Chapter II: Part 2

“I’m slowed up.” She sighed loudly and wilted in her chair.

“That’s too bad,” he said. She didn’t answer. She was quiet for a moment. He watched her and she enjoyed his watching her. Finally he said, “Murphy’s in a good mood today.”

Caroline nodded. “He’s real happy today. He wants to go out in the country. He always wants to do that when he’s feeling good.”

“He’s some character,” said Robert Holton. He sat down on the railing.

“It would be nice,” said Caroline thoughtfully, “to go out in the country; have a picnic maybe.”

“Sure, that would be nice, but you couldn’t do that.”

“No, I guess _you_ couldn’t.” Caroline was contemptuous but because she was a very pretty and popular girl she didn’t show it. She was sensitive herself and that was what she wanted in life: a man who was as sensitive as she, someone who would respond to her moods. She looked at Robert Holton. He was sitting uneasily on the railing. No, he could never understand her great sadness. Perhaps no one would ever understand her. Caroline was sad, for it is a sad thing to be both pretty and sensitive.

“You’re going out tonight, aren’t you?”

Robert Holton nodded. “I’m going to a cocktail party; I’m going to Mrs Raymond Stevanson’s.”

“Oh, is that so? You’re really going around in high circles. I guess I shouldn’t be associating with high society like you.” She had meant to speak lightly and humorously but somehow the words had come out all wrong and there was a bitterness in her voice that embarrassed her.

Robert Holton looked surprised; he smiled finally. “Well, it never hurts to know these people. She was a friend of my mother’s,” he explained, trying to explain these things, to make himself appear like her; she hated him for his kindness.

“Those people are O.K., I guess,” said Caroline. She started to say something about her own family, some improbable but soothing lie, something to prove to herself that she was the same as Mrs Stevanson whose picture was so often in the papers. But she said nothing. She played with the ribbon of her typewriter.

“I hate staying in one place,” said Caroline, after a moment of silence.

“It’s no fun traveling,” said Robert Holton. “Moving around all the time; that’s what I didn’t like in the army. No, traveling’s pretty lousy.”

“That kind is, but I mean to go ... well, you know ... where you want to go, that’s what I mean. I don’t like sitting around here day after day. I want to go some place.”

He shrugged. “A lot of people do, I guess. Marjorie, you know, the waitress, she wants to go to Sicily.”

“Well, that’s different. I mean she’s not ... well, you know what I mean, she’s probably happy doing what she’s doing.”

“I don’t see why,” said Robert Holton. They thought of Marjorie Ventusa for a moment then they didn’t think of her again.

Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline looked about the familiar room. The older women were typing and using their adding machines; the younger women were watching Robert Holton; and the younger men (there were three of them) looked up occasionally to see what Caroline was doing. She posed a little for them. She didn’t pose haughtily, though. Caroline was too clever for that. She just looked girlish and rather innocent. None of them could understand her sadness and her longing. It pleased her to think how well she hid herself. Not even Robert Holton, talking to her now, could realize these things.

“No,” said Robert Holton, “no, I want to stay in one place.”

“You don’t want to be doing the same thing all the time, do you?”

“I don’t know, I’d like to make more money.”

“I think you’re crazy,” she said. She watched her fingers as they tapped lightly on the keys of the typewriter. Her hands weren’t quite what she wanted them to be. She thought of them as long and slender and faintly exotic; actually her hands were short and square and not very clean. The red enamel was beginning to chip off her thumbnails.

“Why’m I crazy? Because I want to make more money?”

“Not because of that, of course. Just because.”

“Oh.”

Robert Holton shifted his position on the railing. Caroline suddenly didn’t want him to go. Then Richard Kuppelton got up from his desk near the door and came over to them.

“Why, hello, Dick,” said Caroline.

“Good morning, good morning,” said Dick heartily. He was a very hearty person and Caroline liked him. He was so different from Robert Holton. Dick always seemed the same; he acted the same, anyway. Caroline could almost always tell what he was going to say and that was a lot better than being around a person who never said the right things. Dick wasn’t sensitive, however. He and Robert Holton were the same that way but then Caroline couldn’t have everything.

“How’s every little thing?” asked Dick Kuppelton.

“Fine,” said Robert Holton. Caroline only smiled; she smiled with her eyes as well as her mouth. It was important to smile that way.

“Been pretty slow today,” said Dick. “Not much business. I think the market’s falling off.” Someone had told him that, thought Caroline, delighted with her perception.

“It may be,” said Robert Holton without much interest.

“We should have a big rush soon. I’m doing a report now. Well, not really a report; I’ve been getting some statistics on aircraft stock ready for the front office. It’s been some job.” He shook his head to show the largeness of the job.

“I’ve got a report like that to do, too,” said Caroline.

“Something for Golden?”

“Yes.”

Dick nodded knowingly. “Some report, I bet.”

“It’s certainly long,” said Caroline, pointing to the notebook on her desk.

Robert Holton got off the railing and stretched. “I better get to work,” he said. “Murphy might be back soon.” He went back to his desk.

“He’s real eager,” said Dick unpleasantly.

“What? Well, I don’t know about that. He’s sort of funny. He doesn’t want to get anywhere but he doesn’t want to get in bad. I don’t know; he’s awful funny.”

