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?" brandon said in amazement.

evans' smile grew wider. "we knew you couldn't refuse an intelligent offer, one where you would be useful."

"we!"

"the cabinet and myself."

brandon picked up the pen, twisted it between his fingers. evans was right, of course. he would be useful. half those damn forms were filled with worthless nonsense that could easily be eliminated. deductions should be higher; small, independent business should be given a break. and he could handle the job—that was important.

"just sign on the bottom line," evans said smoothly, pushing the broken puppet out of the way.

the puppet fell to the floor and the head came off again. "forget it," evans said quickly.

brandon studied the other man's face before he reached over and picked up the little figure. it was a funny creature with a large, silly-looking balloon nose. brandon handled it tenderly, looking at it thoughtfully. finally he said: "my puppets. what happens to them?"

"i don't understand?"

"children enjoy them," brandon answered.

"i'm afraid you don't understand, brandon," evans shook his head. "i'm offering you a full-time position. you can make them—as a hobby of course—give them away, but you can't sell them. that would give you an income again, mean more tax forms."

"but i couldn't hope to produce them for nothing," brandon insisted. "not on a large scale, not on the fixed salary that you mentioned!"

"they aren't important, brandon."

brandon's lips became a firm, straight line. for the first time it was clear to him why he had been so reluctant to give up his work. his music had pleased people, just as his puppets were doing now. he was getting satisfaction out of his work. he was giving people something no one else seemed to be able to give them. accepting a position he couldn't handle, working for someone else had nothing to do with it....

"i've changed my mind," he said quietly.

"changed your mind?" evans stared at the pen brandon had carefully laid down on the desk; disbelief disfiguring his face. "you intend fighting that each year?" he pointed at the mad array of papers he had strewn at brandon's feet. "you're willing to risk not having any time at all to work on your puppets against security and a life of ease?"

"i'm willing," brandon answered. "now i think you'd better leave mr....."

"evans!"

"mr. evans. i might be able to finish these damn things before the midnight deadline."

evans opened his mouth but brandon was already showing him the way to the door, shoving something in his hand.

evans climbed into his car and slumped down on the seat beside the president. he looked at the new puppet brandon had forced into his hand before he could refuse.

"is brandon secretary of taxation?" the president asked hopefully.

evans shook his head from side to side. what had gone wrong? they had known brandon was a stubborn man, that was why things were done as they were. the offering of worthless positions had been a feint. he should have grabbed at something he could handle. and the tax forms! that was supposed to be the last straw. they had been loaded, prepared just for brandon, to break his resistence. yet they had failed. why?

"did he suspect?" the president eyed evans.

"i don't think so, sir." evans said. "i had the pen in his hand. he was ready to sign. then something went wrong. i can't understand it!"

the president looked the other way, found his eyes fastened on his own reflection on the window. the cabinet had been wrong thinking it was a job for a psychologist like evans. brandon was an individual, a decided rarity in this day and age.

"i'm glad," the president said softly to the glass.

"what was that, sir?"

the president turned. "i said, i'm glad he didn't sign."

"you can't mean that, sir!"

"but i do."

"do you realize what this means? brandon was the last taxpayer. we've been forced to operate an entire bureau just to process his forms. it's the only department operating in the red. he's the only person not employed by the government, the only one still operating a private business!"

evans found himself clenching the puppet tightly in his fist. "we will break him. i know we will. next year it will take him 365 days to compute his tax. i promise."

"next year," the president said firmly, "brandon will get a short form. one that he can complete in ten minutes. do you understand, evans?"

evans' forehead creased. "i'm afraid—"

the president looked back at his reflection on the glass. "we don't want to make the boss angry now, do we evans?"

"the boss, sir?"

"brandon, of course," the president smiled. "after all, the government works for the taxpayers, evans—and brandon is the last taxpayer. he's our boss, son. the only boss we have left."

"mr. president. if i might—"

the president returned his gaze to evans. "i think we've forgotten something over these past years, evans. something very important."

"what is that, sir?"

the president removed the puppet from evans' limp fingers. "if the sole purpose of the government is to serve the taxpayers—and there were no more—how could we justify our existence in office?"

the president ran his finger under the chin of the little puppet, "do you mind if i keep this, evans?" he asked softly. "i'd like to take it home to my granddaughter. she's never seen a puppet, i'm sure she'll love it."

the tiny figure seemed to smile approvingly.

the end