Chapter 13

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 that he was keeping himself interested.

Westervelt sat at his desk, perusing an article in Spaceman’s World 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 expect you? 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. “You two 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.