“I’ve seen those guys before,” said Dick. “I know that type. They come in a place and get in good with the top people. Then they get your job. That’s just what he’s up to.”

Caroline smiled and said nothing. She was pretty and popular and she couldn’t always, therefore, say what she thought. She knew, though, that Dick Kuppelton, who had been with Heywood and Golden for six years, disliked Holton. Mr Murphy had never liked Kuppelton and at the end of the year changes were always made and Robert Holton might take Dick’s place. Things were very complicated, thought Caroline.

“I don’t think he’s that smart,” said Caroline.

“I think you’re wrong.” Dick started to straddle the railing, then he changed his mind and leaned against it. He was a large man. He was thirty and pink and blond. He wore large rimless glasses which made his face look clean and blank. He enjoyed what he was doing, thought Caroline. Everyone enjoyed working except herself.

“I’ve got to do some typing,” said Caroline. She wanted him to go away.

“Certainly; I suppose I’d better be getting back.” He stood up straight and stretched. “Well, back to work,” he said.

“See you,” said Caroline. Dick was so dependable: you always knew what to expect.

Caroline coughed. Her cough had a consumptive sound to it which rather appealed to her. When she was a young girl she had seen a play about a beautiful woman with white flowers and a cough. The beautiful woman had been so interesting that Caroline had never forgotten her although she had forgotten the play. Caroline coughed again, quietly, dramatically.

“How’s that report coming?” Oliver L. Murphy had returned from the front office.

“Pretty well, Mr Murphy.”

“Had quite a session with Mr Golden.”

“I bet,” said Caroline with sympathy. “I’ll bet he was something.”

“Well, I handled him O.K. today. He’s not so hard to get along with. Of course, he’s got some queer ideas. Those people often have.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Caroline arranged the paper in her typewriter. Mr Murphy leaned over and smelled the carnation in the imitation silver vase.

“Smells nice, don’t it?”

“It certainly does, Mr Murphy.” She smiled. Mr Murphy went back to his desk and Caroline typed. Several times as she worked she coughed, quietly, almost to herself.

_Chapter Four_

Richard Kuppelton left Caroline reluctantly. He liked her because she was pretty and much more sensible than the other pretty girls he had known.

He stopped at his desk. It was a dull olive color. His different books of statistics were piled neatly on one corner; notebooks and papers were scattered over the top and it looked as if he were busy.

Kuppelton decided not to work, not just now. From the top drawer of his desk he took a magazine. It had a vivid cover of a large-breasted young woman being carried into a machine by an octopus. He enjoyed this magazine’s stories very much.

He slipped the magazine under his arm, the cover toward his side; and then, busily, he left the room for the lavatory.

There was something cozy about a lavatory, he thought as he opened the door marked “Men.” No one was inside and he would be able to sing. The room was large, white and very clean. The urinals, four of them, stood polished and shining, like soldiers on guard. A thin waterfall constantly descended down their white enamel surfaces; the smell of disinfectant was in the air, but not too strongly.

Richard Kuppelton glanced at himself quickly in one of the four mirrors which shone over the four wash basins. Then he walked to one of the four black-doored stalls. He chose the one nearest the wall. There was strategy in his choice as well as habit, for the light was over this stall.

With the feeling of having come home after a long journey, Richard Kuppelton opened the black door and stepped inside. Then he closed the door and locked it. He was completely alone now; no one could disturb him and he was safe.

Deliberately he hung up his coat and then, after some preparation, he descended with a sigh upon the cool smooth seat. He relaxed happily.

On the subway he had started a story called “The Mad Moon Maidens”; unfortunately, it had been a little dull and he had decided not to finish it. He thumbed through the rough pages of his magazine. Grotesque black and white drawings decorated the pages. There were monsters and ghouls, beautiful women (usually screaming) and lean young men with pongee hats. The title “Satanic Underworld” appealed to him and he started to read.

After only a few minutes, however, he found himself studying the tile floor. Black and white tile in neat one-two-three pattern across the floor; he liked things that were black or white. The pattern was familiar to him and gave him a further feeling of being home.

Great ideas came to Richard Kuppelton enthroned. Here in this retreat the entire world assumed a pattern of great simplicity. All problems could be rendered answerable and in this world he was sovereign. The lavatory was his study. He thought of Robert Holton: the person who currently threatened his career.

Robert Holton was deceitful; he knew that. On the surface he appeared simple and a little shy but Kuppelton knew differently. Little things that the others had not noticed he noticed. For instance, Holton was always trying to get friendly with Mr Murphy. He always called him “sir”; treated him as if he were a colonel or something in the army. That was another thing: the army. Holton had been a soldier and Kuppelton had not. Most of the others in the office had not been in the war either. Both Mr Heywood and Mr Golden had declared that they would do all that they could for the veteran. So far this hadn’t been very much, but still it was their intention. Richard Kuppelton wished suddenly that he could stay forever in this shiny black stall with the tile floor.

There was a noise in the lavatory. Someone had come in. Footsteps clattered on the floor. The door to the stall next to his opened and someone sat down.

