he hadn’t missed a day in twelve years. “You know—”
“Sure, okay. That’s fine. Just wanted to warn you that we’ve moved. You’ll see the name plate right across the street when you come out—swell place, too. Sure you can make it all right?”
“I shall be there in ten minutes, Mr. Sloane,” Phineas assured him, and remembered in time to hang up without displaying distaste. Tch, poor Sloane, wallowing in sin and ignorant of the doom that awaited him. Why, the last time Phineas had chided his employer—mildly, too—Sloane had actually laughed at him! Dear. Well, no doubt he incurred grace by trying to save the poor lost soul, even though his efforts seemed futile. Of course, there was danger in consorting with such people, but no doubt his sacrifices would be duly recorded.
There was a new elevator boy, apparently, when he came out of his room. He sniffed pointedly at the smoke from the boy’s cigarette; the boy twitched his lips, but did not throw it away.
“Okay, bub,” he grunted as the doors clanked shut, grating across Phineas’ nerves, “I don’t like it no bet- ter’n you will, but here We are.”
Bub! Phineas glared at the shoulders turned to him and shuddered. He’d see Mrs. Biddle about this later.
Suppressing his feelings with some effort, he headed across the lobby, scarcely noting it, and stepped out onto the street. Then he stopped. That was the second jolt. He swallowed twice, opened his eyes and lifted them for the first time in weeks, and looked again. It hadn’t changed. Where there should have been a little twisted side street near the tenements, he saw instead a broad gleaming thoroughfare, busy with people and bright in warm golden sunshine. Opposite, the ugly stores were replaced with bright, new office buildings, and the elevated tracks were completely missing. He swung slowly about, clutching his umbrella for support as he faced the hotel; it was still a hotel—but not his—definitely not his. Nor was the lobby the same. He fumbled back into it, shaken and bewildered.
The girl at the desk smiled up at him out of dancing eyes, and she certainly wasn’t the manager. Nor would prim Mrs. Biddle, who went to his church, have hired this brazen little thing; both her lips and fingernails were bright crimson, to begin with, and beyond that he preferred not to go.
The brazen little thing smiled again, as if glorying in her obvious idolatry. “Forget something, Mr. Potts?”
“I… uh… no. That is… you know who I am?”
She nodded brightly. “Yes indeed, Mr. Potts. You moved in yesterday. Room 408. Is everything satisfactory?”
Phineas half nodded, gulped, and stumbled out again. Moved in? He couldn’t recall it. Why should he leave Mrs. Biddle’s? And 408 was his old room number; the room was identical with the one he had lived in, even to the gray streak on the wallpaper that had bothered his eyes for years. Something was horribly wrong—first the lack of memory, then Sloane’s peculiar call, now this. He was too upset even to realize that this was probably another temptation set before him.
Mechanically, Phineas spied Sloane’s name plate on one of the new buildings and crossed over into it. “Morning, Mr. Potts,” said the elevator boy, and Phineas jumped. He’d never seen this person before, either. “Fourth floor, Mr. Potts. Mr. Sloane’s office is just two doors down.”
Phineas followed the directions automatically, found the door marked G. R. Sloane—architect, and pushedinto a huge room filled with the almost unbearable clatter of typewriters and Comptometers, the buzz of voices, and the jarring thump of an addressing machine. But this morning the familiarity of the sound seemed like a haven out of the wilderness until he looked around. Not only had Sloane moved, but he’d apparently also expanded and changed most of his office force. Only old Callahan was left, and Callahan—Strange, he felt sure Callahan had retired or something the year before. Oh, well, that was the least of his puzzles.
Callahan seemed to sense his stare, for he jumped up and brought a hamlike fist down on Phineas’ back, almost knocking out the ill-fitting false teeth. “Phin Potts, you old doom-monger! Welcome back!” He thumped again and Potts coughed, trying to reach the spot and rub out the sting. Not only did Callahan have to be an atheist—an argumentative one—but he had to indulge in this gross horseplay. Why hadn’t the man stayed properly retired?
