"I'll bet there are plenty of things to get out of this ocean," mused Harris. "Who knows how the climate may have changed in thousands of years. Maybe if there was an ice age the seas would have shrunk. Maybe there was a volcanic age. Maybe you could drill underwater and find oil—if you knew where to look. Maybe there are deposits of diamonds under the ooze."
He stopped when he sensed a vague irritation. He realized that his thoughts had been going out and scoring the cleanest of misses.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "Just tell me what you do know about the sea."
I can tell you where to find tribes of the sea-people. I can tell you where to find all sorts of good eating-fish. I know where to think to other Big Fish but that I cannot tell you, for you cannot feel it.
The monster rose slowly through the water. He had seen something up there that interested him, Harris knew, and would return when it occurred to him.
He considered the possibilities. Perhaps there was something in the idea of building up a food industry. If you had inside tips on where the fish were, how could you miss? Then, the Tridentians must have some knowledge of where to find metals, since they used them. He suspected that they had factories somewhere.
"Come to think of it," he asked himself, "how do I know it isn't some savage tribe that picked me up? One of these days, I may wind up with a more advanced bunch. I'll have to ask Big Fish when he comes back."
He began to plan what he would do if he reached some higher civilization under the sea. Anyone with the knowledge to mine metals, or maybe to extract them from sea water, would be interested in contacting Terrans from another world. There would be a little trouble, probably, in getting them to comprehend space, but some of them could be sent up to the surface in tanks. Then there would be a need for some Terran who knew both worlds.
"I could wind up an ambassador!" Harris told himself. "I wonder ... maybe I could even work it with this bunch. If I could only get out of here! Come back in another submarine, maybe."
He began to pace the length of his tank and back, stopping once to gather up the fish that had been bought for him by some of the crowd outside. He noted that the latter was constantly changing without varying much in total number. He took to walking around the sides of the tank, staring into each set of eyes.
In the end, this had such a hypnotic effect that he imagined himself swimming through the dim, greenish light. The sea-people outside began to appear as individuals. He grew into the feeling that he could recognize one from the other.
He found himself running for the corner where he had collected his fish. The sound that had triggered the reaction originated at the opaque end of the tank. It was followed within seconds by several jets of water, white and forceful, which entered near the floor of the structure.
Harris snatched up his supply of food to keep it from being washed away. With one hand, he tried to roll up the legs of his pants. He never seemed to be prepared when the time came, but he was constantly too chilled to go around with the trousers rolled up all the time.
The water swished about the calves of his legs. After a few minutes, it began to recede as the Tridentian machinery pumped it out. Soon, the tank was clean of everything but Harris, his fish, and the thick smell of sea water.
He was good, came a thought.I see you are eating too.
A large shadow passed overhead. Most of the Tridentians wiggled their eye-stalks in an effort to look amiable. Harris dropped his fish to the damp floor.
"No, I'm not eating," he said. "I'm all wet."
So am I, answered Big Fish.
"But I'm not usually," said Harris.
I know. It is unkind, they way they let you dry out. Would you like me to knock in the end of the tank? You could have all the water you want.
"Not right now," said Harris calmly. He sat down, crossing his legs. "I'll have to grow some gills first. It may not take much longer, at that."
He looked at the Tridentians, who looked in at him. Again, he felt the sensation of being able to recognize individuals. Perhaps he should talk to them more often through Big Fish.
"Maybe some of them are really nice fellows," he muttered, "if I just get to know them better."
No, his friend told him,they are not very good to eat.
Time had dragged its slow way past six-thirty. The excuse of a flying start on the Harris case had worn thin to the point of delicacy—to all but one man. The rest of them hoped sincerely thathewas keeping himself interested.
Westervelt sat at his desk, perusing an article inSpaceman'sWorld about the exploration of a newly discovered planetary system. It might come up in a conference someday, he reflected, and it might be as well to know a few facts on the subject. No life had been discovered on any of the dozen planets, but that did not necessarily preclude the establishment of a Terran colony in the future. The department also had problems with colonies, as witness Greenhaven.
He put down the magazine for a moment to review the personnel situation.
Parrish, he remembered, had expressed his intention of retreating to his office and putting in an hour or two of desk-heeling. Under the circumstances, he had declared, there was little point in digging further into the files for an idea since that was not at all their primary purpose in staying late. Rosenkrantz, of course, was on watch in the communications room. Smith wandered in and out. Simonetta had taken a portable taper down to Lydman's office to help organize a preliminary report the chief had requested from him. After she had returned, and fallen to low-voiced gossip through the window with Pauline, Beryl had been sent back with a number of scribbled objections for Lydman to answer.
Smith had spent all of five minutes thinking them up—before Simonetta brought the original report. Westervelt wondered how soon Beryl would return with the answers, because it would then probably be his turn to ride herd.
He did not regard the idea with relish.
Smith strolled out of his office. He halted to survey the nearly empty office with an air of vague surprise, then saw Simonetta outside Pauline's cubicle. He went over to join the conversation.
I should have walked out somewhere, thought Westervelt.Now the door is completely blockaded.
The magazine article turned dull immediately.
Sure enough, in a few minutes Smith approached Westervelt's corner.
"Who's on watch, Willie?" he asked, attempting a jovial wink.
"Beryl, I think," answered the youth. "Must be—she hasn't been around."
"She's been there quite a while," commented Smith. "I have a feeling that it's time for a shift. How about wandering down there and edging in?"
"What would I say?" objected Westervelt. "He's probably dictating his remarks and wouldn't like me hanging around."
Smith chewed on his lower lip.
"For the questions I sent him," he muttered thoughtfully, "five minutes should have been enough. Goldilocks has been with him over half an hour."
"But he must be tired of my face," said Westervelt.
"I don't have anyone else to send, unless you want me to think up an excuse for Pauline. Asking him to help with her homework would be pretty thin."
Westervelt thought it over. Parrish, in his present mood, was not likely to be of any help. Simonetta had just done her stint, and Joe was needed on the space set. It would have been nice if there were a message for Lydman to listen to, but that was wishful dreaming.
"All right, Mr. Smith," he surrendered. "Maybe I can take along this article and ask if he's seen it yet. If he's taking an inventory or trying out something in the lab, I'll take my life in my hands and volunteer to help!"
Smith laughed.
"It can't be that bad, Willie," he said, slapping the other on the shoulder.
Westervelt was not so sure, but he folded the magazine open to the beginning of his article and went out. Pauline peered at him as he passed.
"Don't look like that!" he said. "You'll see me again, I hope!"
"You might try looking a little more confident of that yourself," Simonetta called after him.