He wondered who it was. The person wore plain brown shoes: he could see them through the foot-high space beneath the stall partition. This person also wore brown trousers. Richard Kuppelton thought for a moment, strained to remember who it could be. Then he remembered.

“Hello, Bob,” said Richard Kuppelton.

“What? That you, Dick?”

“The same.”

“You catching up on your reading?”

Richard Kuppelton closed his magazine guiltily. “No, no. Just nature.”

“It’s a good place to think.”

“Well, I suppose it is.”

“What’s wrong with Caroline today?” asked Robert Holton.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I didn’t notice anything wrong with her, did you?”

“Yes, I thought she was sort of irritable.”

“I didn’t notice it.” Richard Kuppelton sighed. He was beginning to get uncomfortable, sitting on the hard seat. He was, also, a little surprised that Holton was as aware of Caroline as this. “Caroline’s a lot of fun,” he said.

“Yes.”

“She’s a lot of fun to go out on a party with. She can be real funny.”

“I suppose so.”

“You ever go out with her?”

“Not really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I never went to a party with her. We had dinner once.”

“She didn’t want to go dancing?”

“No.”

“That’s funny.” Richard Kuppelton tried to remember whether he had ever taken Caroline out and they had not danced. No, they had always gone to a dance. He wondered whether she liked Robert Holton better than him. This was a new thought and even more unpleasant than the suspicion that Robert Holton was trying to get his job. “She just likes to talk?”

“Yes, I guess everybody does.”

“That’s right, I guess.” Richard Kuppelton studied Holton’s plain tan shoes gloomily. One of the things he could not understand was why Robert Holton had come to work in this office. It was rumored that he was a friend of Mr Heywood’s but no one had ever been able to prove that. He had gone to Harvard before the war and to Richard Kuppelton that was the most important thing about him. It was also suspicious; he could not understand why a person with that education would do this job in Heywood and Golden unless--and Richard Kuppelton became gloomier--unless he were to be promoted over everyone.

“Looks like there’ll be a lot of changes after the first,” said Kuppelton.

“They tell me there usually are.”

“I suppose you want to end up in the other office, being one of the contact people.”

“I don’t care much. Whatever they want to do. I’d like to move up, of course.”

“We all would.”

Robert Holton mumbled something and stood up. Kuppelton watched the tan shoes as they moved about the stall. There was a swirling of water and Robert Holton left the lavatory, whistling.

Richard Kuppelton studied the tile again. It seemed, somehow, less comforting, less private since Holton had been here. He tried to read again but “Satanic Underworld” had lost its attraction. The seat was becoming harder every minute and he would have to leave soon.

Then he remembered that the acoustics were unusually good in this lavatory. In a low voice he sang an Irish ballad which he had learned in school. His voice came to him pure and vibrant and like no other voice that had ever sung. He finished with a low note, although, strictly speaking, the ballad called for a high note. He sang a popular song next. It was not as great a success as the first because he only knew the chorus. The words that he made up, however, were quite good enough.

At last, his songs finished, Richard Kuppelton stood up. He ached slightly from the strain of sitting on the narrow seat. Deliberately he arranged his trousers, deploring slightly the heaviness of his waist as he did.

The sound of swirling water was in his ears as he crossed the lavatory to the wash basin. Deliberately--he was a deliberate person--he washed his hands. He dried his hands on a paper towel and then, like a king abdicating, he moved slowly but deliberately to the door. With a sigh Richard Kuppelton left the lavatory.

The office had not changed. Mr Murphy was sitting behind his railing, smoking a cigar and reading a letter. Caroline was typing. Robert Holton was copying a row of figures into his notebook. The other men and women in the office were working busily.

Richard Kuppelton sat down at his desk. He enjoyed the sensation of being a part of this great house. Neatly he arranged his books of tables and statistics across the top of his desk. The various books were open at aircraft stock. His statistics would form the basis of a report which would be used in an overall survey of aircraft stock to be used by the front office. His responsibilities were heavy.

He took his fountain pen out of his pocket. It was leaking a little and he had to handle it carefully. Slowly, with pleasure, he copied the figures from the books. He wrote the numbers carefully, making them round and legible. When he had finished copying all his numbers they would be typed up by one of the stenographers in the office.

A tall white-faced boy in a blue suit came into the room. He went to Richard Kuppelton's desk and put some papers on it.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Kuppelton heartily. “How’s the boy?”

“Fine. I think Golden’s coming this way.”

“Really? Wonder what he wants.”

“Hard to say. He always wants something.”

“That’s his privilege,” said Kuppelton righteously.

“I suppose so,” said Jim.

The white-faced boy went on to the next desk, handing out letters and inter-office memoranda.

Richard Kuppelton put his fountain pen down carefully. There were several letters for him. He opened one of them and started to read.

He had read only a few lines when Mr Golden came into the office. Even without looking up from his letter Richard Kuppelton could have told that someone from the front office had arrived. The typewriters clattered more loudly. The usual low buzz of voices died away, and he could hear Mr Murphy’s swivel chair being pushed back from his desk as he stood up to welcome the visitor from the front office. Kuppelton put his letter under the blotter and then he looked up casually.

