A polite young man who might have been an executive secretary or an executive trainee or a bodyguard — or all three — arrived at the receptionist’s summons. He led Dan back a long hall so silent that it could have been in deep space between distant stars instead of in the middle of a large city. The hallway terminated in another reception area, an exquisitely appointed decompression chamber outside the sanctum sanctorum of the starship commander himself, Palmer Boothe.
The young man introduced Dan to Mrs. Hudspeth, who was Boothe’s secretary, then departed. Mrs. Hudspeth was a handsome, elegant, gray-haired woman in a plum-colored knit suit and a pastel blouse with a plum-colored bow at the throat. Though she was tall and thin and refined and obviously proud of her refinement, she was also brisk and efficient; that no-nonsense aspect of her personality reminded Dan of Irmatrude Gelkenshettle.
‘Oh, Lieutenant,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry, but Mr. Boothe isn’t in the building right now. You’ve missed him by only a few minutes. He had a meeting to attend. It’s been a terribly busy day for him, but then most days are, you know.’
Dan was unsettled to hear that Boothe was carrying on with work as usual. If his theory was correct, if he had correctly identified It, then Palmer Boothe should be in desperate fear for his life, on the run, perhaps barricaded in the basement of some heavily fortified castle, preferably in Tibet or the Swiss Alps, or in some other far and difficult-to-reach corner of the world. If Boothe was attending meetings and making business decisions as usual, that must mean that he was not afraid, and if he was not afraid, that meant Dan’s theory about the gray room was incorrect.
He told Mrs. Hudspeth: ‘I absolutely must talk with Mr. Boothe. It’s an urgent matter. You might say it’s even a matter of life or death.’
‘Well, of course, he’s most anxious to speak with you as well,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that must have been clear from his message.’
Dan blinked. ‘What message?’
‘But isn’t that why you’re here? Didn’t you receive the message he left for you at your precinct headquarters?’
‘The East Valley Division?’
‘Yes, he called first thing this morning, anxious to arrange a meeting with you. But you weren’t in yet. We tried your home and got no answer there.’
‘I haven’t been back to East Valley today,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get any message. I came here because I must talk to Mr. Boothe as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, I know he shares your desire for a conference,’ she said. ‘Indeed, I’ve got a copy of his schedule for the day — every place he’ll be and the time he’ll be there — and he asked me to share it with you if you showed up. He requested that you attempt to connect with him at some point that would be convenient for you.’
All right. This was more like it. Boothe was desperate, after all, so desperate that he hoped Dan would either be corruptible or would agree to act as intermediary between Boothe and the particular devil that was stalking the people from the gray room. He wasn’t on the run or hiding in some foreign port because he knew perfectly well that it would do no good to run or hide. He was conducting business as usual because the alternative — staring at the walls and waiting for It to come — was simply unthinkable.
Mrs. Hudspeth went to her enormous Henredon desk, opened a leather folder, and pulled out the top sheet of paper — her boss’s schedule for the day. She studied it and said, ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to catch him where he is now, and then he’ll be in transit for a while — the limousine, of course — so I think the earliest you can hope to connect with him is at four o’clock.’
‘That’s more than an hour and a quarter. Are you sure I can’t get hold of him sooner?’
‘See for yourself,’ she said, handing him the schedule.
She was right. If he tried driving around the city after Boothe, he’d just keep missing him; the publisher was a busy man. But according to the schedule, at 4:00 he expected to be home.