“Mr. Sloane?” he managed to gurgle.
Sloane himself answered, his rugged face split in a grin. “Hi, Phin. Let him alone, Callahan. Another thump like that and I’ll have to hire a new draftsman. Come on, Phin, there’s the devil’s own amount of work piled up for you now that you’re back from your little illness.” He led him around a bunch of tables where bright-painted hussies were busily typing, down a hall, and into the drafting room, exchanging words with others that made Phineas wince. Really, his language seemed to grow worse each day.
“Mr. Sloane, would you please—”
“Mind not using such language,” Sloane finished, and grinned. “Phin, I can’t help it. I feel too good. Business is terrific and I’ve got the world by the tail. How do you feel?”
“Very well, thank you.” Phineas fumbled and caught the thread of former conversation that had been bothering him. “You said something about—illness?”
“Think nothing of it. After working for me twelve years, I’m not going to dock your pay for a mere month’s absence. Kind of a shame you had to be off just when I needed you, but such things will happen, so we’ll just forget it, eh?” He brushed aside the other’s muttered attempt at questioning and dug into the plans. “Here, better start on this—you’ll notice some changes, but it’s a lot like what we used to do; something like the Oswego we built in ’37. Only thing that’ll give you trouble is the new steel they put out now, but you can follow specifications on that.”
Phineas picked up the specifications, ran them over, and blinked. This would never do; much as he loathed the work, he was an excellent draftsman, and he knew enough of general structural design to know this would never do. “But, two-inch I-beams here—”
“’Sail right, Phin, structural strength is about twelve times what you’re used to. Makes some really nice designing possible, too. Just follow the things like I said, and I’ll go over it all later. Things changed a little while you were delirious. But I’m in a devil of a rush right flow. See you.” He stuck his body through the door, thrust his head back inside and cocked an eyebrow. “Lunch? Need somebody to show you around, I guess.”
“As you wish, Mr. Sloane,” agreed Phineas. “But would you please mind—”
“Not swearing. Sure, okay. And no religious arguments this time; if I’m damned, I like it.” Then he was gone, leaving Phineas alone—he couldn’t work with the distraction of others, and always had a room to himself.
So he’d been sick had he, even delirious? Well, that might explain things. Phineas had heard that such things sometimes produced a hiatus in the memory, and
it was a better explanation than nothing. With some relief, he put it out of his mind, remembering only to confess how sinfully he’d lost his trust in divine guidance this morning, shook his head mournfully, and began work with dutiful resignation. Since it had obviously been ordained that he should make his simple living at drafting, draft he would, with no complaints, and there would be no fault to be found with him there.
Then the pen began to scratch. He cleaned and adjusted it, finding nothing wrong, but still it made little grating sounds on the paper, lifting up the raw edges of his nerves. Had Phineas believed in evolution, he’d have said the hair his ancestors had once grown was trying to stand on end, but he had no use for such heretical ideas. Well, he was not one to complain. He unclenched his teeth and sought forbearance and peace within.
Then, outside, the addressograph began to thump again, and he had to force himself not to ruin the lines as his body tried to flinch. Be patient, all these trials would be rewarded. Finally, he turned to the only anodyne he knew, contemplation of the fate of heretics and sinners. Of course, he was sorry for them roasting eternally and crying for water which they would never get—very sorry for the poor deluded creatures, as any righteous man should be. Yet still they had been given their chance and not made proper use of it, so it was only just. Picturing morbidly the hell of his most dour Puritan ancestors—something very real to him—he almost failed to notice the ache of his bunion where the cheap shoes pinched. But not quite.
Callahan was humming out in the office, and Phineas could just recognize the tune. Once the atheist had come in roaring drunk, and before they’d sent him home, he’d cornered Phineas and sung it through, unex- purgated. Now, hi tune with the humming^ the words insisted in trickling through the suffering little man’s mind, and try as he would, they refused to leave. Prayer did no good. Then he added Callahan to the tortured sinners, and that worked better.
