But first he must listen to her. “It’s becoming simply impossible to get servants at any reasonable wage.” Couldn’t he do something about it. “Dear Master Monroe-Alpha.” In what way? He was the man who handled the dividend, wasn’t he? That was the trouble-with the dividend so high they simply would not enter service unless you simply bribed them, my dear.
He tried to explain to her that he had no control over the dividend, that he was simply the mathematical go-between for the facts of economics and the Board of Policy. He could see that she did not believe him.
He decided not to tell her, since he wanted a favor from her, that he himself would not choose to work as a personal servant for another unless driven to it by hunger. He tried to suggest that she make use of the excellent automaton furniture manufactured by her husband, supplemented by the help of the service companies. But she would have none of it. “So common, my dear. I tell you nothing replaces a well-trained servant. I should think people of that class would take pride in such a profession. I’m sure I would if I were called to such a station in life.”
Impatiently, but with aching care, he plodded through the list. Some of the addresses were outside the Capital, some as far away as South America-Johnson-Smith Estaire was a fashionable hostess. Those he could not question himself, not fast enough to satisfy the lump of misery inside him. He must needs hire agents to track them down. He did so; it took all the credit he had-personal service comes high! — he borrowed against his salary to make up the deficit. Two of the guests had died in the meantime. He set more agents to work, investigating tactfully their backgrounds and acquaintances, trying, trying to locate a woman named Marion. He dare not even leave these two deceased to the last, for fear the trail might grow cold.
The others, those living in the Capital, he investigated himself. No, we took no one with us to that party-certainly no one named Marion. Estaire’s party? — let me see, she gives so many. Oh, that one-no, I’m sorry. Now let me think-do you mean Selby Marion? No, Selby Marion is a little tiny woman with bright red hair. Sorry, my dear fellow-care for a drink. No? What’s the hurry?
Yes, surely. My cousin, Faircoat Marion. There’s a stereo of her over there, on the organ. Not the one you’re looking for? Well, signal me and tell me how you made out. Always glad to do a favor for a friend of Estaire’s. Fine woman, Estaire-always lots of fun at her place.
We did take someone to that party-who was it, dear? Oh, yes, Reynolds Hans. He had some strange girl with him. No, I can’t remember her name-do you, dear? — Me, I just call them all Lollipops, if they’re under thirty. But here’s Reynolds’ address; you might ask him.
Master Reynolds did not consider it an intrusion, no. Yes, he recalled the occasion-jolly brawl. Yes, he had escorted his cousin from Sanfrisco. Why, yes, her name was Marion — Hartnett Marion. How had he known her name?
Say, that’s interesting-done something like that himself once. Thought he’d lost track of the girl, only she turned up the following week at another party. Married, though, and in love with her husband-fortunately.
No, he didn’t mean that Marion was married, but this other girl-kid named Francine. Did he have a picture of his cousin? Well, now, let me see, he didn’t think so. Wait now, he might have a flat pic, taken when they were kids, in a scrapbook somewhere. Where would that be? He was going to clean out this flat some day and throw away a lot of this junk-never could find anything when he wanted it. Here it is-that’s Marion, in the “front row, second from the left. Was that the girl?
It was she! It was she!
How fast can a skyracer be pushed? How many corners can a man cut without being patrolled? Go…go…go!
He paused for a moment and tried to still his racing heart, before signalling at the door. The scanner investigated him and the door dilated.