I sat on the edge of an enormous wing chair. He pursed his lips,
stretched the skin under his chin and, when he seemed perfectly
satisfied the job was complete, he said as though he were continuing a
conversation, "Fill me in on your interview with Zorchi, Thomas."
It was the first I'd known he'd ever _heard_ of Zorchi. I hesitantly
began to tell him about the meeting in the hospital. It did not, I
knew, do me very much credit, but it simply didn't occur to me to try
to make my own part look better. I suppose that if I thought of the
matter at all, I simply thought that Defoe would instantly detect any
attempt to gloss things over. He hardly seemed to be paying attention
to me, though; he was preoccupied with the remainder of his morning
ritual--carefully massaging his face with something fragrant, brushing
his teeth with a maddening, old-fashioned insistence on careful
strokes, combing his hair almost strand by strand.
Then he took a small bottle with a daub attached to the stopper and
touched it to the distinguished gray at his temples.
I spluttered in the middle of a word; I had never thought of the
possibility that the handsomely grayed temples of the Company's senior
executives, as inevitable as the vest or the watch chain, were equally
a part of the uniform! Defoe gave me a long inquiring look in the
mirror; I coughed and went on with a careful description of Zorchi's
temper tantrum.
Defoe turned to me and nodded gravely. There was neither approval nor
disapproval. He had asked for information and the information had been
received.
He pressed a communicator button and ordered breakfast. The microphone
must have been there, but it was invisible. He sat down at a small,
surgical-looking table, leaned back and folded his hands.
"Now," he said, "tell me what happened in Caserta just before Hammond
disappeared."
Talking to Defoe had something of the quality of shouting down a well.
I collected my thoughts and told him all I knew on the riot at the
branch office.
While I was talking, Defoe's breakfast arrived. He didn't know I hadn't
eaten anything, of course--I say "of course" because I know he couldn't
have known, he didn't ask. I looked at it longingly, but all my looking
didn't alter the fact that there was only one plate, one cup, one set
of silverware.
* * * * *
He ate his breakfast as methodically as he'd brushed his teeth. I doubt
if it took him five minutes. Since I finished the Caserta story in
about three, the last couple of minutes were in dead silence, Defoe
eating, me sitting mute as a disconnected jukebox.
Then he pushed the little table away, lit a cigarette and said, "You
may smoke if you wish, Thomas. Come in, Susan."
He didn't raise his voice; and when, fifteen seconds later, Susan
Manchester walked in, he didn't look at all impressed with the
efficiency of his secretary, his intercom system, or himself. The
concealed microphone, it occurred to me, had heard him order breakfast
and request his secretary to walk in. It had undoubtedly heard--and
most probably recorded--every word I had said.
How well they did things on the upper echelon of the Company!
Susan looked--different. She was as blonde and pretty as ever. But she
wasn't bubbly. She smiled at me in passing and handed Defoe a typed
script, which he scanned carefully.