The Seventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack

by H. B. Fyfe

  “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.

  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 signaled 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!”

  FOURTEEN

  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!”