_Mercy Adrians was 19, and good to look at.
Edwin Tzadi was of undetermined age and not
good to look at. Derrence Cale was a phoney.
But at least, he thought, he was a man._
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories December 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Derrence Cale walked into the glittering tile, marble and metal lobby
of the Chester Chemical Company Building at a quarter to nine. Office
hours were nine-fifteen to five-fifteen, but Derrence came early and
left late every day. He unlocked the doors to the Public Relations
department, checked to see that the custodial staff hadn't left any
rags or buckets around and, in general, fulfilled the duties of floor
manager.
Not that Derrence had been _assigned_ these duties. He'd assumed them
over the past eight years, and because Chester Chemical was as big as
it was, he got away with it. Derrence had effectively hidden himself
among the 9,000 Chester employees; lost himself, as so many talentless
but shrewd people do, in the hive of offices that make up a giant
corporation. That was why he was able to draw a salary, and merely play
at working.
He was alone in the self-service elevator when it shot upward. He was
alone when he stepped out on the 36th floor. But after unlocking the
doors across the hall from the reception room, he was immediately aware
that he was _not_ alone.
From down the long, pastel-green, fluorescent-lighted corridor on his
left had come, and still came, the sound of a voice. A high-pitched
male voice, totally unfamiliar to Derrence Cale. There was no answering
voice, so the man was using a phone.
It could only be one of the cleaning staff; and they'd been warned by
management never to use office equipment.
* * * * *
Derrence strode toward the voice, heels clicking sharply on the black
squares of asphalt tile. The voice stopped. _Aha, a little game of cat
and mouse, was it?_ Derrence kept going, watching the seemingly endless
line of offices on his right for one with its door open or a light
shining through the frosted glass panel. And he saw the light in the
office ahead.
He stopped, his long, smooth face crinkling in a swift smile. He took a
quick, silent step, and jerked open the door. The man seated behind the
desk was middle-aged, fat and solemn. He had bright blue eyes and jet
black hair. "Good morning," he said in his high-pitched voice. "I'm Mr.
Tzadi." He smiled. "I'd better spell it." He spelled it. "Edwin Tzadi.
This is my first day."
So that explained it, and Derrence was ready to back out as gracefully
as possible. But then he noticed how meek Tzadi seemed, and decided to
stay a few moments. He came forward with hand out-stretched. "Welcome
aboard, Ed. I'm Derrence Cale. Der to you." They shook hands. "New
writer, eh?"
Tzadi nodded and smiled.
Derrence put his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels.
"Personnel never bothered to inform me that you were coming. I'll have
to check Miss McCarty. She may have heard and forgotten to mention it."
"Is she your secretary?"
Derrence said, "Not exactly," and regretted having given into his
impulse to act important. "Well, work's awaitin', as they say in the
Ozarks." He chuckled. "Though for future reference, Ed, you needn't
come in until nine-fifteen. The hours at Chester Chemical...."
"Yes, I know, but I am an early riser. I will be here each morning at
eight-thirty, perhaps earlier."
Derrence decided he didn't like Tzadi. There was something vaguely
foreign in the way the man spoke. Not that he had an accent. It was
more a matter of off-beat timing. And that name--Central European in
origin. Personnel was getting sloppy.
"I'm afraid that's not feasible, Ed. At eight, the cleaning people
leave, locking the hall doors. Miss McCarty and I have keys, but we
couldn't allow them out of our possessions. (He'd waited three years
before borrowing Miss McCarty's and having a copy made.)
"I too have a key." The fat man beamed. "That solves our little
problem, doesn't it?"
"How'd you get...." He stopped short. _Time to leave. Should never have
come in here in the first place. This man isn't an ordinary writer!_
"Is there anything wrong, Der?"
Derrence smiled. "Wrong? Of course not. Just thought of an urgent bit
of business. Again, _welcome_ aboard, Ed."
"And again, thank you, Der." Tzadi smiled, somewhat apologetically.
"And again, that question."
"What question?"
"Is Miss McCarty your secretary?"
"I answered it," Derrence said, and found it hard to smile. "I said she
_wasn't_."
"No, Der," Tzadi said, right hand rising, index finger lifting
scholastically. "You said, and I quote, 'Not exactly.' That indicated
semi-secretarial status."
* * * * *
Derrence was immediately frightened. He fought it by telling himself he
was jumping to conclusions. There was no reason in the world to assume
that the man was a company spy, especially since Chester Chemical never
had been known to employ such methods.
He laughed. It was a rich, hearty, booming, self-confident laugh,
developed by means of long practice with a tape recorder. Hearing it,
he was able to form an answer. "Actually, Ed, Miss McCarty is the floor
manager. She assigns new offices ... as she did this one to you, right?"
"No. Mr. Chester said to choose any empty office that pleased me."
_Mr. Chester! The Founder himself!_
Derrence opened the door and waved his arm and chuckled and nodded and
exuded good will, and said, "See you, Ed."
"Der," Mr. Tzadi said, rising. He was extremely short; not more than
five feet, if that. "If Miss McCarty is floor manager, what are you?"
"No title, _per se_," Derrence said, and was horrified to hear his
shortness of breath, his panicked panting. He fought for control.
"I ... work with her. The arrangement is loose, informal, almost
unofficial. A typical Chester Company operation." He had the door open
now, and stepped through it sideways. "You'll soon learn what that
means, Ed. We all stay loose here. No rigid adherence to rules. No
frenzied competition. No sweat. Get it?"
Mr. Tzadi's face looked blank. He shook his head. "I am afraid not,
Der. Mr. Chester said that each employee has a position, a function, a
title, and performs within sharply defined areas. I am listed as Public
Relations Writer in the Personnel books. You too are listed as Public
Relations writer, eleven thousand dollars per annum."
A tortured laugh was forced from Derrence Cale. The man had revealed
himself as a company spy! Who else had access to the Personnel
records? He waved his arm again, said, "Simply must rush," and fled.
* * * * *
His office was at the other end of the floor from Tzadi's. He reached
it, shut the door and slumped into his chair. He was trembling. This
was the first time in almost six years that anyone had shown true
knowledge of his position. The last time had been when old Halvertson,
his group head, had called him in and said, "Derrence, your work's
falling off badly. I'd be justified in recommending you for discharge
right now, but I want to give you a fighting chance. We've got the
new polio vaccine pamphlet to do, and an important fact sheet for
distribution to newspapers. I'll be watching you carefully." But he
hadn't. He'd dropped dead two days later while walking to the men's
room. When word came that Halvertson's group was being dissolved and
his writers assigned to other groups, Derrence had decided to make
his move. Besser and Trance had been assigned to Gordon. Pete Ward
had come to Derrence's office and said, "While I don't really need an
extra man, Cale, you're supposed to be assigned to me." Derrence had
expressed delight ... "but I've got quite a bit of work to clear up
before I'm free, Mr. Ward." Ward had seemed relieved. "Yes, well,
carry on, Cale." Derrence had carried on for three months; then Ward
had been promoted upstairs, and the man who took his place never even
spoke to Derrence. Derrence carried on and on, creating the impression,
which soon hardened into fact, that he was now overseeing Miss McCarty
in her position as floor manager. Since he was careful to please and
flatter her, and meticulous in maintaining the routine which kept him
outwardly busy, he'd never again been asked to report to anyone, work
for anyone, account to anyone. As for his salary, it was handled by
total strangers--the Fiscal department on the 17th floor, which was as
remote from the 36th floor as interior New Guinea. Now this Tzadi came
along, and soon the lovely, secure life would go down the drain. And
what would he do then?