There was a bundle from Sue Frost, from Harry Priar, and from Janet. There were gaudy bundles from the four giant Agencies, including Blake-Moffet. All bore formal greetings. Their representatives would be in shortly. And there were unmarked bundles with no cards. He wondered who had sent them. Persons in the housing unit; perhaps little Mr. Wales who had stuck up for him during the block meeting. Others, from anonymous individuals who wished him luck. There was a dingy bunch, very small, which he picked up; some sort of blue growth.
“Those are real,” Mavis said. “Smell them. Bluebells, I think they were called. Somebody must have dredged them up from the past.”
Probably Gates and Sugermann. And one of the anonymous bundles could represent the Mental Health Resort. In the back of his mind was the conviction that Malparto would be seeking to recover his investment.
The staff quit work and lined up for his inspection. He shook hands, made random inquiries, spoke sage comments, greeted personnel he remembered. It was almost noon by the time he and Mavis had made the circuit of the building.
“That was kind of a bad scrape, last night,” Mavis said, as they returned to the office. “Blake-Moffet has been after the directorship for years. It must hurt like h–l to see you in.”
Allen opened the file he had brought and rummaged for a packet. “Remember this?” He passed it to Mavis. “Everything started with this.”
“Oh yes.” Mavis nodded. “The tree that died. The anti-colonization Morec.”
“You know better than that,” Allen said.
Mavis looked bland. “Symbol of spiritual starvation, then. Severed from the folk-soul. You’re going to put that through? The new Renaissance in propaganda. What Dante did for the afterworld, you’re going to do for this.”
“This particular packet,” Allen said, “is long overdue. It should have come out months ago. I suppose I could start out cautiously, process only what’s already been bought. Interfere with the staff as little as possible. Let them go the way they’ve been going—the low-risk approach.” He opened the packet. “But.”
“Not but.” Mavis leaned close, put the side of his hand to his lips, and whispered hoarsely: “The watchword is Excelsior.”
He shook hands with Allen, wished him luck, hung lonelily around the building for an hour or so, and then was gone.
Watching Mavis shuffle off, Allen was conscious of his own burden. But the sense of weight made him cheerful.
“Seven with one blow,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Purcell,” a battery of intercoms responded, as secretaries came to life.
“My father can lick your father,” Allen said. “I’m just testing the equipment. You can go back to sleep, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
Removing his coat he settled himself at his desk and began dividing up the packet. There was still nothing in it he cared to alter, so he marked it “satisfactory” and tossed it in the basket. The basket whisked it off, and, somewhere down the long chain of command, the packet was received and put into process.
He picked up the phone and called his wife.
“Where are you?” she said, as if she was afraid to believe it. Are you . . .”
“I’m there,” he said.
“H-how’s the job?”
“Power unlimited.”
She seemed to relax. “You want to celebrate tonight?”
The idea sounded good. “Sure. This is our big triumph; we should enjoy it.” He tried to think what would be appropriate. “I could bring home a quart of ice cream.”
Janet said: “I’d feel better if you told me what happened last night with Mrs. Frost.”
There was no point in giving her grounds for her anxiety. “You worry too much. It came out all right, and that’s what matters. This morning I put through the tree packet. Remember that? Now they can’t bury it in dust. I’m going to transfer my best men from the Agency, men like Harry Priar. I’ll trim down the staff here until I have something manageable.”
“You won’t make the projections too hard to understand, will you? I mean, don’t put together things over people’s heads.”
“Nobody can say what’s ‘over people’s heads,’ “ Allen said. “The aged-in-the-stalk formula material is on its way out, and all sorts of new stuff is coming in. We’ll try a little of everything.”
Wistfully, Janet said: “Remember how much fun it was when we started? Forming the Agency, hitting T-M with our new ideas, our new kind of packets.”
He remembered. “Just keep thinking about that. I’ll see you tonight. Everything’s coming out fine, so don’t worry.” He added goodbye, and then hung up.
