Tinker’s Dam by Joseph Tinker

The call on the TV-phone came right in the middle of my shaving. They have orders not to call me before breakfast for anything less than a national calamity. I pressed “Accept,” too startled to take the lather from my face.

“Hi, Gyp,” George Kelly said to me from the screen. “Hurry it up, boy.” He made no reference to my appearance on his screen. “Quit draggin’ your feet!”

This I take from George Kelly. First of all, he’s Director of the F.B.I. Even more important, he’s my boss. “Hey, George,” I protested, knowing he would not have called on a routine matter. “I got up before breakfast as it is. What’s up?” I hardly needed to ask. When they call me, it’s always the same sickening kind of trouble.