"Look, I was told by … Dr. Watchfield to bring some books up. You know, quality control."

The white-coated man looked bored. "Dr. Watchfield does not get personally involved in Operations. Never has. We have supervisors and quality experts here."

Dennis opened his mouth, saw the man squint at him, and retracted his jaw.

"You want a book? Buy it in a store."

Ridiculous. They were making texts here. Why not have a few samples? Dennis stepped towards the elevator. Then he cranked his neck back in the operation guys' direction. He had left via a door that said: Authorized Personnel Only.

There was also a door — well, a plastic blind-covered entrance to another wing that apparently was not closed. At least when no one's looking, Dennis thought. He quickly ducked under the blinds. It led to a large warehouse. Nobody was really around — a large room, floor covered with nails and broken glass. Boxes everywhere. A big DANGER sign in red and yellow in front of him.

This was probably where they dumped all the useless crap that came from processing. Looked pretty uninteresting, especially when you realized that huge rows of boxes and canisters of greasy sludge and ink could fall down and kill you pretty quick.
Dennis, with only the motor control part of his brain active, marched into the room. He looked around. Approached some of the high columns of boxes. Stepped carefully over the nails and broken glass. Then he saw them — on top of a big column, a few cases labeled "DAMAGED TEXTS."

Dennis wondered how he could get to the box; he certainly couldn't reach it. He
pondered for a moment — could he climb the column? Suicide. Perhaps rattle it until the top block fell? Not likely — the whole things could come crashing down. His obituary would read: Here lies Dennis Ender, lifelong nerd,who was killed as a result of an unfortunate accident with boxes.

A set of boxes creaked, set off by the minor tremors produced by Dennis' moving feet. He clenched his teeth, trying to remain motionless. Dennis looked up and immediately jumped away, tripping over another box. The lot came crashing down inches from his toppled body.

Dennis looked up at the spilled boxes. How fortuitous! They contained what appeared to be fresh, but incomplete, textbook pieces. All I needed was to just come an inch close to death, Dennis smirked.

"Hey! Anyone in there? HEY!" Someone was presumably at the entrance of the warehouse, screaming inside. The voice seemed pretty distant, and Dennis guessed that whoever this person was, he was standing at the entrance and was therefore much smarter than Dennis. He froze.

"Anyone there? Anyone hurt? HELLO!"

A few seconds of silence; then the sounds of feet walking away. Obviously this place was not of much interest — in fact, if caught, Dennis would probably just undergo an extensive workshop on how we play around broken glass.
He looked at the texts. There was some sense of urgency. He grabbed one (they were mostly damaged or were missing covers, etc.) that seemed pretty fresh. At the bottom of the pile he saw one that looked quite a bit older — the pages were somewhat damaged and yellowed. He took the two books and slipped his way back into the elevator.

---

The next day Dennis got to work late. The ape Pitchman seemed to be waiting on the minute. He jumped out of his office and intercepted Dennis at the door.

Dennis tried a preemptive defense. "Listen, Mr. Pitchman, I'm very sorry. I..."

No deal. "You what? Christ on a rubber crutch, Ender, would it kill you to get here on time? Wait a minute — that's a good solution. Maybe I should kill you. Unfortunately I'd probably go to prison. I would enjoy it, though. Smarten up!" Pitchman blurted, waving his hand back and forth in front of Dennis' face.

Dennis had to gulp a split-second remark down his throat.

It was, of course, a little odd that given the amount of guff Pitchman gave him, he was still a paid employee of TruBind. It wasn't as if Watchfield would care if he got fired; he probably preferred his naps over queries about employee concerns.

There was a simple explanation. Pitchman loved to be abrasive to Dennis, and if his pet got fired, he may have to put some effort into tenderizing the other guys. Pitchman probably didn't like effort.

Dennis walked over to the coffee area. Jim and Rudy were there again, same bat-time, same bat-channel.

"Hey hey! Heard Pitchman pissing on you! Bravo!" Rudy chortled.

"Whatever. That's the only reason I have a job — so he can get his jollies yelling at me."

"Anyway, you missed our whole session! The grapevine's been leaking the latest. Turns out Pitchman has no wife; he's living with his mother."

Dennis laughed to himself. "Always something new with you guys, eh?" He walked off (after filling his mug with coffee-flavored goop).

Dennis sat in his cubicle. He figured that it probably was Pitchman's refractory period. Time to check out the bounty.

Both texts had no covers. Half the pages were missing in the older one. It seemed to be the first edition of some QMA text; anatomy or something. The newer one was a fifth edition.

It wasn't as if medical texts were a private domain; Dennis could have easily gone to a bookstore or a library. It just seemed ridiculous to go get one if you work for a company associated with medical textbooks. What was the big deal about an employee wanting a sample book? When he thought about it, it seemed a little absurd. Ah, yes, the treasure trove of books must be guarded tightly!

He flipped through the old one first. The fonts and illustrations were of fairly poor quality. He tried to check it for a date; found 1972 etched in a margin. Wow, Dennis thought, I've got an ancient one here. Well, I guess they wouldn't be worth money if they were kept in a box in purgatory resting in a dirty warehouse.