by H. B. Fyfe
This time, he was nearly half an hour in recovering and working up the determination required to go on. The corridor in which he found himself ran at right angles to the one below. It was wider and higher, as if more traveled, but any such open area as he had peeped at was far to the rear. Nearby, however, was a much larger door than he had yet encountered. He walked over to it.
When a tentative push produced no results, he dipped his left hand into a pocket for the black disk.
He seemed to have a good idea of where to locate the hinges on this door too. When he had burned through, the door was harder to shove aside because it turned out to be of double thickness. The hinges had been concealed from both inside and outside. The tall man now found himself only a few steps from another such portal, in what looked like an anteroom.
Methodically, he proceeded to burn his way through, squinting in the bright light of the flame but otherwise betraying no emotion.
The last door fell away. Fresh air billowed in around him, and he could see stars in a night sky outside.
Without haste, he stepped outside.
The tan, plastery wall reared above him for about ten levels. Off to his left, shadows on the ground showed a jagged shape, so it was probable that another part of the building towered upward after a set-back. The ground around the exit was perfectly level and bare of any vegetation. The nearest life was a wall of shrub-like trees about a hundred feet away, and toward these the man began to walk in the same tired pace.
He found, as if by instinct, a broad, well-kept path through the trees. A mild breeze caused the long, hanging leaves to rustle. Without looking back, the man followed the path up a gentle slope and over the curve of the hill. At the bottom of the downgrade, two figures shrank suddenly back into the shadows. He kept walking.
“That you, Gerson?” came a loud whisper, as the two Terrans stepped forward again. “Come on; we have an aircar over here! Did anyone follow you?”
The tall man turned to go with them through a fringe of trees. It seemed like a poor time to try to talk, with the possibility of pursuit behind them. The two bundled him into the black shape of the aircar in silence, and moved it cautiously through the trees just above the ground. They raised into clear air only when they had put half a mile between them and the towering hive-city.
NINE
In the library, between Smith’s corner office and the conference room that adjoined the communications center, Westervelt sat and watched Lydman pore over a technical report in the blue binding of the Department of Interstellar Relations. Half a dozen other volumes, old and new, technical and diplomatic, were scattered about the table between them.
The youth caught himself running a hand through his hair in Smith’s usual manner, and stopped, appalled. He judged, after due reflection, that it might be worse: he could have picked up some of Lydman’s peculiarities instead.
Probably, he told himself, he ought to show some better sense and imitate the suavity of Parrish if he had to adopt the manners of anyone in the department. Unfortunately, he did not like Parrish very well, even when he was not engaged in being actively jealous of the man.
Some day, Willie, he mused, you’ll snap too. When you do, it would be just your style to take after this mass of beef front of you.
Immediately, he was ashamed of the thought. Lydman had been, in his way, nicer to him than anyone else. Moreover, he was far from being a mass of beef. Westervelt recalled the sight of Lydman on an open beach, where he seemed more at ease than anywhere else. The man kept himself hard-muscled and trim. Despite the gaunt look that sometimes crossed his features, he was probably on the low side of thirty.
So he’s still quick as well as strong, thought Westervelt. If he does go for the door the way Joe predicts, Willie my boy, you be sure to get out of the way!
In theory, he was supposed to be helping Lydman research some problems Smith had thought up. So far, he had read one short article which had bored the ex-spacer and twice gone to the files for case folders. He was very well aware that the real idea was to have someone with Lydman constantly. For this reason, he was prepared further to assume the courtesy of answering any interrupting phone calls. He was determined that any news not censored by Pauline would be a wrong number, no matter if it were the head of the D.I.R. himself.
Lydman looked up from his reading.
“I’m getting hungry; aren’t you, Willie?”
“I guess so. I didn’t notice,” said Westervelt.
“How about phoning down for something? Get whatever you like.”
That was typical of Lydman, Westervelt realized. The man did not care what he ate. Smith would have been specific though unimaginative. Parrish would have sent instructions about the seasoning. The girls would choose something sickening by Westervelt’s standards. He shoved back his chair and stood up.
“I’d better see what they’re doing up front,” he said. “I think Mr. Smith was talking about it being quicker to raid our own food locker. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Lydman raised his gray-blue eyes and stared through him curiously.
“No hurry,” he said mildly.
Westervelt thought that the man was still watching him as he walked through the door, but he did not like to look back. It might have been so.
When he reached the main office, he found both girls replacing folders in the bay of current files opposite Simonetta’s desk.
“How about letting me at the buried treasure?” he asked. “The thought of food is infiltrating insidiously.”
“Willie,” said Simonetta, “you’ll go far here. None of the other brains had such a good idea. I’ll phone for something if you’ll see what people want.”
“I think Mr. Smith wants to use stuff we have in the locker,” said Westervelt, blocking the way to her desk. “Hold it a second while I check.”
