Bob Johnson was never going to understand the intricacies of the HR field, at least, not the way it was practiced at the Good Humor Corporation.
They’d hired him to sell ice cream to kids. He was good at it, a master soda jerk. Bob had served seven tours of duty at the Peasquaddy Ice Cream and Soda Emporium, through all kinds of heat waves, ice shortages and numerous frozen-treat fads. (He was still talking with his therapist about the awful ten days of the Liver Frappe madness.)
There was practically nothing he couldn’t handle when it came to selling ice cream and soda.
So why the hell were they making him service their time machine?