Benjamin Franklin Golden stood behind Mr Murphy’s railing. He stood very erect, his eyes moving from desk to desk as he studied the office. He was a short man and plump. His eyes were small and black and shiny. Mr Golden had iron-gray hair which he allowed to grow a little longer than necessary. He was proud to have kept his hair. He had a small nose and a rather foolish little mouth and he looked more like a South American or Italian or something like that, thought Kuppelton.

He pretended to write figures in his notebook, while he listened carefully to what Mr Golden was saying to Mr Murphy.

“Everything all right here, Murphy?” Mr Golden had a high thin voice.

“Yes, sir, we’re getting your reports out. I’ll have the special one for you this afternoon.”

“That’s good. I really need that report. That’s an important one. Some of our big steel clients are interested in it. I know you’ve done a good job on it.” There was almost a threat in his voice. It was well known that the two did not like each other.

“Well, I’ve got our best girl, I’ve got Caroline here typing it.” He waved at Caroline who looked up and smiled at Mr Golden who smiled back at her. Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mrs Golden was like.

“I’m sure she’ll do a good job. How’s that aircraft stock report coming?”

“Kuppelton’s doing it.” Mr Murphy pointed to him.

Mr Golden nodded. “I’ll be interested to see it.” Richard Kuppelton copied figures quickly.

“Should be a good survey,” said Mr Murphy. “Is there going to be a board meeting this morning? You said they hadn’t decided earlier.”

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot; there’ll be a meeting at eleven-thirty.” Mr Golden had an irritatingly brusque manner.

“Fine,” said Mr Murphy and he made a note of it on the pad on his desk.

Mr Golden didn’t seem to want to go. He looked around the room again. He looked at Robert Holton and said something to Mr Murphy which Kuppelton couldn’t hear. Mr Murphy smiled and nodded.

Mr Golden finally opened the door of the railing. “See you at the meeting, Murphy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Golden hurried out of the office. There was an immediate change in the sounds of the room after he had left. The hum of voices began again. Richard Kuppelton put down his fountain pen.

Caroline and Mr Murphy were talking together and laughing. Robert Holton was still working quietly at his desk. The women of the office talked about Mr Golden in low voices.

Richard Kuppelton wondered what Mr Golden had said to Mr Murphy about Robert Holton. He looked at Robert Holton with dislike.

“O.K.,” said Kuppelton, “Mr Golden’s gone, you can stop working.”

Robert Holton put down his notebook and smiled. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt to look busy.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t meaning to criticize.”

“I didn’t think you were. Did you hear what they were talking about?”

This was malicious, Richard Kuppelton knew; it would have been very hard for Holton not to have heard. “Oh, they were just talking about reports.”

“That’s what I guessed.” He started to work again.

“You live uptown, don’t you?” remarked Kuppelton.

“Yes. I’ve got a room in a hotel.”

“That’s funny, I thought you lived with your family or something. I thought Caroline said something about it.”

“My father used to live here. He lives in Boston now. He used to work here but he retired when I got out of the army.”

Richard Kuppelton nodded. “That’s right, I remember your telling me that once. Me, I live with all my family in Queens. We all live there. I wish sometimes that I lived alone.”

“It’s not much fun, living alone,” said Robert Holton.

“Think you’ll get married soon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think _I_ might,” said Richard Kuppelton weightily; he had no one in mind, though; except possibly Caroline.

“I guess it’s a good idea if you’ve got the right person,” said Robert Holton.

“That’s very true.” They thought of this a moment. Each thought of it seriously and each regarded it distantly. Richard Kuppelton had no real desire to be married. He supposed that Robert Holton felt the same.

“I wonder,” said Kuppelton subtly, “what the conference is going to be about this afternoon. I wonder if it’s about promotions in the departments.”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Since the war, seniority doesn’t make much difference.”

“I thought it did.”

Kuppelton shook his head, convinced of Holton’s insincerity. For weeks now everyone had discussed the new policy and everyone had watched the veterans in the different offices, especially Holton; it was expected that they would all be promoted: in any event Holton would be.

“No, it doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

Robert Holton smiled. He had small white teeth and an agreeable smile which Kuppelton resented. “That’s good news for me. I haven’t been here very long you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” and Kuppelton laughed loudly to show that he was friendly and that it made no difference to him who was promoted.

He glanced toward the windows. Mr Murphy caught his eye and motioned to him. Quickly Richard Kuppelton got to his feet and walked across the room to the railing. He was careful not to let the gate slam when he came into Mr Murphy’s presence.

“Yes, sir?”

“I just wanted to check with you on that aircraft stock report. I just wanted to make sure it was coming along well.”

“I’ve been working on it right along, Mr Murphy. They’ll start typing it up tomorrow.”

Murphy compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “Mr Golden was asking for it. I wanted to be sure, Dick.”

Kuppelton was suddenly glad that Mr Murphy had called him by his first name. He did this only when he was well pleased or when he wanted something.

“It’s been quite a job getting those things together but I finally ... got them together.”

“I know how it is. How’s your family these days?”

“They’re pretty well. My mother’s been better. Her legs don’t bother her so much now.”

“That’s good. Arthritis is pretty bad. I had a grandmother who had it once.”