Westervelt turned the corner and walked slowly down the hall, trying out more confident expressions as he went. None of them felt exactly right.
Passing the spare office where the dead files were kept, he heard a sound.
They must have come up here for something, he thought.That's why it seemed so long to Smitty.
He had opened the door and taken one step inside before he realized that the room was dark. Without thinking, he reached out to flip the light switch.
Beryl Austin leaped to her feet with a flash of thigh that hardly registered on Westervelt in the split-second of his astonishment. Then he saw that she had not been alone on the settee that stood beside the door. Parrish rose beside her.
The suddenness of their movements and the ferocity of their combined stares had the impact of a stunning blow upon Westervelt. The implications of the blonde's slightly disheveled appearance, however, were obvious.
He could not, for a moment, think at all. Then he began to have a feeling that he ought to say something to cover his escape. Beneath that, somewhere, surged the conviction that he had nothing to apologize for. In the face of such hostility and tension, it called for a lot of courage.
"You little sneak!" spat Beryl.
Westervelt noted with a certain detachment that her voice had turned shrill. Not knowing of anything else to do, he stared as she tugged her dress into place. This seemed to outrage her more than anything he could have said. He also saw the gleam of Parrish's teeth, and the grimace was not even remotely a smile. The man took a step to place himself before Beryl.
"What do you think you're doing?" demanded Parrish, with a good deal more feeling than originality.
Westervelt had been wondering what to say to that when it came, as was inevitable. A dozen half-expressed answers flitted through his mind.
How do you get out of a thing like this?he asked himself desperately.You'd think it was me that did it!
Before he could explore the implications of his choosing the words "did it," Beryl found her voice again.
"Get out of here!" she shrilled. "Who told you to come poking in?"
"I heard a noise," said Westervelt, conscious that his voice sounded odd. "I thought it was Mr. Lydman."
"Do I look like Lydman?" demanded Parrish, not raising his voice as much as Beryl had. "There wasn't any light, was there? Did you think he'd be sitting in here in the dark?"
The possibility charged the atmosphere like static electricity. Actually, mere mention of it made Westervelt feel better because it sounded so much like what he might have found.
"How did I know?" he retorted. "I thought Beryl was with him. Why should I expectyou? You said you weren't going to dig any further in here."
Beryl had been smoothing her still-perfect coiffure. Now she stiffened as much as Parrish. Westervelt sensed that his choice of words might have been unfortunate.
"Well, who is with him?" he demanded, before they could say anything.
The question galvanized Parrish into action. He stepped forward to meet Westervelt face to face.
"If you're so worried about that, why don't you go find him?" he sneered. "For my money, you two make a good match."
"Maybe I will," said Westervelt hotly. "Youtwo don't seem to care about what's going on. If you'll just excuse me, I'll turn out the light and—"
"Oh, cut out the speech-making!" requested Beryl. "Get out of the door, Willie, and let me out of here. I'm tired of the whole incident."
"Now, wait a minute, Beryl!" protested Parrish.
"Yeah," said Westervelt, "you'd better check. Your lipstick is really smudged this time."
"Shut up, you!" Parrish snapped.
He took Beryl by the shoulders and pulled her back. She pulled herself free peevishly. Westervelt leaned against the wall and curled a lip.
"Enough is enough!" she said. "Let me out of here!"
"You forgot to smile," Westervelt told Parrish.
The man turned on him and reached out to seize a handful of his shirtfront. Westervelt straightened up, alarmed but willing to consider changing the smooth mask of Parrish's face. Beryl was shrilling something about not being damned fools, when she stopped in the middle of a word.
Parrish also grew still. The forearm Westervelt had crossed over the hand grabbing at his shirt fell as Parrish let him go. The man was staring over Westervelt's shoulder. He looked almost frightened.
Westervelt looked around—and a thrill shot through him, like the shock of diving into icy water.
Lydman was standing there, staring through him.
When he looked again, as he shrank instinctively away from the doorway, he realized that the ex-spacer was staring through all of them. After a moment, he seemed to focus on Beryl.
"They'll let you out, I think," he said in his quiet voice.
Parrish stepped back nervously, and Westervelt edged further inside the doorway to make room. Beryl did not seem to have heard. She gaped, hypnotized by the beautiful eyes set in the strong, tanned face.
Lydman put the palm of one hand against Westervelt's chest and shoved slowly. It was as well that the file cabinet behind the youth was nearly empty, because it slid a foot along the floor as his back flattened against it. Lydman reached out his other hand and took Beryl gently by the elbow.
She stepped forward, turning her head from side to side as if to seek reassurance from either Parrish or Westervelt, but without completely meeting their eyes. Lydman led her into the hall and released her elbow.
She started uncertainly up the corridor toward the main office. Lydman fell in a pace or two behind her.
Westervelt heard a gasp. He looked at Parrish and realized that he had been holding his breath too. Then, by mutual consent, they followed the others out into the hall.
"Listen, Willie," whispered Parrish, watching the twenty-foot gap between them and Lydman's broad shoulders, "we have to see that she doesn't forget and try to leave. If he won't let me talk to her, you'll have to get her attention."
"Okay, I'll try," murmured Westervelt. "Look—I was really looking for him I never meant to—"
"I never meant to either," said Parrish. "Forget it!"
"It was none of my business. I should have shut up and left. Tell her I'm sorry when you get a chance; she'll probably never speak to me again."
He wondered if he could get Smith's permission to move his desk. On second thought, he wondered if he would come out of this with a desk to move.
"Sure she will," said Parrish. "She's really just a good-natured kid. It wasn't anything serious. You startled us, that was all."
Beryl and Lydman turned the corner, leaving the two followers free to increase their pace. They rounded the corner themselves in time to see Lydman going through the double doors.
"It was too bad he came along when she was yelling to be let out," said Parrish. "He didn't understand."
"You mean he actually thought we were trying to keep her there against her will?" asked Westervelt.
"Well, we were, I suppose, or at least I was. He doesn't seem to think any further than that in such situations. If someone is being held against his will, that's enough for Bob. Did you know Smitty had to post a bond for him?"
"A bond!" repeated Westervelt. "What for?"
"They caught him a couple of times, trying out his new gadgets around the city jail. I'll tell you about it sometime."
Parrish fell silent as they reached the entrance to the main office. Beryl had gratefully stopped to speak to the first person in sight, which happened to be Pauline. As Parrish and Westervelt arrived, she was offering to take over the switchboard for twenty minutes or so.
"Oh, I didn't mean you had to drop everything," Pauline was protesting. "I just meant ... when you get the chance...."
