good. Because I brought red wine.”
“I think you drank a bottle on the way home,” she said, sniffing his breath. “You’re acting very strange. A husband bearing gifts in the first year of marriage is as suspect as the Trojan horse. Are you having an affair?”