A thought struck Burckhardt. "But today is June 15th! It's quarterly
tax return day--he has to sign the return!"
Miss Mitkin shrugged to indicate that that was Burckhardt's problem,
not hers. She returned to her nails.
Thoroughly exasperated, Burckhardt went to his desk. It wasn't that he
couldn't sign the tax returns as well as Barth, he thought
resentfully. It simply wasn't his job, that was all; it was a
responsibility that Barth, as office manager for Contro Chemicals'
downtown office, should have taken.
* * * * *
He thought briefly of calling Barth at his home or trying to reach him
at the factory, but he gave up the idea quickly enough. He didn't
really care much for the people at the factory and the less contact he
had with them, the better. He had been to the factory once, with
Barth; it had been a confusing and, in a way, a frightening
experience. Barring a handful of executives and engineers, there
wasn't a soul in the factory--that is, Burckhardt corrected himself,
remembering what Barth had told him, not a _living_ soul--just the
machines.
According to Barth, each machine was controlled by a sort of computer
which reproduced, in its electronic snarl, the actual memory and mind
of a human being. It was an unpleasant thought. Barth, laughing, had
assured him that there was no Frankenstein business of robbing
graveyards and implanting brains in machines. It was only a matter, he
said, of transferring a man's habit patterns from brain cells to
vacuum-tube cells. It didn't hurt the man and it didn't make the
machine into a monster.
But they made Burckhardt uncomfortable all the same.
He put Barth and the factory and all his other little irritations out
of his mind and tackled the tax returns. It took him until noon to
verify the figures--which Barth could have done out of his memory and
his private ledger in ten minutes, Burckhardt resentfully reminded
himself.
He sealed them in an envelope and walked out to Miss Mitkin. "Since
Mr. Barth isn't here, we'd better go to lunch in shifts," he said.
"You can go first."
"Thanks." Miss Mitkin languidly took her bag out of the desk drawer
and began to apply makeup.
Burckhardt offered her the envelope. "Drop this in the mail for me,
will you? Uh--wait a minute. I wonder if I ought to phone Mr. Barth to
make sure. Did his wife say whether he was able to take phone calls?"
"Didn't say." Miss Mitkin blotted her lips carefully with a Kleenex.
"Wasn't his wife, anyway. It was his daughter who called and left the
message."
"The kid?" Burckhardt frowned. "I thought she was away at school."
"She called, that's all I know."
Burckhardt went back to his own office and stared distastefully at the
unopened mail on his desk. He didn't like nightmares; they spoiled his
whole day. He should have stayed in bed, like Barth.
* * * * *
A funny thing happened on his way home. There was a disturbance at the
corner where he usually caught his bus--someone was screaming
something about a new kind of deep-freeze--so he walked an extra
block. He saw the bus coming and started to trot. But behind him,
someone was calling his name. He looked over his shoulder; a small
harried-looking man was hurrying toward him.
Burckhardt hesitated, and then recognized him. It was a casual
acquaintance named Swanson. Burckhardt sourly observed that he had
already missed the bus.