Glen wheeled the chair around and looked out the window for a couple of minutes, leaving his gofer waiting.
Barrock was right. He had to hand it to Sol. Points for thinking outside traditional methods. Points for maintaining a climate of uncertainty for the wards. The old guy had made an art form out of designer punishments, making them fit the crime in deliciously inventive ways. Glen spun back around.
“Send ‘em in.”
The two boys shuffled in and stood in front of Glen’s desk in silence. He took his time looking them over.
“So what was your destination?”
Wakey looked down at his feet, but Kris looked Glen straight in the eye. “Strip bars.”
Glen’s eyebrows shot up. “You turn drinking age without us knowing about it?”
Wakey glanced at Kris, who seemed to be the agreed upon spokesperson.
“Little cash acts like lube. Know what I mean?”
Of course Glen understood, but decided fraternization could unravel the illusion of authority.
“No. I don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you explain it like the well-educated gentleman you’re supposed to be?”
Wakey spoke up. “He means that there are some dives in the thirties that look the other way if you have a couple of big bills ready at the door.”
Glen nodded. “And how many rules did you think you were breaking in association with this illicit outing?”
Kris looked defiant.
Wakenmann said, “We didn’t count.”
“Um-hum. Okay. Tell you what we’re going to do.
“For the next three months you will report to the pilots’ station at five o’clock a.m., Monday through Friday. You will spend two hours every day learning to fly Whisters. When the pilots have signed off that you’re cleared to co-pilot, you will spend your weekends shuttling people back and forth to Manhattan. People who are authorized to go. You will not leave your Whister unless you are on the Jefferson Unit roof pad.” Wakey glanced over at Kris for his reaction. “Last, except for pilot duty, you will not leave Jefferson Unit for three months.”
Glen could see that it was taking every bit of self-discipline and training they had undergone to keep from groaning out a protest. He pulled up his calendar and identified the date when they would regain the normal life of a Black Swan trainee, which was anything but normal by most standards. He pointed to a calendar date.
“This is when you will have completed your obligation to me. Dismissed.”
“Yes sir,” they both mumbled.
“Whatever. Out.”
As they closed the door behind them, Glen was thinking that he was going to have a story to tell at dinner that night at the vineyard. He had dinner with Storm and Litha every Thursday night. She either picked him up right at nine or sent Deliverance. It made an early dinner for them on Pacific time, but it seemed to work.
There was a soft knock on his door. “Come in.”
Barrock stuck his head in. “Good one, si… Glen.”
Glen cocked his head. “You heard that?” Barrock nodded. “I guess I didn’t think anything about your reporting of those other incidents. How are you managing to know everything that goes on in here?”
“I put my ear against the door, si… Glen.” Sol’s gofer didn’t hesitate to answer or bother with trying to look sheepish. As far as he was concerned, knowing what was doing was one of the perks of the job.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks. And either call me sir or call me Glen. Sir Glen sounds stupid.”
“Yes, si…” He closed the door.
Almost immediately there was another knock.
“What is it now, Barrock?”