by David L. Brown I sit here in my office doing something I love, something mundane and quiet: updating the company Web site, developing a spreadsheet, writing my great novel. You get the picture. I’m sitting here when, from twenty feet down the hall, I hear, “Well, maybe Mr. Morrow can help you. Let me transfer you to his office.” She'll walk to my office, see that I’m not there, and call out, “Has anyone seen Mr. Morrow?” I get up and do all the things needed to give the impression that I just took a juicy dump: flush the empty toilet; wash the relatively clean hands. You get the picture.