She eyed Lydman curiously, then looked to the late arrivals. The silly thought that Joe Rosenkrantz must feel awfully lonely crossed Westervelt's mind, and he had to fight down a giggle.
"You really should get out of there for a while," advised Lydman, studying the size of Pauline's cubbyhole. "Sit outside a quarter of an hour at least, and let your mind spread out."
"Well, if it's really all right with you, Beryl?"
"I'm only too glad to help," said Beryl rapidly.
She wasted no time in rounding the corner to get at the door. Westervelt closed his eyes. He found it easy to envision Pauline tangling with her on the way out and causing Lydman to start all over again.
The girls managed without any such catastrophe. Pauline headed for the swivel chair behind the unused secretarial desk.
"You ought to leave that door open," Lydman called to Beryl. "If it should stick, there's hardly any air in there. You'd feel awfully cramped in no time."
"Thank you," said Beryl politely.
She left the door open, sat down, and picked up Pauline's headset. From the set of her shoulders, it did not seem that much light conversation would be forthcoming from that quarter.
Westervelt stepped further into the office, and saw that Smith was standing in his own doorway, rubbing his large nose thoughtfully. The youth guessed that Simonetta had signalled him.
Parrish cleared his throat with a little cough.
"Well," he said, "I'll be in my office if anyone wants me."
Rather than pass too close to Lydman, he retreated into the hall to use the outside entrance to his office. The ex-spacer paid no attention.
Westervelt decided that he would be damned if he would go through Parrish's office and back into this one to get at his desk. He walked around the projection of the switchboard cubicle and sat down with a sigh at his own place. He leaned back and looked about, to discover that Lydman had gone over to say a few words to Smith. Pauline glanced curiously from Westervelt to the two men, then began to shop among a shelf of magazines beside the desk of the vacationing secretary.
After a few minutes, Lydman turned and went out the door. Westervelt tried to listen for footsteps, but the resilient flooring prevented him from guessing which way the ex-spacer had gone.
He saw Smith approaching, and went to meet him.
"I've changed my mind," said the chief. "For a little bit, anyway, we'll leave him alone. He said he was sketching up some gizmo he wants to have built, and needed peace and quiet."
"Did he say we ... were talking too loud?" asked Westervelt, looking at the doorway rather than meet Smith's eye.
"No, that was all he said," answered Smith.
There was a questioning undertone in his voice, but Westervelt chose not to hear it. After a short wait, Smith asked Simonetta to bring her taper into his office. He mentioned that he hoped to phone for some technical information. Westervelt watched them leave, then sank down on the corner of the desk at which Pauline was relaxing.
Beryl turned around in her chair.
"Pssst! Pauline!" she whispered. "Is he gone?"
"They all left—except Willie," the girl told her.
Beryl shut the door promptly. The pair left in the office heard her turn the lock with a brisk snap.
"What's the matter with her?" murmured Pauline.
"Nothing," said Westervelt glumly. "Why don't you take a nap, or something?"
"I'd like to," said Pauline. "It's going on seven o'clock and who knows when we'll get out of here?"
"Shut up!" said Westervelt. "I mean ... uh ... don't bring us bad luck by talking about it. Take a nap and let me think!"
"All you big thinkers!" jeered Pauline. "What I'd really like to do is go down to the ladies' room and take a shower, but you always kid me about Mr. Parrish maybe coming in with fresh towels for the machine."
"I lied to you, Pauline," said Westervelt. "The charwoman brings them."
"Well, I could always hope," giggled Pauline.
"Not tonight," said Westervelt "Believe me, kid, you're safer than you'll ever be!"
Pauline came back in a quarter of an hour, her youthfully translucent skin glowing and her ash-blonde curls rearranged. She glanced through the window at Beryl, who was nervously punching a number for an outside call.
"What's going on?" she asked Westervelt, who sat with his heels on the center desk.
"Mr. Smith is calling a couple of engineers he knows," Simonetta told her.
Westervelt had just heard it, when Simonetta had emerged with a tape to transcribe. He had started to mention that it might be better to phone a psychiatrist, but had bitten back the remark.
For all I know, he reflected,they might take me away! Everything I remember about today can't really have happened. If it did, I wish it hadn't!
He recalled that he had been phoned at home to hop a jet for London that morning. He had found the laboratory which had made the model of the light Smith was interested in, and been on his way back without time for lunch. Now that the jets were so fast, meals were no longer served on them, and he had had to grab a sandwich upon returning. Then there had been those poor fried eggs. That was all—no wonder he was feeling hungry again!
I should have missed the return jet, he thought bitterly.I didn't know where I was well off! Why did I have to walk in there? I might have had the sense to go look in Bob's office first.
He decided that Pauline, now chatting with Simonetta, looked refreshed and relaxed. Perhaps he ought to do the same.
The idea, upon reflection, continued to appear attractive. Westervelt rose and walked out past the switchboard. Beryl was too busy to see him. He made his way quietly to the rest room, which he found empty. He was rather relieved to have avoided everyone.
At one side of the room was a door leading to a shower. The appointments of Department 99 were at least as complete as those of any modern business office of the day. Westervelt stepped into a tiny anteroom furnished with a skimpy stool, several hooks on the wall, and a built-in towel supplier.
Prudently, he set the temperature for a hot shower on the dial outside the shower compartment, and punched the button that turned on the water.
Just in case all the trouble has affected the hot water supply, he thought.
As he undressed, he was reassured by the sight of steam inside the stall. Another thought struck him. He locked the outer door. He did not care for the possibility of having Lydman imagine that he was trapped in here. It would be just his luck to be "assisted" out into the corridor, naked and dripping, at the precise moment it was full of staff members on their way to the laboratory.
He slid back the partly opaqued plastic doors and stepped with a sigh of pleasure under the hot stream. Ten minutes of it relaxed him to the point of feeling almost at peace with the world once more.
"I ought to finish with a minute or two of cold," he told himself, "but to hell with it! I'll set the air on cool later."
He pushed the waterproof button on the inside of the stall to turn off the water, opened the narrow doors, and reached out to the towel dispenser. The towel he got was fluffy and large, though made of paper. He blotted himself off well before turning on the air jets in the stall to complete the drying process.
Having dressed and disposed of the towel through a slot in the wall, he glanced about to see if he had forgotten anything. The shower stall had automatically aired itself, sucking all moisture into the air-conditioning system; and looked as untouched as it had at his entrance.
Westervelt strolled out into the rest room proper, thankful that the lock on the anteroom door had not chosen that moment to stick. He stretched and yawned comfortably. Then he caught sight of his tousled, air-blown hair in a mirror. He fished in his pocket for coins and bought another hard paper comb and a small vial of hair dressing from dispensers mounted on the wall. He took his time spraying the vaguely perfumed mist over his dark hair and combing it neatly.