“It’s pretty bad,” agreed Richard Kuppelton.

They both paused and wondered what to say next. Kuppelton began to edge toward the gate. Murphy stood up. “Let me see that thing as soon as you get it done.”

“I certainly will.”

Mr Murphy turned to Caroline who was typing at her desk. “I’m going to be in conference for a while,” he said. “Take care of the calls, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Murphy.”

“Big conference?” asked Kuppelton when Murphy had gone.

“I don’t know,” said Caroline and she stopped typing. “They were talking about it. Something to do with policy, I think.”

Caroline got up from her desk and stretched. She had nice slim legs, Kuppelton noticed. He wondered if his mother would like her. It was important to him to have his mother like his future wife--if he ever had one. She had been wonderful about the other girls he had liked but somehow they had never been quite what she thought his wife should be. He was her favorite son and he could not disappoint her, naturally.

“I guess that leaves me out,” he said wearily, hoping she would give him some good news.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said, a little coldly he thought, “you’ve got a good job now.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” he said emphatically.

“Oh, I know I am. Bob’s the fair-haired boy these days,” she added.

“I expect he is.”

Caroline walked to the window and looked down at the crowded street. “There really are a lot of people in this town,” she said in a distant voice.

“There sure are.”

“Do you ever wonder about all those people ... down there?”

This was the sort of talk that made Richard Kuppelton nervous. He hated it when people started asking him vague questions to which there were no sensible answers. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

She turned around and looked at him then, looked at him rather sadly, he thought. “I’ve got work to do,” was all she said.

“See you, Caroline.”

Robert Holton was leaning back in his chair.

“Pretty dull, isn’t it?” commented Dick.

“The army was a lot duller.”

“I thought that was one thing that it wasn’t ... dull.”

Robert Holton chuckled. “This is a lot better.”

“Don’t you miss moving around?”

He paused before he replied and Kuppelton wondered what the truth really was; however, Robert Holton only said, “No, no, I like staying in one place.”

Richard Kuppelton turned back to his books of figures. He wondered helplessly, as he wrote, how anyone could be as deceitful as Robert Holton. It was obvious to him that Holton would get the job he was to have gotten and he certainly could not get this job without being deceitful. Richard Kuppelton was worried about this. He was also worried because he found himself hating Robert Holton and his mother would never have approved of that.

_Chapter Five_

The ulcer was the most important thing.

After the ulcer his wife, and then his job, and finally his children. These were Mr Murphy’s interests. At the moment the ulcer was more important to him than all the others together.

Ever since Mr Murphy could remember, he had had pains in his stomach. Not really bad pains: just unpleasant sensations. In recent years this had gotten worse. A month before, a doctor examined him and said that he had an ulcer. The doctor was very serious and there was talk of further tests. Then Mr Murphy read a picture magazine article on cancer.

He did not suspect cancer: he knew. The doctor, although he had been rather grave, had said nothing about cancer, but Mr Murphy was confident he had it. He had tried to do everything right, to cure himself with bicarbonate of soda and other medicines but the pains not only didn’t go away but they got worse when he thought about them.

He pushed his fist into his stomach for a moment and felt the pain under his fingers. He cursed himself for having gone to the party the night before.

As he walked through his office he wished that he were home in bed. It would have been harder, of course, to stay home, because his wife was not very good with an illness. She had a tendency to become hysterical if she had to do anything unusual. No, it was better to be here at the office. To be here even if he was dying. This last thought made him uncomfortable and he put it out of his mind.

He looked at his watch--eleven-fifteen. The meeting would begin soon. Mr Golden insisted that all meetings begin on time.

Mr Murphy left his office. As he walked through the rooms he was pleased to have everyone speak to him politely. He was a person of importance here and he had become this all by himself with no help from anyone; practically no help.

The executive offices were larger and better decorated than the other offices. There were several uniform rooms where the vice-presidents (they used to be partners but Mr Golden had changed that) sat at big desks and received clients and dictated letters and did other things. Then there was the anteroom. This was a small room with red leather couches, a receptionist, some modern lamps and two portraits on the walls. These paintings were of Mr Heywood and Mr Golden. Beyond the anteroom was the boardroom.

The receptionist smiled at Mr Murphy. He smiled back at her and sat down in one of the red leather couches. Two minor vice-presidents were also seated and waiting. They greeted him soberly.

“Nice morning,” said the younger of the vice-presidents; he had been a lieutenant commander in the navy.

“Certainly is,” said Mr Murphy.

“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.

“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr Murphy in a smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.

The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices about a certain college football game. Mr Murphy lay back in his red couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.

A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom. They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and laughed with them.

There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.

The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.

A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were charts of stocks and trends.

Mr Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr Golden was sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of Mr Heywood. This was his usual seat.

“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr Heywood cheerily.

“Hello, Mr Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr Heywood had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was well-pleased, or wanted something.

Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr Heywood sat rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for the others to be seated.

Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful manner.

He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was not near-British like his vice-presidents: it was British. He had gone to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.

Mr Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another thing to be said for him--he knew how to choose women. Mr Murphy wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.

“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr Heywood suddenly.

“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr Heywood laughed gently at the thought.

“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.