“Mr. Purcell,” his desk intercom said, “there are a number of people waiting to see you.”
“Okay, Doris,” he said.
“Vivian, Mr. Purcell.” What sounded like a giggle. “Shall I send the first one in?”
“Send him, her, or it in,” Allen said. He folded his hands in front of him and scrutinized the door.
The first person was a woman, and she was Gretchen Malparto.
CHAPTER 17
Gretchen wore a tight blue suit, carried a beaded purse, was pale and drawn, dark-eyed with tension. She smelled of fresh flowers and looked beautiful and expensive. Closing the door, she said:
“I got your note.”
“The baby was a boy. Six pounds.” The office seemed filled with tiny drifting particles; he rested his palms against the desk and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes the particles were gone but Gretchen was still there; she had seated herself, crossed her legs, and was fingering the edge of her skirt.
“When did you arrive back here?” she asked.
“Sunday night.”
“I got in this morning.” Her eyebrows wavered and across her face flitted a blind, crumpled pain. “You certainly walked right out.”
“Well,” he said, “I figured out where I was.”
“Was it so bad?”
Allen said: “I can call people in here and have you tossed out. I can have you barred; I can have all kinds of things done to you. I can even have you arrested and prosecuted for a felony, you and your brother and that demented outfit you run. But that puts an end to me. Even Vivian walking in to take dictation is the end, with you sitting there.”
“Who’s Vivian?”
“One of my new secretaries. She comes along with the job.”
Color had returned to Gretchen’s features. “You’re exaggerating.”
Allen went over and examined the door. It had a lock, so he locked it. He then went to the intercom, pressed the button, and said: “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Yes, Mr. Purcell,” Vivian’s voice sounded.
Picking up the phone, Allen called his Agency. Harry Priar answered. “Harry,” Allen said, “get over here to T-M in something, a sliver or a Getabout. Park as close as you can and then come upstairs to my office.”
“What’s going on?”
“When you’re here, phone me from my secretary’s desk. Don’t use the intercom.” He hung up, bent over, and ripped the intercom loose. “These things are natural taps,” he explained to Gretchen.
“You’re really serious.”
“Bet you I am [sic].” He folded his arms, leaned against the side of the desk. “Is your brother crazy?”
She gulped. “He—is, in a sense. A mania, collecting. But they all have it. This Psi mysticism. There was such a blob on your -gram; it tipped him across.”
“How about you?”
“I suppose I’m not so clever either.” Her voice was thin, brittle. “I’ve had four days travelling in to think about it. As soon as I saw you were gone, I followed. I—really thought you’d come back to the house. Wishful thinking . . . it was so damn nice and cozy.” Suddenly she lashed out furiously. “You stupid bastard!”
Allen looked at his watch and saw that Harry Priar would, be another ten minutes. Probably he was just now backing the sliver onto the roof field of the Agency.
“What are you going to do with me?” Gretchen said.
“Drive you out somewhere and dump you.” He wondered if Gates could help. Maybe she could be detained at Hok- kaido. But that was their gimmick. “Didn’t it seem a little unfair to me?” he said. “I went to you for help; I acted in good faith.”
Staring at the floor, Gretchen said: “My brother’s responsible. I didn’t know in advance; you were starting out the door to leave, and then you keeled over. He gas-pelleted you. Somebody was detailed to get you to Other World; they were going to ship you there by freight, in a cataleptic state. I—was afraid you might die. It’s risky. So I accompanied you.” She raised her head. “I wanted to. It was a terrible thing to do, but it was going to happen anyhow.”
He felt less hostility, since it was probably true. “You’re an opportunist,” he murmured. “The whole affair was ingenious. Especially that bit when the house dissolved. What’s this blob on my -gram?”
“My brother puzzled over it from the time he got it. He never figured it out, and neither did the Dickson. Some psionic talent. Precognition, he thinks. You japed the statue to prevent your own murder at the hands of the Cohorts. He thinks the Cohorts kill people who rise too high.”