That task attended to, he stole a few seconds to study the reflection of his face. It was rather more square about the jaw than Smith's, he thought, but he had to admit that the nose was prominent enough to challenge the chief's. No one had thought to equip the washroom with adjustable mirrors, so he gave up twisting his neck in an effort to see his profile.
"Well, that's a lot better!" he said, with considerable satisfaction. "Now if I can hook another coffee out of the locker, it will be like starting a new day. Gosh, I hope it's a better one, too!"
He walked lightly along the corridor to the main office, exaggerating the slight resilience of the floor to a definite bounce in his step. Outside the office, he met Beryl coming out. He felt himself come down on his heels immediately.
Beryl eyed him enigmatically, glanced over his shoulder to check that he was alone, and swung away toward the opposite wing. Westervelt hurried after her.
"Look, Beryl!" he called. "I wanted to say ... that is ... about before—"
Beryl turned the corner and kept walking.
"Wait just a second!" said Westervelt.
He tried to get beside her to speak to something besides the back of her blonde head, but she was a tall girl and had a long stride. He hesitated to take her by the elbow.
Beryl stopped at the door to the library.
"Please take note, Willie," she said coldly, "that the light is on inside and I am all alone."
At least she spoke, thought Westervelt.
"I have come down here for a little peace and quiet," she informed him. "I hope you didn't intend to learn how to read at this hour of the night."
"Aw, come on!" protested Westervelt. "It was an accident. Could I help it?"
"Being the way you are, I suppose not," admitted Beryl judiciously. "Why don't you go elsewhere and be an accident again?"
"I'm trying to say I'm sorry," said Westervelt, feeling a flush spreading over his features. "I don't know why I have to apologize, anyway. It wasn'tmein there, filing away in the dark!"
Beryl looked down her nose at him as if he were a Mizarian asking where he could have his chlorine tank refilled.
"Is that the story you're telling around?" she demanded icily.
"I'm not telling—" Westervelt realized he was beginning to yell, and lowered his voice. "I'm not telling any story around. Nobody knows anything about it except you and I and Pete. Bob couldn't have seen anything."
Beryl shrugged, a small, disdainful gesture. Westervelt wondered why he had allowed himself to get into an argument over the matter, since it was obvious that he was making things worse with every word.
"I don't know why you should be so sore about it," he said. "Even Pete said to me I should forget about it."
"Oh, you two have been talking it over!" Beryl accused. "Pretty clubby! Do you take over for him on other things too?"
Westervelt threw up his hands.
"You don't seem to mind anything about it except that I should know you were in there with him," he retorted. "If he was so acceptable, why am I a disease? Nobody ever left this office on account of me!"
"It could happen yet," said Beryl.
"Oh, hell! The trouble with you is you need a little loosening up."
He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her toward him. Slipping his left arm behind her back as she tried to kick his ankle, he kissed her. The result was spoiled by Beryl's turning her face away at the crucial instant. Westervelt drew back.
The next thing he knew, lights exploded before his right eye. He had not even seen her hand come up, or he would have ducked. He saw it as he stepped back, however. Despite a certain feminine delicacy, the hand clenched into a very capable little fist.
Beryl took one quick stride into the library.
"I don't like to keep hinting around," she said, "but maybe that will play itself back in your little mind."
She slammed the door three inches from his nose. Westervelt raised a hand to open it, then changed his mind and felt gingerly of his eye. It hurt, but with a sort of surrounding numbness.
Realizing that he could see after all, he looked up and down the corridor guiltily. It seemed very quiet.
Right square in the peeper!he thought ruefully.She couldn't have aimed that well: it must have been a lucky shot. I ought to go in there and belt her!
It was not something he really wanted to do. He could not foresee any pleasure or satisfaction in carrying matters to the extent of open war.
You lost again, Willie, he argued.You might as well take it like a man. She got annoyed at something you said, like as not, and it was too late when you began.
He prodded gently at his eye again, and decided that the numb sensation was being caused by the tightening of skin over a growing mouse.
He set off up the corridor, passed the main door with his face averted, and hurried down to the washroom before someone should come along.
Spying out the land through a cautiously opened door, he discovered the place unoccupied. In the mirror, the eye showed definite signs of blossoming. The eyebrow was all right, but the orb itself was bloodshot and tearing freely. Beneath it, the flesh above the cheekbone was pink and puffy.
"Ohmigod!" breathed Westervelt. "It'll be blue tomorrow! Probably purple and green, in fact. Or does it take a day or two to reach that stage?"
He ran cold water into a basin and splashed it over his face, holding a palmful at a time against the damaged eye.
When this did not seem sufficiently effective, he wadded a soft paper towel, soaked it in running water, and applied it until it lost its chill.
"Am I doing right?" he wondered. "I can never remember whether it's hot or cold you're supposed to use."
He thought about it while holding the slowly disintegrating towel to his eye. Someone had told him, as nearly as he could recall, that either way helped, depending upon when heat or cold was applied.
"I guess it must be that you use cold before it has time to swell," he muttered. "Keep the blood from going into the tissues—that must be it. But if you're too late for that, then heat would keep it from stiffening. Now, the question is, did I start in time?"
He examined the eye. It did not feel too sore, but it was still red and slightly swollen. The flow of tears had stopped, so he decided there was little more he could do. He dried his face and walked out into the corridor, blinking.
The com room is pretty dim, he thought.
He went to the laboratory door and opened it quietly. The room was dark and unoccupied. Westervelt swore to himself that if he stumbled over anyone this time, he would punch every nose he could reach without further ado. Unless, he amended the intention, he ran into Lydman.
He was squeamish about turning on a light, which left him the problem of groping his way through the maze of tables, workbenches, and stacks of cartons. He set down for future conversation the possibility of claiming that the department was as normal as any other business; it too possessed the typical, messy back room out of range of the front office.
He had negotiated about half the course when he felt a cool breeze. At first, he thought it must come from an air-conditioning diffuser, but it blew more horizontally. Someone must have opened a window, he decided, or perhaps broken one trying out a dangerous instrument.
He succeeded in reaching the far wall, where he felt around for the door leading to the communications room. This was over near the outside wall, but he reached it without bumping into more than two or three scattered objects.
Once through the door, he could see better because a little light was diffused past the wire-mesh enclosure around the power equipment. He walked along the short passage formed by this, turned a corner, and came in sight of Joe Rosenkrantz sitting before his screen.
"Hello, Joe," he greeted the operator.
The other jumped perceptibly, looking around at the door.