“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive woman twenty years ago. She married ...” Mr Heywood decided not to reminisce in front of Murphy.

“He’s worked in my section, in the office, just fine.”

“That’s good. I don’t know him myself but I have some plans for him. We’re going to the same party tonight.” Mr Heywood laughed gently again. “Perhaps we’ll get to know each other. It’s so hard ever getting to know employees in the office,” sighed Mr Heywood. “I rather wish there weren’t so many of them sometimes.”

“I know just how it is.”

“We going to call this meeting together?” It was Mr Golden’s high voice from the other end of the table.

“Certainly, Ben,” said Mr Heywood. “We’ll start right now.” He picked up a black ebony gavel and tapped lightly, apologetically with it. The men stopped talking. “Now, let’s see,” began Mr Heywood.

“The Steel account, that’s the big thing we’re going to talk about,” said Mr Golden.

“That’s right.” Mr Heywood sounded bored. “That’s right. Well, gentlemen, it seems that we have a problem.”

Mr Murphy relaxed in his chair. Mr Heywood’s voice, gentle and cultured, came to him soothingly. The Steel account was of no interest to Mr Murphy; in fact, these conferences were generally of no interest to him. He was just there to talk about Statistics.

He played with papers in front of him. The voice of Mr Heywood flowed about him. He was lost in a slow current of polite vowels. The pain in his stomach was, for the time, gone.

Mr Heywood spoke of the market, of stocks and shares, of the state of the Union. He spoke convincingly because his manner was convincing and, also, because his ideas and facts had been given him by many clever men.

Mr Golden sat at his end of the table and listened. He sat there very straight, his little mouth set in a soft line of pseudo-firmness. His small hands drummed on the table and his eyes glanced about the room. His eyes were always in motion. The fear of a thousand years was in Mr Golden’s eyes.

From time to time he interrupted. Mr Heywood would pause and listen; then, when the other had finished, he would continue in his gentle voice to tell the others what clever men had told him about Steel, and the men, whose livings depended upon him, listened respectfully to their ideas.

Mr Murphy observed these things as he sat in his chair. He felt less important in these conferences but he did feel secure. Here in the boardroom he felt himself to be a part of something large and opulent--of American Business. This thought was comforting as well as sobering. There was no security in the world to equal that of belonging. It made no difference to what one belonged just as long as one was a part of something big and secure. And what, Oliver Murphy asked himself, could be bigger or more secure than Business? He saw these things clearly because he had a philosopher’s mind and the Celt’s ability to envisage life in a clear perspective. He could, he knew, see the trees as well as the forest. That was what made him different from the others. They felt, perhaps, that they belonged, but he _knew_.

Then the ulcer began to bother him.

He no longer was conscious of Mr Heywood’s voice. The only thing of importance now was the dull pain in his stomach. He moved uneasily in his chair. He pushed a hand into his stomach. This helped a little. The pain shifted slightly. He followed it with his hand, his fingers pressing gently into the pain.

“We’ll want complete figures on the rise and fall of Arizona Zinc during the past five years.”

This was said by Mr Heywood. It registered in Mr Murphy’s mind but he didn’t respond for a moment.

“You’ll have those figures for us next meeting, won’t you?” Heywood asked, irritation in his voice.

“Certainly, Mr Heywood,” said Murphy. He sat up straight and Mr Heywood nodded to him and then continued to talk.

Oliver Murphy listened carefully to everything said. He was beginning to sweat from the pain and the fear (more fear than pain, he told himself) but still he strained to hear every word and, slowly, as he listened, magic took place and the pain went away.

At last, when certain decisions had been made, Mr Heywood adjourned the meeting.

Murphy stood up. He felt better now. He wondered if perhaps he might not be mistaken about the cancer.

“Oh, Murphy.”

“Yes, Mr Heywood?”

“That fellow in your office, that Holton, you think he’s quite efficient?”

“I do.”

“I wonder,” said Mr Heywood hesitantly, “I wonder how he might work out as one of our customers’ men. Dealing with the public, all that sort of thing.”

“He’d probably do that very well.”

“You could afford to lose him?”

“Oh, yes, I think so.”

“I wish,” said Mr Heywood petulantly, “that I knew him better. It’s terrible having so little contact with the office people.”

“I could send him in to see you.”

“Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ll wait and see him tonight at Mrs Stevanson’s.”

“When do you think you’ll change him over?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If I think he has the suitable, ah, temperament, we might change him this week.”

“I know he’ll be really tickled to hear this.”

“I expect so.”

“How is Mrs Heywood?” asked Murphy politely.

“She’s fine, thank you,” said Mr Heywood blankly. Trouble, decided Murphy. The third Mrs Heywood seemed to be following the previous Mrs Heywoods.

“Well ...” said Murphy and he mumbled words to himself as he walked toward the door. Mr Heywood stared vacantly at him as he left.

Mr Murphy felt well when he was in motion. Walking with great dignity from office to office, conscious of the eyes of others upon him, was good for him. Aware of being a symbol of success he forgot his pains and some of his worries.

As he went into the Statistical office he could feel the atmosphere change. The clerks and typists became busy.

Mr Murphy went to his desk. “Any calls?” he asked.

