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old man snarled:
"You filthy misbegotten dung-thief, do you hope to live? You venom, you stench. It would
soil me to kill you. But I shall!"
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r r
Mario stepped back. The man was a stranger. "I'm sorry. You must be mistaken," he said,
before it dawned that Ralston Ebery's deeds were now accountable to him.
A hand fell on the young-old man's shoulder. "Beat it, Arnold!" said a hard voice. "Be off
with you!" The young-old man fell back.
Marie's rescuer turned around-a dapper young man with an agile fox-face. He nodded
respectfully. "Good morning, Mr. Ebery. Sorry that crank bothered you."
"Good morning," said Mario. "Ah-who was he?"
The young man eyed nun curiously. "Why, that's Letya Arnold. Used to work for us. You
fired him."
Mario was puzzled. "Why?"
The young man blinked. "I'm sure I don't know. Inefficiency, I suppose."
"It's not important," said Mario hurriedly. "Forget it."
"Sure. Of course. On your way up to the office?"
"Yes, I-I suppose so." Who was this young man? It was a problem he would be called on to
face many times, he thought
They approached the elevators. "After you," said Mario. There was such an infinity of
detail to be learned, a thousand personal adjustments, the intricate pattern of Ralston
Ebery's business. Was there any business left? Ebery certainly would have plundered it of
every cent he could endow his new body with. Ebery Air-car was a large concern; still the
extracting of even ten million dollars was bound to make a dent and this young man with
the clever face, who was he? Mario decided to try indirectness, a vague question. "Now
let's see-how long since you've been promoted?" The young man darted a swift side glance,
evidently wondering whether Ebery was off his feed. "Why, I've been assistant office
manager for two years."
Mario nodded. They stepped into the elevator, and the young man was quick to press the
button. Obsequious cur! thought Mario. The door snapped shut, and there came the swoop
which stomachs of the age had become inured to. The elevator halted, the doors flung
back, they stepped out into a busy office, filled with clicking machinery, clerks, banks of
telescreens. Clatter, hum-and sudden silence with every eye on the body of Ralston Ebery.
Furtive glances, studied attentiveness to work, exaggerated efficiency.
Mario halted, looked the room over. It was his by default. No one in the world could deny
him authority over this concern, unless Ralston Ebery had been too fast, too greedy,
raising his ten million plus. If Ralston Ebery had embezzled or swindled, he-Roland Mario
in Ebery's body-would be punished. Mario was trapped in Ebery's past. Ebery's
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r r
shortcomings would be held against him, the hate he had aroused would inflict itself on
him, he had inherited Ebery's wife, his family, his mistress, if any.
A short middle-aged man with wide disillusioned eyes, the bitter clasp of mouth that told
of many hopes lost or abandoned, approached.
"Morning, Mr. Ebery. Glad you're here. Several matters for your personal attention."
Mario looked sharply at the man. Was that overtone in his voice sarcasm? "In my office,"
said Mario. The short man turned toward a hallway. Mario followed. "Come along," he said
to the assistant office manager.
Gothic letters wrought from silver spelled out Ralston Ebery's name on a door. Mario put
his thumb into the lock; the prints meshed, the door slid aside; Mario slowly entered,
frowning in distaste at the fussy decor. Ralston Ebery had been a lover of the rococo. He
sat down behind the desk of polished black metal, said to the assistant office manager,
"Bring me the personnel file on the office staff-records, photographs."
"Yes, sir."
The short man hauled a chair forward. "Now, Mr. Ebery, I'm sorry to say that I consider
you've put the business in an ambiguous position." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]