"It's Willie," said Westervelt. "I came around the other way."
He was pleased to find that Rosenkrantz had the room as dimly lighted as was customary among the TV men. Joe stared for a moment at him and Westervelt feared that the other's vision was too well adjusted to the light.
"I didn't think anybody but Lydman used that way much," said Rosenkrantz.
"It's a short-cut," said Westervelt evasively.
He found a spare chair to sit in and inquired as to what might be new.
Rosenkrantz told him of putting through a few calls to planets near Trident, asking D.I.R. men stationed on them to line up spaceships for possible use, either to go after Harris or to ship necessary equipment for plumbing the ocean. He offered to let Westervelt scan the tapes of his traffic.
"That's a good idea," said the youth gratefully. "Even if I don't spot an opening, it will look like useful effort."
"Yeah," agreed the other. "Time drags, doesn't it. Wonder how they're making out down in the cable tunnels?"
"It can't last much longer."
"That's what this here Harris is saying too, I should think. Now,there'sone guy who is really packed away!"
"Well...."
"Oh, they've pulled some good ones around here, but I have a feeling about this one," insisted the operator. "I'd bet ten to one they won't spring Harris."
Westervelt took the tapes to a playback screen and dragged his chair over.
"I told Smitty they ought to offer to swap for him," he said. "At the time, I meant it looked like the perfect way to unload undesirables. Come to think of it, though, I wouldn't mind going myself."
"What the hell for?" asked Rosenkrantz.
Westervelt realized that he had nearly given himself away.
"Oh ... just for the chance to see the place," he said. "Nobody else has ever seen these Tridentians. How else could somebody like me get a position as an interstellar ambassador."
"Maybe Harris wants the job for himself. He sure went looking for it!"
The phone buzzed quietly. Rosenkrantz answered, then said, "It's for you."
Westervelt went to the screen. It was Smith.
"I thought you must have found a way out, Willie. Where did you get to?"
Westervelt explained that he was looking at the tapes of the Trident calls, to familiarize himself with the background.
"I figured there was plenty of time for me to—" He broke off as he saw Rosenkrantz straighten up to focus in a call from space. "Joe is receiving something right now. I'll let you know if it has anything to do with Trident."
"Department 99, Terra," the operator was saying when Westervelt turned from the phone, as if the mere call signal had not satisfied the party at the other end.
There seemed to be a lot of action on the screen. Men were running in various directions in what appeared to be a large hall with an impressive stairway.
"Yoleen!" Rosenkrantz flung over his shoulder. "Tell Smitty!"
"Mr. Smith!" said Westervelt, turning back to the phone screen. "Joe says it's Yoleen coming in. Maybe you'd like to see it yourself. Something looks wrong."
"Coming!" said Smith, and the phone went dark.
Westervelt looked around to see that most of the running figures had hidden themselves. A voice was coming over, and he listened with the operator.
"... knocked apart so I have to use one of the observation lenses they have planted around the embassy. He's shooting up the place good!"
"I'm taping until someone gets here," said Rosenkrantz. "Better tell me what happened, just in case."
Yoleen, thought Westervelt.That would be ... let me see ... Gerson, the kidnap case. Do they mean that he's shooting them up?
"... and after he left me with this mess, in the com room, he headed for the stairs," said the voice of the unseen operator. "He seems to be trying to get out of the embassy. We don't know why—the boys got him there without any trouble."
"Was he all right?" asked Rosenkrantz, cocking an ear at the door.
"He looked pretty sick, as if he wasn't eating well, and he had a broken wrist. They took him along to the doctor with no trouble. Then the chief went up to see how he was and found Doc out cold on the floor. He set up a yell, naturally. Someone finally caught up with Gerson in the military attache's office."
"What did he want there?" asked Rosenkrantz.
"We don't know yet. He left a corpse for us that isn't answering questions."
In the building to which the two terrans had brought him, Gerson crouched behind the ornate balustrade edging the mezzanine. He was near the head of the stairway and hoped to get nearer.
A look down the hall behind him showed no unwary heads in view. He studied the sections of the hall below, which he could see through the openings in the railing. There had been a great scrambling about down there a moment earlier, so he was uneasy about showing himself.
He had armed himself as chance provided: a rocket pistol of Yoleenite manufacture—doubtless purchased as a souvenir—and a sharp knife from a dinner tray he had come upon in one of the rooms he had searched. Because of his injury, he had to grip the knife between his teeth. Something bothered him about this arrangement. He had the papers thrust in his shirt, he held the rocket pistol in one hand, one hand was hurt—yet the only way left to hold the knife was in his teeth. It did not seem exactly right, but he had had no time to ponder. The Terrans were keeping him busy.
Since he had been brought to this building, he had seen four threes of Terrans. One, the medical worker, he had rendered helpless. Then he had gone to search for secrets, and that other one had seen him. By that time, he had found the rocket pistol. He had left that Terran dead, but others had come running.
Something had told him to shoot up the communications equipment, although the Terran working it had escaped. He was somewhere behind Gerson, behind one of the many doors leading off that high, bright corridor.
He believed that he had seen one other duck into a doorway ahead of him, along the hall on the other side of the mezzanine. There was yet another hiding behind the opposite balustrade. Gerson wondered idly if the last one was armed.
He tried to review the probable positions of those on the main floor. One had definitely run out the front door, which faced the bottom of the broad stairway, about thirty feet away. There was a shallow anteroom there, but Gerson had seen him all the way across it.
Of the others, one had ducked into a chamber at the front of the main hall, to Gerson's left as he would be descending the stairs. Another had run back under cover of the stairway on the same side, and the remaining four were lurking somewhere to the right, either behind the stairs or in adjoining chambers.
He leaned closer to the balustrade in an effort to see more. In the act, his injured limb came in contact with the barrier and made him grimace in pain. The drug the Terran medical worker had shot into it was wearing off.
Since he had made a slight noise already, Gerson crawled along about ten feet until he was just beside the head of the stairs. He made himself quiet to listen.
Somewhere below, two of the embassy staff were talking cautiously. It might be a good time to catch them unawares. He rose and took a step toward the stairs.
A voice that sounded artificially loud spoke in one or another of the lower chambers. It had a slight echo, making it nearly impossible for Gerson to determine the direction. The Terran who had ducked into the room on the left appeared, raising a weapon of some kind.
Gerson blazed a rocket in his direction. The slim missile, the length and thickness of the two top joints of his thumb, left a smoky trail just above the stairway railing and blew a large hole in the wall beside the doorway where the staff man had been standing. Somehow, the fellow had leaped back in time to avoid the flying specks of metal and plaster.