Caroline shook her head. When she shook, her breasts quivered slightly. Mr Murphy noticed this and his stomach constricted with pain. Emotion was bad for him, according to the doctors. He looked away and tried to think of something else.

“No, there weren’t any calls. Some memorandums came in from the other sections but that was all.”

“Any letters?” He thought of his family.

“Yes.” Caroline sounded surprised. “Right there on your desk. Right where I always put them.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of neat businesslike envelopes. He had no desire to open them.

Caroline typed rhythmically at her desk.

“Say, Caroline....”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Tell Holton to step over here, will you?”

“Sure, Mr Murphy.” She got up and went through the gate and out into the office. He watched her legs as she walked determinedly to the other end of the room. He was almost pleased to feel the pain come flooding into his stomach. That would teach his stomach, he thought viciously.

The gate creaked and Robert Holton stood before him.

“You want to see me, sir?”

“Yes, yes, Holton. Sit down here. Over here on my left.”

Robert Holton sat down and looked expectant. Mr Murphy wondered for a moment why he had asked to see Holton. Then he remembered what Mr Heywood had said.

“How’s everything coming, Holton?”

“Just fine, Mr Murphy.”

“Well, that’s good. Things _have_ been going pretty well here. But I suppose you find things pretty dull after the army?”

“No, no. I like this sort of work. I had enough moving around.”

“I should think so. Well, that’s what most of us want, I guess,” said Mr Murphy. “We want to settle down. A lot of people say they don’t like routine but I think everybody does. It’s an important thing.”

“Yes, sir. I think it is.”

“There is,” said Mr Murphy, shutting his eyes for a moment to give the illusion of pondering, “there is security in working for a big house like Heywood and Golden.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at Holton. “Don’t you feel that’s true?”

“Yes, I hope so.”

“Yes, it’s true.” Mr Murphy sighed and thought about going out to the country for a rest. A place that would have neither telephones nor mosquitoes. Most places had one or the other.

He looked at Robert Holton and wondered what he was thinking. He seemed a likeable young man. He was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem too aggressive. In fact that was probably a fault that Mr Murphy had not thought of. Holton was not a go-getter. He might lack initiative. That was why he was quiet and reserved. Or, as Mr Murphy finally thought, that might be a reason for his reserve.

“Tell me, Holton,” said Murphy, “have you had any ideas about, ah, your place here? I mean, what you would like to do. Naturally you wouldn’t be interested in staying here, in this department. With your education....” He permitted his voice to fade.

“No, I haven’t had any ideas; in fact, I haven’t thought too much about it. You see this is all pretty different from what it was like where I was in the army. I don’t suppose I’m quite used to the idea ... well, you know....”

“I think I do. You would like to work in another department perhaps?”

Robert Holton looked at him. Mr Murphy could not tell what he was thinking for his face was relaxed and calm. “Well,” said Holton, “I don’t know. I don’t want to be out of my depth. I’d like to make more money. I like the idea of buying and selling stocks. I like that idea very much. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came here.”

“Of course, there’s a lot of work to knowing about stocks and bonds. You realize all the work that’s involved.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps a place will be found for you in that department. It’s hard to say, though. With your, ah, background it shouldn’t be too hard. That is, if you have the _stuff_.”

“I hope so.”

“Good.” Mr Murphy watched Caroline typing. “I understand,” said Mr Murphy finally in a changed voice, “that you’re going out tonight.”

Robert Holton looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Mr Heywood said you and he were going to the same party.”

Holton smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Mrs Stevanson’s giving a cocktail party. I guess that’s what he means.”

“It won’t hurt to be nice to him there,” said Mr Murphy with a laugh.

“No, I don’t suppose so.”

Mr Murphy looked at Holton and wondered what would become of him. If he had more initiative he might be a wealthy man because of his background (the important thing was background), but he would probably not go very far. He might not even go as far as Mr Murphy had and Mr Murphy had been a success without background. Robert Holton didn’t look as though he cared to be a success.

“Well, don’t let your night life interfere with business,” said Mr Murphy lightly.

“No,” said Holton rising, “I won’t.”

With a nod Mr Murphy dismissed him.

Mr Murphy watched Caroline absently as she typed. Her hair was rather long. It must be a nuisance to help her into a coat, he thought suddenly. That was something he hated to do. Whenever he helped a woman into a coat there was, first, a certain struggle to get her arms into the sleeves. Some women were better than others at this. And then, second, there was the problem of hair. If the woman had long hair it was inevitably caught inside the coat. This meant that her first motion was usually to free her hair and that involved a wild freeing and flinging of the hair which for anyone still posted behind her meant running a risk of becoming entangled. Mr Murphy wondered about these problems as he looked at Caroline’s long dark hair.

He had started to work on his letters (the ones in the business envelopes) when Richard Kuppelton appeared.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got the first part of that report here, the one on aircraft,” said Kuppelton.

“Yes?” Mr Murphy made himself sound cold and official.

“Well, I wondered if you cared to look at them ... what I’ve done so far, I mean.”

Mr Murphy looked at him for a moment without speaking. When Mr Murphy had first come to work for Heywood and Golden his then immediate boss had impressed him greatly by just looking at him for several seconds at a time without speaking. Mr Murphy had adopted the mannerism and over the years had improved it until now he could be very frightening. He was that way now.

