* * * * *
The men in the tight suits and the narrow ties again gathered in their conference chamber perched upon the peek of one of the city’s tallest glass spires. Much had elapsed in that month since their last meeting. The buffalo herd had risen from the dust, and the polishers had abandoned their duty for the thrill of morphing into hunters. But those polishers hadn’t been able to contain their zeal, and so they had hunted the very creatures that gave their hearts such fire into oblivion. The polishers had returned to their scaffolds where they rightly belonged, and the towers glistened brighter than ever before. Once again, those spires attracted the wealth required to erect such mighty monuments of glass. The world had never placed so much faith into all the shimmering reflection, and those men who sat upon such high perches had never been so happy.
Mr. Whitaker grinned after Mr. Forsyth showed how the numbers of all of their budgets were printed in black ink. “Tell us, Mr. Stewart, how’s the new projection system operating?”
Mr. Stewart sighed when he responded, and his colleagues were surprised the man was not happier after finding a way to banish the herd. Mr. Stewart couldn’t claim he had not been compensated more than adequately for his success.
“A projector is now installed for every glass tower. The figure of that magic dancer sways every hour of the day.”
Mr. Undertow winked. “And it’s a wonderful display at night.”
“Oh, but my wife so hates it,” sighed Mr. Forsyth.
Mr. Whitaker held out his hands. “Of course, there are complaints. Not everyone in the city, of course, appreciates the beauty of that figure dancing on the glass. There are complaints about the impact such a show has on the children, but that’s to be expected. That dancer’s image is only a silhouette, and it leaves much to the imagination. But what’s important is that it keeps the polishers at their scaffolds. Gives them more of a reason than ever before to keep all the glass clean.”
Mr. Forsyth nodded. “And have we recuperated our costs for those projectors?”
Mr. Stewart snorted. “Many times over already. Many times over.”
“Once again, you are to be commended, Mr. Stewart,” and Mr. Whitaker walked around the conference table and handed each of his friends a cigar. “The polishers are happier than ever, and our towers shine for it. None of the polishers jump from their scaffolds anymore, and they even tip the lift men.”
Polish, Dust and Sparkle Page 13