He rapped on Smith’s door as he opened it. He found the chief with most of the papers on his desk shoved to one side so that a built-in tape viewer could be brought up from its concealed position. Smith was scowling as if obtaining little useful information from whatever he was watching.
“They’re getting hungry,” Westervelt whispered. “Is it all right to raid our guest locker?”
Smith shut off his machine, and scrubbed one hand across his long face.
“Right, Willie,” he agreed. “The sooner the better. Take out whatever you think best and pass it around. Meanwhile, I’d better check on the situation downstairs—come to think of it, when you called, did you get an outside line and punch the numbers yourself?”
“No, but I have an understanding with Pauline,” said Westervelt.
He was thinking that Smith had put him in charge of the food, which was perhaps a little better than being sent around to take personal orders as the girls had assumed he would do, but which was still a long way beneath the conference status he had appeared to have an hour earlier.
“Good boy!” Smith approved. “Then she’ll know who I want to talk to and that she shouldn’t listen in.”
Westervelt was far from sanguine about the last condition, but left without trying to cause his chief any unhappiness.
Well, so it goes, he reflected. One minute a project man, the next an office boy! If I pick out what everybody likes, I’ll be a project man again. But if they like it too much, I’ll turn out to be the official chef around here whenever someone important stays to lunch.
The picture of sitting in on a talk with some potent official of the D.I.R. and expounding his brilliant solution to a problem, only to be requested to slap together a short order meal, made him pause outside the door, frowning.
“Now what, Willie?” asked Simonetta.
He roused himself.
“Leave it to me, Si,” he answered, working up a grin. “I have everything under control.”
“
I hope you know what you’re doing,” Beryl commented. “I won’t stand for a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy, or anything that fattening.”
“You’ll have your choice,” Westervelt promised. “I wouldn’t want anything to spoil that figure. Just let me at the locker.”
He slipped an arm around her waist to move her aside. The flesh of her flank was softly firm under his fingers, and he made himself think better of an impulse to squeeze.
Beryl stepped away, neither quickly enough to be skittish nor slowly enough to imply permissiveness. Westervelt shrugged. He stepped forward to the blank wall at the end of the file cabinets, and slid back a panel to reveal a white-enameled food locker.
It was divided into an upper and lower section, with transparent doors that rolled around into the side walls. The lower half was refrigerated. Westervelt opened the upper to explore more comfortably.
Most of the foiled packages contained sandwiches, many of them self-heating. Somewhat bulkier containers held more substantial delicacies: Welsh rabbit, turkey and baked potato, filet mignon, rattlesnake croquettes, and salmon salad. There were sealed cups of coffee, tea, or bouillon that heated themselves upon being opened, and ice cream and fruits in the freezer section.
“Si, let me have a couple of ‘out’ baskets,” said Westervelt, holding out his hand.
“Empty?”
“All right—your ‘in’ and Beryl’s ‘out’ trays. Do you expect me to go around with everybody’s supper stuffed in my pockets?”
“Frankly, yes,” said Beryl. “But not with mine. Let me see what they have in there!”
She examined the array while Westervelt experimented with balancing two empty desk trays across his forearm. By the time he was ready, the girls had blocked him off, and he had to wait until the possibilities had been debated thoroughly. In the end, Simonetta selected veal scallopini; and Beryl took a crabmeat sandwich for herself and a filet mignon for Parrish. Westervelt grinned when he saw that she also chose four sealed martinis.
His own decisions were simple. Putting aside a budding curiosity about rattlesnake meat, he took a package of fried ham and eggs—to see if it could be possible—and a self-heating package of mince pie. For Smith, Lydman, and Rosenkrantz, he piled a tray with half a dozen roast beef or turkey sandwiches, a selection of pie and ice cream, and all the coffee containers he could fit in.
“Si, pick out something nice for Pauline,” he requested, noting that Beryl was already on the way across the office to Parrish’s door.
Simonetta exclaimed at her forgetfulness, pushed aside the container that she had been warming on her desk according to instructions, and told him to go ahead.
“I’ll take her a salad and some bouillon,” she said. “The kid thinks she has to watch her weight already.”
As an afterthought, Westervelt topped his load with a martini for Smith, on the theory that the chief was going to need it.
He went in there first, let Smith see that nothing but coffee was on the way to Lydman, and made his exit directly into the hall. He made the communications room his next stop, and took what was left into the library to share with Lydman.
The latter took a roast beef sandwich, pulled the heating tab, and tore it open after the required thirty seconds with one twist of his powerful fingers. Westervelt had a little more trouble with his package of ham and eggs, but the coffee cups were simpler.
They sat there in silence, except for an occasional word, and a brief scramble when Westervelt spilled coffee on a list of cases Lydman had thought of for further checking. The ex-spacer chewed methodically on three sandwiches, and poured down two containers of coffee, scanning a copy of the Galatlas all the while.
Westervelt found the fried ham and eggs to be a disappointment.
I should have tried a steak, he reflected. Eggs can’t be done. Not and taste right.
