The story so far: Having toured the subterranean wonders of the North Pole - the Santa clone farm, Naughty-or-Nice Central and the Christmas Eve command post - journalist Thomas Blunt is ready to interview The Boss himself, St. Nicholas.
``Right this way, Mr. Blunt.''
As Blunt's feet took him across the threshold of legend, Holly the secretary shut the door behind him.
The room was dim. His eyes roved, hungry for details. His heart quickened. When was the last interview that had done that?
``Ah, Mr. Blunt, come in,'' a voice crept over the back of a large wooden rocker across the oval room.
Blunt walked toward the voice, noting the simple furnishings: the rocker, a Shaker table and chairs, one bookcase, one wall hanging of a red cross on green background. Austere, a monk's cell.
The rocker turned on the bare stone floor. Blunt beheld Santa Claus.
The girth, the beard, the gold-rimmed glasses all confirmed myth. No red suit, though; flannels and a bulky cardigan. And the eyes peering at Blunt conveyed not mirth, but weariness.
Santa rose with a wan smile: ``Mr. Blunt, welcome. I am Nicholas of Myra. Ah, don't be puzzled. I am a man of many nicknames: Sinter Claes, Pere Noel, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle. But the man I was born long ago I remain: Nicholas, God's servant from Myra. Called by others a saint, but knowing himself a sinner. Please, sit.''
Blunt sat, fumbled for his notepad and pencil, could not manage speech.
``I trust the good Phineas kept you amused visiting the various nooks of our little domain.''
``Uh, yes, Sa - . . . er, Nicholas. Remarkable, dazzling.'' Blunt recovered his journalistic footing: ``I was surprised to see how much energy goes into logistics, how little into making toys.''
St. Nicholas sighed. He removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes for a long while, then spoke: ``So true, Mr. Blunt. We started here centuries ago, Phineas' ancestors and I, working with our hands, with wood, with straw, with homespun cloths, making dolls, tops, simple playthings to delight the innocent mind.
``Now'' - he replaced his glasses on his nose - ``I sit atop a global, high-tech enterprise. Making a toy by hand, talking to a child - ah, those are now all-too-rare pleasures.''
``How do you spend your days, then?''
