THE MAN WHO JAPED

CHAPTER 6

The next day Allen had still not given Mrs. Frost an answer. The directorship of T-M was empty, with Mavis out and nobody in. The huge trust rolled along on momentum; and, he supposed, minor bureaucrats along the line continued to stamp forms and fill out papers. The monster lived, but not as it should.

Wondering how long he had to decide he phoned the Committee building and asked for Mrs. Frost.

"Yes sir," a recorded voice answered. "Secretary Frost is in conference. You may state a thirty-second message which will be transcribed for her attention. Thank you. Zeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"Mrs. Frost," Allen said, "there are a number of considerations involved, as I mentioned to you yesterday. Heading an Agency gives me a certain independence. You pointed out that my only customer is Telemedia, so that for all practical purposes I'm working for Telemedia. You also pointed out that as Director of Telemedia I would have more, not less, independence."

He paused, wondering how to go on.

"On the other hand," he said, and then the thirty seconds was up. He waited as the mechanism at the other end repeated its rigamarole, and then continued. "My Agency, after all, was built up by my own hands. I'm free to alter it. I have complete control. T-M, on the other hand, is impersonal. Nobody can really dictate to it. T-M is like a glacier."

That sounded terrible to him, but once on the tape it couldn't be unspoken. He finished up:

"Mrs. Frost, I'm afraid I'll have to have time to think it over. I'm sorry, because I realize this puts you in an unpleasant position. But I'm afraid the delay unavoidable is. I'll try to have my answer within a week, and please don't think I'm stalling. I'm sincerely floundering. This is Allen Purcell."

Ringing off, he sat back and brooded.

Here, in his office, the statue of Major Streiter seemed distant and unconvincing. He had one problem only: the job problem. Either he stayed with his Agency or he went upstairs to T-M. Put that way his dilemma sounded simple. He got out a coin and rolled it across the surface of his desk. If necessary he could leave the decision to chance.

The door opened and Doris, his secretary, entered. "Good morning," she said brightly. "Fred Luddy wants a letter of recommendation from you. We made out his check. Two weeks, plus what was owed." She seated herself across from him, pad and pencil ready. "Do you want to dictate a letter?"

"That's hard to say." He wanted to, because he liked Luddy and he hoped to see him get a halfway decent job. But at the same time he felt silly writing a letter of recommendation for a man he had fired as disloyal and dishonest, Morecly speaking. "Maybe I'll have to think about that, too."

Doris arose. "I'll tell him you're too busy. You'll have to see about it later."

Relieved, he let her go with that story. No decision seemed possible right now, on any topic. Small or large, his problems revolved on an olympian level; they couldn't be hauled down to earth.

At least the police hadn't traced him. He was reasonably sure that Mrs. Birmingham's juvenile lacked information on the Park episode. Tomorrow, at nine a.m., he'd find out. But he wasn't worried. The idea of police barging in to arrest and deport him was absurd. His real worry was the job—and himself.

He had told the girl he needed help, and he did. Not because he had japed the statue, but because he had japed it without understanding why. Odd that the brain could function on its own, without acquainting him with its purposes, its reasons. But the brain was an organ, like the spleen, heart, kidneys. And they went about their private activities. So why not the brain? Reasoned out that way, the bizarre quality evaporated.

But he still had to find out what was happening.

Reaching into his wallet he got out the slip of paper. On it, in a woman's neat hand, were four words.

Health Resort

Gretchen Malparto.

So the girl's name was Gretchen. And, as he had inferred, she was roaming around in the night soliciting for the Mental Health Resort, in violation of law.

The Health Resort, the last refuge for deserters and misfits, had reached out and put its hand on his shoulder.

He felt weak. He felt very morbid and shaky, as if he were running a fever: a low current of somewhat moist energy that could not be shaken off.

"Mr. Purcell," Doris' voice came through the open door. "There's a return call in for you. The phone is taking it right now."

"Okay, Doris," he said. With effort he roused himself from his thoughts and reached to snap on the phone. The tape obligingly skipped back and restarted itself, spewing the recorded call.

"Ten-o-five. Click. Zeeeeeeeeeeeee! Mr. Purcell." Now a smooth, urbane female voice appeared. With further pessimism he recognized it. "This is Mrs. Sue Frost, answering your call of earlier this morning. I'm sorry I was not in when you called, Mr. Purcell." A pause. "I am fully sympathetic with your situation. I can easily understand the position you're in." Another pause, this one somewhat longer. "Of course, Mr. Purcell, you surely must realize that the offer of the directorship was predicated on the assumption that you were available for the job."

The mechanism jumped to its next thirty-second segment.

"Ten-o-six. Click. Zeeeeeeeeeeeee! To go on." Mrs. Frost cleared her throat. "It strikes us that a week is rather a long time, in view of the difficult status of Telemedia. There is no acting Director, since, as you're aware, Mr. Mavis has already resigned. We hesitate to request a postponement of that resignation, but perhaps it will be necessary. Our suggestion is that you take until Saturday at the latest to decide. Understand, we're fully sympathetic with your situation, and we don't wish to rush you. But Telemedia is a vital trust, and it would be in the public interest that your decision come as quickly as possible. I'll expect to hear from you, then."

Click, the mechanism went. The rest of the tape was blank.

From the tone of Mrs. Frost's message Allen inferred that he had got an official statement of the Committee's position. He could imagine the tape being played back at an inquiry. It was for the record, and then some. Four point five days, he thought. Four point five days to decide what he was and what he ought to be.

Picking up the phone, he started to dial, then changed his mind. Calling from the Agency was too risky. Instead, he left the office.

"Going out again, Mr. Purcell?" Doris asked, at her own desk.

"I'll be back shortly. Going over to the commissary for some supplies." He tapped his coat pocket. "Things Janet asked me to pick up."

As soon as he was out of the Mogentlock Building he stepped into a public phone booth. Staring vacantly, he dialed.

"Mental Health Resort," a bureaucratic, but friendly voice answered in his ear.

"Is there a Gretchen Malparto there?"

Time passed. "Miss Malparto has left the Resort temporarily. Would you like to speak to Doctor Malparto?"

Obscurely nettled, Allen said: "Her husband?"

"Doctor Malparto is Miss Malparto's brother. Who is calling, please?"

"I want an appointment," Allen said. "Business problems."

"Yes sir." The rustle of papers. "Your name, sir?"

He hesitated and then invented. "I'll be in under the name Coates."

"Yes sir, Mr. Coates." There was no further questioning on that point. "Would tomorrow at nine a.m. be satisfactory?"

He started to agree, and then remembered the block meeting. "Better make it Thursday."

"Thursday at nine," the girl said briskly. "With Doctor Malparto. Thank you very much for calling."

Feeling a little better, Allen returned to the Agency.