Chapter 14

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’t me in 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.