“You want me to do it for you?” he asked finally.

“No ... no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I just thought you would like to see what I got done.” Kuppelton was uncomfortable and Mr Murphy decided that he had done enough.

“Why, I’d be glad to look at it,” he said.

Kuppelton brightened. “Thank you. I only wanted you to see the form I was using here. That was all. I’m making my conclusions in a slightly different way from usual and I thought....”

“Yes, I’ll take a look at it.”

Kuppelton put a pile of papers down on Mr Murphy’s desk.

Mr Murphy nodded at him and Kuppelton left quickly. Mr Murphy felt much better after exercising his power. Poor Kuppelton was a good man in an office but he would never go very far because he didn’t have assurance. He would be promoted after the first of the year if Holton were moved out. That would make Kuppelton happy, which was a good thing. It wasn’t bad, thought Mr Murphy, to have contented people about you in a discontented world. He relaxed in his chair and then the pains started again.

This time the ache was about an inch below his belt and slightly toward the left (his appendix was on the right and, besides, his appendix was in good shape). The pain began to move toward the center. Quickly he pressed his fingers into the pain.

His heart beat rapidly and sweat formed on his face. If the pain didn’t go away by the count of ten he would get up and take the special medicine his doctor had given him.

Frightened, Mr Murphy counted and the pain, not subject to this magic, did not go away.

_Chapter Six_

“It’s twelve o’clock,” Caroline said to Mr Murphy. “I think I’ll go out to lunch, if that’s O.K.”

“Yes, yes, Caroline.”

She thought he looked rather pale. She was about to ask him how he felt but she stopped herself, remembering how he disliked talking about his health. She had noticed that during the last year he had been taking a lot of medicine. Perhaps he was going to die. Caroline began to compose a little drama to herself. Mr Murphy had just collapsed across his desk and she had been the only one to keep a clear head....

“You coming, Caroline?” It was Robert Holton.

“Be right there.” She arranged the papers on her desk, shut the drawers and joined Robert Holton outside the gate of the railing.

“Where’ll we eat today?” asked Holton.

“At _the_ restaurant, of course. Where did you think we would?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was smiling now and she wondered if he could have been trying to be funny; she could never be sure.

“Sometimes you don’t make sense,” said Caroline.

They were almost through the door when one of the secretaries called to Holton. “Phone, Bob.”

She waited for him at the door. He went over to his desk and answered the phone. He seemed excited, she noticed, and he talked very quickly. She wished she could hear what he was saying. Finally, he finished and joined her.

“Who was that?”

“An old friend of mine.”

“Man or woman?”

“A guy I used to know. He just got in town. He comes from out West and I haven’t seen him for a couple of years.”

“You knew him in the army?”

“Yes.”

They walked through the offices to the elevator and Holton pressed the button.

“What’s he doing in town?”

“He’s just visiting. I’m going to see him this afternoon. He’s coming over here after lunch.”

“That’ll be nice. What does he look like?” She asked this gaily, hoping to have some effect on him. She didn’t, though.

“I don’t know. He looks all right, I guess.”

“You certainly are good at description. Be sure to let me meet him.”

“I will.”

The elevator stopped for them and they pushed into the lunch-going crowd. With a rush they descended to the street floor.

Outside the sun shone brightly above the street. The sky was a vivid blue and the air smelt clean in spite of the exhaust fumes and the people of the city. The day was warm.

They walked along the crowded street. Men of affairs with brief cases walked in and out of swinging glass doors. Younger men of affairs, wearing bowler hats and dark coats with darker velvet lapels, marched solemnly in the parade of business. The white-faced clerks squinted at the bright sun. Women secretaries walked together, admiring themselves in the windows. As they walked they talked to each other and to themselves.

“What a nice day,” said Caroline, breathing deeply and coughing as the exhaust fumes tickled her throat.

“Must be nice in the country,” commented Robert Holton.

“Not you too?” Caroline laughed. “First Murphy and now you want to go out in the country.”

“I don’t want to go. I just said it must be pleasant there.” They crossed a street and he looked carefully to left and right and when they finally crossed the street the crowd had gone around them and the light was beginning to change again.

“Why do you take so long?” said Caroline disagreeably.

“Just careful, that’s all.”

They walked in silence then. She was very conscious of his being beside her, of her arm being in his. This troubled Caroline, this awareness. She looked at Holton’s face as they walked down the crowded street. There was nothing in his face that she would like to have seen. This made her feel better because he was not the right person.

Over the high gray buildings was a narrow section of bright blue sky. It was almost too bright and contrasted strangely with the dingy buildings and the dark streets. Caroline watched the blue sky suspended upon the buildings. No clouds were in the sky but from time to time a bird would circle in it. And, as she watched the sky, a large air liner, like a rigid bird, moved straightly eastward.

Caroline breathed deeply again, careful this time not to get the exhaust fumes too far down in her lungs. She coughed anyway.

* * * * *

Marjorie Ventusa looked through the plate-glass window at the street. She had been watching off and on for half an hour, waiting for Robert Holton to come.