Gerson knelt behind the balustrade again, shaken by the sense of new pain, and wondering at its source. He concentrated. After a moment, he felt the wetness trickling dawn his left side. Some small object had grazed the flesh; and he realized that it must have been a solid pellet projected by the weapon of the Terran at whom he had shot.
He knew that the Terrans had more dangerous weapons than that, but had been confident that they would dare nothing over-violent here within their own building. The pistol used against him must be an old-fashioned one or a keepsake. Possibly it was a mock weapon built for practicing at a target. He seemed to remember vaguely having handled such a thing in the past.
He strained after the fleeting memory, clenching his teeth with the effort, but it was gone. So many memories seemed to be gone. All he was sure of was that he must get out of here with those papers.
He checked the upper hall again, before and behind. He looked across the open space for the Terran hiding like himself behind the balustrade, but could not find him. It might or might not be worthwhile to send a shot over there at random. If he missed, he might at least scare the fellow.
The loud voice with the mechanical sound to it blared out from below.
"Gerson!" it called. "Gerson, throw down your weapon and stand up. We can see where you are. We want to help you."
Gerson showed no reaction. Analyzing the statement, he reminded himself that one Terran had shot him. Not very seriously, it was true, but it was not in the nature of help. Either the voice lied or it had no control over the individual who had fired at him.
He did not blame it for the presumable untruth, since he was not deceived by it. It would be preferrable to kill the man who had shot him, but he must bear in mind that his main task was to get out of the building.
"Gerson!" called the voice again. "We know you are injured. You are a sick man. We beg you to drop your weapon and let us help you!"
Gerson wondered what the voice meant by the expression "sick."
It was possible that someone had seen him wounded by the last shot. Or did they mean his sore limb. It occurred to him then that the blood that had run out and dried on the right side of his face must be clearly visible. The Terran he had killed back along the corridor had flung a small ceramic dish at him, and Gerson had been slow in raising his injured limb to block it. The whole side of his face was sore, but the skin of his cheek no longer bled so it was a matter of opinion whether he was sick on that account.
The voice must mean the last wound, when it called him sick. That meant that the Terran he had shot at was the voice or that there was another Terran in the room with him. Gerson did not think that any of the others could have seen. Some doubt at the back of his mind struggled to suggest an oversight, but he knew of none.
He peered once more between the balusters, and this time he saw a motion, a mere shadow, across the way. Instantly, he stood up and launched a rocket at the spot. It streaked on its way and exploded immediately against one of the uprights. Gerson regretted fleetingly that it had not gone through and struck against the wall beyond, which would have accounted for the skulking Terran with a good deal of certainty. As the baluster disintegrated, leaving stubs at top and bottom, Gerson started down the stairs.
Yells sounded from below. He threw one leg up to mount the stair railing, leaned back along it, and let himself slide. The rocket pistol, waving wildly at arm's length in his left hand, helped him to balance. He reached the landing at the middle of the stairs in one swoop.
The human at whom he had shot reappeared in the same doorway. Gerson rolled to his left, felt both feet hit upon the landing, and let go another missile. It was too late; the Terran had not even lingered to fire back. It seemed almost like a feint to distract.
"Gerson!" blared the mechanical voice.
"Gerson! Gerson!" shouted other voices.
They came from many directions, and he was unable to comprehend them all. He had reached a point near the bottom of the stairway, running three steps at a time, when a louder yell directed his attention to the doorway on his right. The figure of a Terran showed there.
Without breaking his stride, he whipped his left hand across his body and fired a rocket. He had a glimpse of the figure dodging aside before the smoke and dust of the explosion told him he had nicked the edge of the doorway.
It seemed to him that he must have shot the Terran as well, and he let his eye linger there an instant as he reached the floor of the hall. Thus, he saw the figure reappear and was in position to fling two more shots with animal quickness.
The figure was blown straight backward this time, but Gerson had time to realize that there had been no head on it when it had been thrust out.
His first shot must have done that. All told, he had wasted three missiles on a dummy.
Then the loop of rope fell about him, and he knew why he had been lured into facing this direction. He tried to bring the rocket pistol to bear on the three Terrans running at him from behind the stairway. The fourth, at the end of the rope, heaved Gerson off his feet.
He crashed down upon his sore limb, letting out a groan at the impact. One of the runners dove headlong at him, batting at the pistol as he slid past on the polished floor. Gerson felt the weapon knocked out of his grasp. It rattled and scraped along the floor out of reach, but he kicked the one who had done it in the head.
Two of the Terrans were trying to hold him down, now. He got the knife from his mouth into his left hand, let a Terran see it, then bit him viciously on the wrist. The Terran let go, and Gerson found it simple to knee the remaining one in the groin. He rolled over to get a knee under him, pushed himself up with the fist gripping the knife, and saw Terrans running at him from all directions.
One of them had a broad, white bandage on his head. Gerson recognized him as the medical worker. The man carried a hypodermic syringe.
Unreasoning terror swept through Gerson. He knew that he must, at all costs, avoid that needle.
He whirled around to slash at the men coming up behind him. The nearest fell back warily.
"Put it away, Gerson," he said. "We don't want to hurt you, man! Why, you're half dead on your feet."
"What's the matter?" asked another, more softly. "We can see that you're not normal. What did those bastards do to you?"
Gerson looked from side to side, seeing them closing in but unable to spot an opening for a charge.
"Just listen to me a minute," said the medical worker. He made the mistake of holding the hypodermic out of sight this time, too late. "Gerson, talk to me! Say something! Whatever the trouble is, we'll help you."
It was the only opening.
Gerson took a carefully hesitant step toward him, then another. He held up his damaged limb.
"Yes, your wrist is broken," said the Terran. "I was going to put a cast on it for you, remember. Now, just relax, and we'll take care of—"
He saw Gerson's eyes and leaped back.
The knife swept up in a vicious arc that would have disemboweled him.
Without wasting the motion, Gerson slashed down and left at another as he plunged forward. The point grazed an up-flung arm, drawing a startled curse from the victim.
"Tackle him!" shouted one of the Terrans.
"Careful! He's already hurt bad enough," cautioned another.
Gerson tried to feint and throw his weight in the opposite direction, but his legs would not obey him. He recovered from the slip only to have one of the men push him from behind.
Someone clamped a tight hold on his left forearm as he staggered. A moment later they twisted the knife out of his grasp and bore him to the floor. He kicked ineffectively and then caught one of them by surprise with a butt.
The man recoiled, blood spurting already from his nose. He brought his fist around despite warning yells, and clipped Gerson on the temple.
"Hold him, dammit!" shouted someone. "Get that rope over here. Do you want to kill him? Just hold him still."
