The Merchant's War by Frederik Pohl

you can’t take chances on somebody bouncing a pencil-beam off the glass to pick up the vibrations of secret talks inside. “That’s Tarb, sir,” I offered.
    “Of course it is! And you’re back from a tour on Venus—good work. Of course,” he added, peering up at me slyly, “it wasn’t all good, was it? There’s a little note on your personnel file that you probably didn’t bribe anybody to put there—”
    “I can explain about that Agency party, sir—”
    “Of course you can! And it won’t stand in your way. You young people who volunteer for a tour on Venus deserve well of us—nobody expects you to stand that kind of life without a little, uh, strain.” He leaned back dreamily. “I don’t know if you know this, Farb,” he said to the ceiling, “but I was on Venus myself once, long ago. Didn’t stay there. I won their lottery, you know.”
    I was startled. “Lottery? I had no idea the Veenies ever ran a lottery. It seems so out of character for them.”
    “Never did again,” he guffawed, “since a huck won the first one! They gave up the idea right after that—besides declaring me persona non grata, so I got hustled right back here!” He chuckled for several seconds at the fecklessness of the Veenies. “Of course,” he said, sobering, “I kept my skills up while I was on Venus.” From the way he peered at me I knew it was a question.
    I had the right answer, too. “So did I, sir,” I said eagerly. “Every chance I got! All the time! For instance—well, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the inside of what the Veenies call a grocery store—”
    “Seen a hundred of them, boy,” he boomed jovially.
    “Well, then you know how incompetent they are. Signs like, ‘These tomatoes are all right if you’re going to eat them today, otherwise they’ll spoil,’ and ‘Prepared mixes cost twice what making the dish from basic ingredients would’—things like that.”
    He laughed out loud, and wiped his eyes. “Haven’t changed a bit, I guess,” he said.
    “No, sir. Well, I’d go through the store and then come back to the Embassy and write real copy for them. You know? Like for the tomatoes, ‘Luscious ripe flavor-full at the peak of perfection’ or ‘Save! Save! Save precious time with these chef-prepared ready-to-cook masterpieces!’ That sort of thing. And then I’d review all the latest Earth commercials for the staff—at least two hour-long pep meetings every week—and we’d have contests to see who could come up with better original variations on the basic sales themes—”
    He looked at me with real affection. “You know, Tarb,” he said, with kindness verging on sentimentality, “you remind me of myself when I was your age. A little. Well, listen, let’s get ourselves comfortable while we decide what you’d like to do for us now that you’re back. What’ll you have to drink?”
    “Oh, I think a Mokie-Koke, sir,” I said absently.
    The climate in the room took a swift change for the worse. The Old Man’s finger stopped over the call button that would have summoned his sec 2 , in charge of bringing in coffee and refreshments. “What did you say, Farb?” he gritted.
    I opened my mouth, but it was too late. He didn’t let me speak. “A Moke? Here in my office?” The expression went clear across the scale, from benevolence through shock to wrath. Livid, he stabbed down on a completely different button. “Emergency services!” he roared. “Get a medic in here right away—I’ve got a Moke-head in my office!”
    They got me out of the Old Man’s office fast as any leper ousted from the sight of Louis XIV. Treated me that way, too. While I was waiting for the results of my tests I sat in the common-clinic waiting room in Subbasement Three, but, although it was crowded, there were empty seats on both sides of me.
    At last, “Mr. Tennison Tarb,” crackled the voice from the overhead speaker. I got up and stumbled through the underbrush of hastily moved legs