“Your name is Figaro, isn't it?” “Correct,” said Mr Figaro. “That's me.”
“Then I've come to the right address,” said the man in gray, shutting his notebook with a snap.
“You're on our list of applicants.” “How come?” asked Mr Figaro, who was still at a loss.
“It's like this, my dear sir,” said the man in gray. “You're wasting your life cutting hair, lathering faces and swapping idle chitchat.
When you're dead, it'll be as if you'd never existed. If you only had the time to lead the right kind of life, you'd be quite a different person.
Time is all you need, right?” “That's just what I was thinking a moment ago,” mumbled Mr Figaro,
and he shivered because it was getting colder and colder in spite of the door being shut.
“You see!” said the man in gray, puffing contentedly at his small cigar.
You need more time, but how are you going to find it? By saving it, of course.
You, Mr Figaro, are wasting time in a totally irresponsible way.
Let me prove it to you by simple arithmetic. There are sixty seconds in a minute and sixty minutes in an hour - are you with me so far?”
“Of course,” said Mr Figaro. Agent No. XYQ/384/b produced a piece of gray chalk and scrawled some figures on the mirror.
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