"You try it," invited one of those holding Gerson pinned.
"I think he's weakening," said another. "Watch out—he may be playing possum."
The talk seemed to come from far away. Gerson felt them tie his ankles together. They hesitated about his hands; one was injured. One voice suggested tieing his left wrist to the stairway railing, but it was decided that they could watch him well enough as long as he could not run. The weight lessened as those pinning him arose to look to their own bruises. Gerson was vaguely surprised to discover that all of them were off him. He still felt as if great weight were holding him pressed against the floor. He found it difficult to catch his breath.
They had taken the papers from his shirt, he noted. One of the Terrans passed them to a man in a dark uniform, who began to leaf through them worriedly.
A Terran came in through the front door.
"Have you got him?" the newcomer asked. "That helicopter is still floating around up there. I've been watching it for half an hour with the night glasses. They sure as hell are waiting for something."
"And there isn't anyone else in this neighborhood they could be interested in," said a deeper voice. "Well, MacLean, what did you let him get his hands on from your secret file?"
Gerson rolled over very quietly and started to drag himself along the floor. He had actually moved a yard before they noticed him.
They were gentle about turning him on his back again. The discussion about the papers was dropped while the medical worker cut his shirt away from the bleeding wound in his side. Hushed comments were made, but Gerson paid no attention. He was concerned with the fact that one of the Terrans had planted a foot between his legs, above the rope around his ankles, so that he was quite securely anchored to the spot.
"Looks like a broken rib besides," said the Terran examining him. "Do you think we could get him upstairs?"
"I'm no doctor," said the deeper voice, "but even I can see you'd never make it in time."
The voice came closer, though the vision in Gerson's eyes was blurring.
"Tell me, boy, what happened? How did they make you do it? What do they want?"
"Gerson!" said the man in the dark uniform. "Did you know what you were after when you took these papers?"
He was a dark blur to Gerson, who felt as if the weight on his chest had been increased. His lips were dry. He thought it would be nice to have a little water, but could not find words to ask.
The deep voice was flinging a question at the dark blur.
"Why, no, sir," said the Terran with the papers. "Nothing important at all. Just a few old shipping lists, a record of the planetary motions in this system that anybody could obtain, and an article on shortcuts to learning the Yoleenite language. I think I had the batch lying around the top of my desk."
"Why did he take them?" someone asked.
"Damned if I know. You fellows had me scared to death. From what you said, I thought he must have pinched the deadly top secret code and my personal address book to boot!"
"Simmons!" shouted the deeper voice. "Are you getting this? Are you making a tape for Terra? Oh ... right out, eh? Scrambled, I hope—it's not the kind of thing to publicize to the galaxy."
The mechanical voice boomed in the background. Gerson paid it no attention.
He felt the doctor's hands touching the old injections and heard the man swearing. Whoever was holding his left arm was actually squeezing and stroking his hand. The taste of failure was in his mouth.
"That's what they must have started with," said the doctor. "In the end, they put an awful mental twist into him, poor guy."
"I told you they were up to something," said the dark blur. "Those little bastards had big ideas, but they won't catch us napping with any more spies, conditioned or not! Now maybe they'll read my reports on Terra."
Gerson opened his mouth to breath better. He rolled his head from side to side on the hard floor. Somewhere deep inside him, a little, silent voice was crying, frightened. He had failed and there would be no other chance.
The little voice took leave of its fear to laugh.Theyhad not let him remember how to read.
And so he died, a tall, battered Terran lying on a hard floor and grinning faintly up at the men who had helped him die.
In the communications room of department 99, Westervelt could actually hear people around him breathing, so hushed was the gathering. Someone was leaning on his shoulder, but he was reluctant to attract attention by moving.
Static sounds and the clicking and humming of various mechanisms about the room suddenly became unnaturally noticable. Glancing this way and that, he discovered that the entire staff had drifted in during the transmission from Yoleen. There were at least two people behind him, to judge by the breathing and the weight on his shoulder. So intense had been the excitement that he did not remember anyone but Smith arriving.
He saw better to the left than to the right, and became conscious of his eye again. Westervelt had drawn up his chair behind and to the left of the operator, and Smith had perched himself on the end of a table behind Joe. Beside the chief stood Simonetta, with Beryl behind her. Parrish was to Westervelt's left, so he concluded that Lydman and Pauline must be behind him. The grip on his right shoulder felt small to be Lydman's, but he could not see down at the necessary angle because of the puffiness under his eye.
The broad-shouldered, stocky man on the screen moved to the stairway and looked up straight into their eyes.
"Is this still going out to Terra, Simmons?" he asked.
He had dark hair with a crinkly wave in it, which permitted him to appear less disheveled than the men about him or standing over the body of Gerson. He pulled out a large white handkerchief to wipe the streaming perspiration from his face.
"Yes, sir," answered the voice of the distant operator. "You're looking right into the concealed pick-up. I'll switch the audio from Terra to the loud speaker system, and you can talk to them."
Westervelt glanced at the other men in the embassy on Yoleen. Several of them obviously suffered from minor injuries. All of them wore expressions of tragedy.
One man in his shirtsleeves was standing with his shoulders against the base of the stairway, head thrown well back, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Another, with his back to the lens, knelt beside the body of Gerson. A couple of others, looking helpless, were lighting cigarettes.
"I suppose you saw the end of it," the man on the stairs said.
Smith cleared his throat and leaned over Joe Rosenkrantz's shoulder.
"We saw," he answered. "I ... is there any doubt that he's dead?"
The man on the stairs looked to the group around the body. The doctor shook his bandaged head sadly.
"As much from strain and exhaustion as anything else," he reported. "The man belonged in a hospital, but some uncanny conditioning drove him on. In the end, his heart gave out."
The stocky man turned back to the lens.
"You heard that. Except for one man who didn't know at the time what was going on, we did the best we could. I'm Delaney, by the way, in charge here."
Smith identified himself, and agreed that Gerson had looked to be unmanageable.
"Do you think you can find out what they used?" he asked. "I gather that you never got anything out of him since the time you picked him up. Did that part of it go according to plan?"
"Oh, yes," said Delaney. "We even got back the little torch we sent him, the way you plotted for us. It looked used, too; but now I'm wondering if they let him cut his way out."
"I wouldn't doubt it," said Smith gloomily. "I'm afraid we didn't look very bright on this one. We seem to have underestimated the Yoleenites badly. There isn't too much information on them available here."
"Nor here, to tell the truth," said Delaney. "Which reminds me—our Captain MacLean has been after me for a long time to put more pressure on the D.I.R. about that. Could you duplicate your tape and send them a copy? It would save us another transmission, and you might like to add your own comments."