There was one sandwich left, cold turkey, and Lydman had just begun on his third, so the youth helped himself. The hot mince pie had real flavor, and he was feeling quite comfortable by the time Lydman finished his ice cream.
“Shall I get some more coffee?” Westervelt offered.
“Not for me,” said the other. “If you go back, though, you could pick up those folders.”
Westervelt took the excuse to leave for a few minutes. He stopped in to see if Joe wanted anything, promised to look for bourbon, and returned to the main office. He found Simonetta sipping a solitary cup of coffee.
“Did they leave you all alone?” he demanded.
“Oh, no,” she said. “The boss came out and had coffee with Pauline and me, but then she had a call for him and he thought he’d rather take it in his office.”
Westervelt stepped over to Smith’s door and listened. In theory, it should have been soundproof, so he opened it a crack. Hearing Smith’s voice, he pushed his luck and put his head inside. The chief was busy enough on the phone not to be aware of the intrusion.
“Yes, I appreciate your difficulty,” Smith said, obviously having said it many times before. “Still, if there is no way to send us an elevator, I would much rather not have a party climbing the twenty-five flights to break open the door. If it has to be broken, we can do it.”
Westervelt recognized the answering voice, hoarser though it now was, as that of the silver-haired manager downstairs. He wondered why the sight of each other did not make both the manager and Smith want to comb their hair.
“Naturally, we will make good any damage,” Smith said. “Besides, you must have a good many other people on the lower floors of the tower to look after.”
“Most of them are displaying the good sense to stay in their offices until the emergency is dealt with.”
Westervelt crept inside and moved around until he could see the face pouting on the screen of Smith’s phone. The man now had heavy shadows under his eyes, although he had mopped off the perspiration that had bathed him when Westervelt had spoken with him.
“Well, perhaps we have slightly different problems,” Smith told the manager.
“Problems!” exclaimed the latter. His effort to contain his emotions was clearly visible. “Well…of course…if it is really serious, perhaps we can get the police to send up an emergency rescue squad—”
“No!” Smith interrupted violently. “No rescue squad! We do not in any way need to be rescued. Not at all!”
The manager eyed him with dark suspicion.
“Is someone ill?” he demanded. “We cannot be responsible for any lawsuits due to your refusal to let us call competent authorities.”
“Aren’t you a competent authority?” demanded Smith. “Just get the elevator working, will you? We’ll wait until then.”
“There is no way of knowing when power will be restored,” said the manager. “You must have a TV set around the office somewhere, so you can hear the news bulletins on the situation as soon as I can.” He paused to pop a lozenge into his mouth, sighed, and added, “Sooner, I dare say.”
Smith had leaned back in his chair, a stricken look on his face. He saw Westervelt, and began to wave frantically toward the hall.
“I never thought of that,” exclaimed the youth.
He burst into the hall from Smith’s private entrance, realized he would have to pass the library to reach Joe Rosenkrantz with an order for censorship, and circled back to the main entrance.
He went in, saw Simonetta still at her desk, and opened the door to Pauline’s cubicle. When he got inside with the little blonde, her swivel chair, and her switchboard, there was just about room enough to breathe.
“Pauline!” he panted. “Punch the com room number and lend me your headset!”
“This is cosy!” she giggled, but did as he asked.
Joe answered promptly.
“Joe, this is Willie. It just so happens that Charlie Colborn was changing transistors in all the person
al sets you have down there, so you can’t pick up a newscast right now—right?”
There was a pregnant pause before one answered.
“Right. That’s the way it goes. Can you talk? I don’t see any image.”
“I’m with Pauline. It’s okay. I mean, it was just a thought, in case…”
“Sure,” said Rosenkrantz. “Should have thought of it myself. Everything else all right?”
Westervelt told him that it was, agreed that he hoped it would continue. Then he surrendered the headset to Pauline, who tickled his ribs as he squirmed around to leave the cubicle.
“Don’t you dare!” she giggled when he turned on her. “I’ll talk!”
“Please, no, Pauline,” he sighed. “Anything but that!”
He walked loosely past Simonetta, who stared at him unbelievingly, and started to enter Smith’s office again. Behind him, he heard the sounds of a door being closed and high heels clicking subduedly on the springy flooring. Beryl’s voice said something as he began to look around. He stopped.
“What did she say?” he asked Simonetta.
Beryl had already disappeared toward the hall.
“She said Mr. Parrish invited her downstairs for a cocktail. He thinks they should have about twenty minutes to relax before going back to work.”
“You’re kidding!” gasped Westervelt.
“No, I’m not! Willie, you’ve been acting awfully strange. Where have you been ducking to every time—”
Westervelt was already running for the hall.
He skidded and nearly fell going through the entrance. Beryl was standing near the elevator.
“Did you ring yet?” asked Westervelt.
“No, I’m waiting for Mr. Parrish,” said Beryl, in a tone that emphasized unwieldiness of an assembly of three persons.
