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 in 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, Simonnetta 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 personal 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.
"Your lipstick is smeared," said Westervelt.
Beryl gave him an even less believing stare than had Simonetta, but,
glancing hastily at her watch, began to fumble out her compact.
"In here, where the light is better," said Westervelt.
He grabbed her by an elbow and dragged her into the office before it
occurred to her to resist.
"Please, Willie! You're _handling_ me!" she protested coldly.
Westervelt was already out the door again, bent upon taking the other
entrance to Smith's office, when he saw the hall door of Parrish's
office open. He reversed direction in time to meet Parrish as the
latter stepped into the corridor.
"Beryl said to tell you she'll be right back," he said, waving a thumb
vaguely in the direction of the rest rooms.
"Oh. Thanks, Willie," answered Parrish. "I'll wait inside."
Westervelt reached Smith's office before Parrish had completely closed
his own door. From the corner of his eye, he saw the blue of Beryl's
dress.
"Mr. Smith!" he called as he thrust his head inside. "I think I need
help!"