Smith promised to have it done. He also offered, to soothe Captain MacLean, to send an extra copy to the Space Force.
There seemed to be nothing more to say. The scene on the screen blanked out, as the distant operator spoke to Rosenkrantz on audio only from his own shot-up office. Then it was over.
Westervelt, aware that the pressure on his shoulder was gone, looked around. Lydman had his arm about a shaken Pauline. The ex-spacer's expression was blank, but the hardness of his eyes made the youth shiver. For a second, he thought he detected a slight resemblance to the man who had come bounding down the stairs on Yoleen, leaving criss-cross trails of rocket smoke in the air.
That's crazy!he thought the next instant, and he lost the resemblance.
He blinked, fingered his tender eye, and looked around at the others. Everyone was subdued, staring at the blank and quiet receiver or at the floor. Westervelt was surprised to see that Beryl was crying. She raised a forefinger to scrub the tears from her cheek.
Hesitantly, Westervelt took the neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out.
Beryl scrubbed the other cheek, looked at the handkerchief without raising her eyes to his, and accepted it. She blotted her eyes, examined the cloth, and whispered, "Sorry, Willie. I think I got make-up on it."
Smith stirred uncomfortably at the whisper. He stood up and spoke one short word with a depth of emotion. Then he kicked the leg of the table to relieve his feelings.
Rosenkrantz swiveled around in his chair, waiting to see if any other calls were to be made. Smith took a deep breath.
"You'll make copies of the tape when you can, Joe?"
"Sure," said the operator, sympathetically.
"Well," said Lydman, at the rear of the group, "that's another one lost. Tomorrow we'll open a permanent file on Yoleen, as Pete suggests."
"Yes, I imagine they'll give us more business," agreed Parrish.
Lydman growled.
"I'll givethemthe business next time!" he threatened. "Well, that kind of damps the pile for tonight. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm in no mood now to be clever."
Smith straightened up abruptly.
"Now ... now ... wait a minute!" he spluttered. "I mean, we all feel pretty low, naturally. Still, this wasn't the main ... serious as this was, we were trying to push on this other case, to get a start anyway."
Here we go again,thought Westervelt.Shall I try to trip him up if anything happens, or shall I just get out of the way?
He recalled the man in the embassy on Yoleen, holding a stained handkerchief to his bloody nose, and measured the size of his own with the tip of a forefinger. On the other hand, if there should be a melee, it would certainly cover a little item like a puffy eye. He wondered if he would have the guts to poke out his head at the proper instant, and was rather afraid that he would.
Parrish was murmuring about sticking to the job in hand, trying to support Smith without arousing the antagonism of an open argument. Lydman seemed unconvinced.
"Why don't we all have a round of coffee?" suggested Simonetta. "If we can just sit down a few minutes and pull ourselves together—"
Smith looked at her gratefully.
"Yes," he said. "That's the least we can do, Bob. This was a shock to us all, but the girls felt it more. I don't believe any of them wants to hit the street all shaken up like this. Right Si?"
"Iwouldlike to sit down somewhere," said Simonetta.
"Here!" exclaimed Westervelt, leaping up. He had forgotten that he had been rooted to the chair since before the others had crept into the room during the transmission from Yoleen.
"Never mind, Willie," Simonetta said. "I didn't mean I was collapsing. Come on, Beryl, let's see if there's any coffee or tea left."
"Wait for me," said Pauline. "I've got to take this phone off the outside line anyway."
Smith stepped forward to plant one hand behind Lydman's shoulder blade.
"I could use a martini, myself," he called after the girls. "How about the rest of you? Pete? Willie?"
Parrish seconded the motion, Westervelt said he would be right along, and trailed them slowly to the door. He paused to look back, and he and Joe exchanged brow-mopping gestures.
The rest of them were trouping along the corridor without much talk. He ambled along until the men, bringing up the rear, had turned the corner. Then he ducked into the library.
He fingered his eye again. Either it was a trifle less sore or he was getting used to it. He still hesitated to face an office full of people and good lighting.
"There must be something around here to read," he muttered.
He walked over to a stack of current magazines. Most of them were technical in nature; but several dealt with world and galactic news. He took a few to a seat at the long table and began to leaf through one.
It must have been about fifteen minutes later that Simonetta showed up, bearing a sealed cup of tea and one of coffee.
"So that's where you are!" she said. "I was taking something to Joe, and thought maybe I'd find you along the way."
Westervelt deduced that she had phoned the operator.
"You can have the coffee," she said, setting it beside his magazine. "Joe said he'd rather have tea this time around."
Westervelt looked up. Simonetta saw his eye and pursed her lips.
"Well!"
"How does it look?" asked Westervelt glumly.
"Kind of pretty. If I remember the ones my brothers used to bring home, it will be ravishingly beautiful by tomorrow!"
"That's what I was afraid of," said Westervelt.
Simonetta laughed. She set the tea aside and pulled out a chair.
"I don't think it's really that bad, Willie," she told him. "I was only fooling."
"It shows though, huh?"
"Oh ... yes ... it shows."
"That's what I like about you, Si," said Westervelt. "You don't ask nasty, embarrassing questions like how it happened or which door closed on me."
Following which he told her nearly the whole story, leaving out only the true origin of the quarrel. He suspected that Simonetta could put two and two together, but he meant to tell nobody about the start of it.
"Ah, Willie," she said with a grin at the conclusion, "if you had to fall for a blonde, why couldn't you pick little Pauline?"
"I guess you're right."
"Now, don't takethatso seriously too! Beryl's a good sort, on the whole. In a day or two, this will all blow over. Come on with me to see Joe, then we'll go back and say you got something in your eye."
"But when?"
"Oh ... during the message from Yoleen. You didn't want to bother anybody at the time, so you foolishly kept rubbing until it got sore."
"That's all right," said Westervelt, "but Beryl knows different."
"If she opens her mouth, I shall personally punchherin the eye!" declared Simonetta.
She giggled at the idea, and he found himself grinning.
They went along the corridor to deliver the tea to Rosenkrantz, and then returned to the main office. An air of complete informality prevailed, a reaction from the scene they had witnessed. There was a good deal of wandering about with drinks, sitting on desks, and inconsequential chatter.
No one seemed to want to talk shop, and Westervelt guessed that Smith was just as pleased to be able to kill some time. He himself quietly slipped around the corner to his own desk, where he propped his heels up and sipped his coffee.
Westervelt listened as Parrish and Smith told a few jokes. The stories tended to be more ironic than funny, and no one was expected to laugh out loud.