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Bobby Wibblesman from Galloping Asphalt dropped over, frowning. "What's the matter, Bobby?" Harvey Kinzel asked.
"Just a small thing, Harv," Wibblesman said, cracking his knuckles. "It seems we won't be able to hang up the Christmas stockings at home tonight. That highway, the one going direct from Dover, Delaware to Owensboro, Kentucky—well, what do you know? It just happens that it's being routed through Bethesda and, as a matter of fact, through our family room with the fireplace. My wife just called; the bulldozers came 45 minutes ago. Gee, we had all the presents in the family room, too."
"Well, that's progress, Bobby," Kinzel said, "so don't be down-in-the-mouth. Besides, it's time for our big treat, when all us executives distribute frozen turkeys to all the employees for their Christmas dinners."
"Didn't you see the memo about that?" Margie asked.
"Well, we've made such progress with the NDA that there are no turkeys left. They all were fed grain that was poisoned by insecticides."
"There are no turkeys left?"
"Just 14, sir. The historical people took them down to that preserve in Texas where they're keeping the whooping cranes. If they all mate and everything goes well, they hope to have at least 17 by 1975."
"Turkeys, schmurkeys," said Harvey Kinzel. "The simple things are good enough for me at Christmas. I'm content just to sit around roasting chestnuts by an open fire, tra-la-la."
"We get much better results with an oil flame," Wibblesman said. "Lots of hydrocarbons, that sort of thing."