Celia Montfort. He punched his phone for an outside line, then dialed her number. Again.
He had not seen her nor had he spoken to her since that Sunday he was introduced at the Mortons’ and she had napped on his bed. He had looked her up in the Manhattan directory. There it was: “Montfort, C.” at an East End address. But each time he called, a male voice answered, lisping: “Mith Montforth rethidenth.”
Blank assumed it was a butler or houseman. The voice, in spite of its flutiness, was too mature to be that of the 12-year-old brother. Each time he was informed that Mith Montfort was out of town and, no, the speaker did not know when she might return.
But this time the reply was different. It was “Mith Montforth rethidenth” again, but additional information was offered: Miss Montfort had arrived, had called from the airport, and if Mr. Blank cared to phone later in the day, Mith Montforth would undoubtedly be at home.
He hung up, feeling a steaming hope. He trusted his instincts, though he could not always say
Daniel Blank stepped into the open lobby of the Computer Room and nodded to the receptionist. He went directly to the large white enameled cabinet to the right of the inner doors and drew out a sterile duster and skull cap hermetically sealed in a clear plastic bag.
He donned white cap and duster, went through the first pair of swinging glass doors. Six feet away was the second pair, and the space between was called the “air lock,” although it was not sealed. It was illuminated by cold blue fluorescent lights said to have a germicidal effect. He paused a moment to watch the ordered activity in the Computer Room.
AMROK II worked 24 hours a day and was cared for by three shifts of acolytes, 20 in each shift. Blank was gratified to note that all on the morning shift were wearing the required disposable paper caps and dusters. Four men sat at a stainless steel table; the others, young men and women, sexless in their white paper costumes, attended the computer and auxiliary data-processing machines, one of which was presently chattering softly and spewing out an endless record that folded up neatly into partly serrated sheets in a wire basket. It was, Blank knew, a compilation of state unemployment insurance taxes.
The mutter of this machine and the soft start-stop whir of tape reels on another were the only sounds heard when Blank pushed through the second pair of swinging glass doors. The prohibition against unnecessary noise was rigidly enforced. And this glaring, open room was not only silent, it was dust-proof, with temperature and humidity rigidly controlled and monitored. An automatic alarm would be triggered by any unusual source of magnetic radiation. Fire was unthinkable. Not only was smoking prohibited but even the mere possession of matches or cigarette lighters was grounds for instant dismissal. The walls were unpainted stainless steel, the lamps fluorescent. The Computer Room was an unadorned vault, an operating theatre, floating on rubber mountings within the supporting body of the Javis-Bircham Building.
And 90 percent of this was sheer nonsense, humbuggery. This was not an atomic research facility, nor a laboratory dealing with deadly viruses. The business activities of AMROK II did not demand these absurd precautions-the sterile caps and gowns, the “air lock,” the prohibition against normal conversation.
Daniel Blank had decreed all this, deliberately. Even before it was installed and operating, he realized the functioning of AMROK II would be an awesome mystery to most of the employees of Javis-Bircham, including Blank’s superiors: vice presidents, the president, the board of directors. Blank intended to keep the activities of the Computer Room an enigma. Not only did it insure his importance to the firm, but it made his task much easier when the annual “budget day” rolled around and he requested consistently rising amounts for his department’s operating expenses.
Blank went immediately to the stainless steel table where the four young men were deep in whispered conversation. This was his Task Force X-1, the best technicians of the morning shift. Blank had set them a problem that was still “Top Secret” within this room.
From his boredom, in his desire to extend the importance of the Circulation Department and increase his personal power and influence, Blank had decided he should have the responsibility of deciding for each magazine the proportion between editorial pages and advertising pages. Years ago this ratio was dictated in a rough fashion by the limitations of printing presses, which could produce a magazine only in multiples of eight or 16 pages.
But improvements in printing techniques now permitted production of magazines of any number of pages-15, 47, 76, 103, 241: whatever might be desired, with a varied mix of paper quality. Magazine editors constantly fought for more editorial pages, arguing (sometimes correctly, sometimes not) that sheer quantity attracted readers.
But there was obviously a limit to this: paper cost money, and so did press time. Editors were continually wrangling with the Production Department about the thickness of their magazines. Daniel Blank saw a juicy opportunity to step into the fray and supersede both sides by suggesting AMROK II be given the assignment of determining the most profitable proportion between editorial and advertising pages.
He would, he knew, face strong and vociferous opposition. Editors would claim an infringement of their creative responsibilities; production men would see a curtailment of their power. But if Blank could present a feasible program, he was certain he could win over the shrewd men who floated through the paneled suites on the 31st floor. Then he-and AMROK II, of course-would determine the extent of the editorial content of each magazine. It seemed to him but a short step from that to allowing AMROK II to dictate the most profitable subject matter of the editorial content. It was possible.
But all that was in the future. Right now Task Force X-1 was discussing the programming that would be necessary before the computer could make wise decisions on the most profitable ratio between editorial and advertising pages in every issue of every Javis-Bircham magazine. Blank listened closely to their whispered conversation, turning his eyes from speaker to speaker, and wondering if it was true, as she had said, that she occasionally rouged her nipples.
He waited, with conscious control, until 3:00 p.m. before calling. The lisping houseman asked him to hang on a moment, then came back on the phone to tell him, “Mith Montfort requeth you call again in a half hour.” Puzzled, Blank hung up, paced his office for precisely 30 minutes, ate a chilled pear from his small refrigerator, and called again. This time he was put through to her.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?” (Should he call her “Celia” or “Miss Montfort”?)
“Well. And you?”
“Fine. You said I could call.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been out of town?”
“Out of the country. To Samarra.”
“Oh?” he said, hoping she might think him clever, “you had an appointment?”
“Something like that.”
“Where exactly is Samarra?”
“Iraq. I was there for only a day. Actually I went over to see my parents. They’re currently in Marrakech.”
“How are they?” he asked politely.
“The same,” she said in her toneless voice. “They haven’t changed in thirty years. Ever since…” Her voice trailed off. “Ever since what?” he asked.
“Ever since World War Two. It upset their plans.”
She spoke in riddles, and he didn’t want to pry. “Marrakech isn’t near Samarra, is it?”
“Oh no. Marrakech is in Morocco.”
“Geography isn’t my strong point. I get lost every time I go south of 23rd Street.”
He thought she might laugh, but she didn’t.
“Tomorrow night,” he said desperately, “tomorrow night the Mortons are having a cocktail party. We’re invited. I’d like to take you to dinner before the party. It starts about ten.”
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Be here at eight. We’ll have a drink, then go to dinner. Then we’ll go to the Mortons’ party.”
He started to say “Thank you” or “Fine” or “I’m looking forward to it” or “See you then,” but she had already hung up. He stared at the dead receiver in his hand.
The next day, Friday, he left work early to go home to prepare for the evening. He debated with himself whether or not to send flowers. He decided against it. He had a feeling she loved flowers but never wore them. His
