George Revelle

“ 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?" ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”