"Produce the girl," Allen said.

Nobody spoke.

"Where is she?" They could look forever for Grace Maldini. And without her it was so much hearsay. "Let's see her.

Where does she live? What's her lease? Where does she work? Where is she right now?"

Blake produced a photograph, and Allen examined it. A blurred print: he and Gretchen seated side by side in large chairs. Gretchen was reading a magazine and he was asleep. Taken on the ship, no doubt, from the other end of the lounge.

"Incredible," he mocked. "There I am, and a woman's sitting next to me."

Myron Mavis took the picture, studied it, and sneered. "Not worth a cent. Not worth the merest particle of a rusty Mexican cent. Take it back."

Mrs. Hoyt said thoughtfully: "Myron's right. This isn't proof of anything."

"Why did you assume the name Coates?" Luddy spoke up. "If you're so innocent—"

"Prove that, too," Mavis said. "This is ridiculous. I'm going home; I'm tired, and Purcell looks tired. Tomorrow is Monday and you know what that means for all of us."

Mrs. Frost, arose, folded her arms, and said to Allen: "We all agree it isn't remotely possible to call this material proof. But it's disturbing. Evidently you did make these phone calls; you did go somewhere out of the ordinary; you have been gone the last week. What you tell me I'll believe. So will Mrs. Hoyt."

Mrs. Hoyt inclined her head.

"Have you left your wife?" Mrs. Frost asked. "One simple question. Yes or no."

"No," he said, and it was really, actually true. There was no lie involved. He looked her straight in the eye. "No adultery, no affair, no secret love. I went to Hokkaido and got material. I phoned a male friend." Some friend. "I visited the same friend. This last week has been an unfortunate involvement in circumstances beyond my control, growing out of my retiring from my Agency and accepting the director- ship. My motives and actions have been in the public interest, and my conscience is totally clear."

Mrs. Hoyt said: "Let the boy go. So he can take a bath and get some sleep."

Her hand out, Sue Frost approached Allen. "I'm sorry. I am. You know that."

They shook, and Allen said: "Tomorrow morning, at eight?"

"Fine." She smiled sheepishly. "But we had to check. A charge of this sort—you understand."

He did. Turning to Blake and Luddy, who were stuffing their material back in its briefcase, Allen said: "Packet number 355-B. Faithful husband the victim of old women living in the housing unit who cook up a kettle of filth and then get it tossed in their faces."

Hurriedly, glancing down, Blake murmured good nights and departed. Luddy followed after him. Allen wondered how long the false lead would keep him alive.

CHAPTER 16

His new office at Telemedia had been cleaned, swept, repainted, and his desk had been moved from the Agency as a gesture of continuity. By ten o'clock Monday morning, Allen had got the feel of things. He had sat in the big swivel chair, used the pencil sharpener, stood before the one-way viewing wall covertly surveyed his building-sized staff.

While he was stabilizing himself, Myron Mavis, looking as if he hadn't gone to bed, appeared to wish him luck.

"Not a bad layout," Mavis said. "Gets plenty of sunlight, good air. Very healthy; look at me."

"I hope you're not selling your hoofs for glue," Allen said, feeling humble.

"Not for awhile. Come on." Mavis guided him out of the office. "I'll introduce you to the staff."

They squeezed past the bundles of congratulatory "flowers" along the corridor. The reek of crypto-flora assailed them,' and Allen halted to examine cards. "Like a hot house," he said. "Here's one from Mrs. Hoyt."

There was a bundle from Sue Frost, from Harry Priar, and from Janet. There were gaudy bundles from the four giant Agencies, including Blake-Moffet. All bore formal greetings. Their representatives would be in shortly. And there were unmarked bundles with no cards. He wondered who had sent them. Persons in the housing unit; perhaps little Mr. Wales who had stuck up for him during the block meeting. Others, from anonymous individuals who wished him luck. There was a dingy bunch, very small, which he picked up; some sort of blue growth.

"Those are real," Mavis said. "Smell them. Bluebells, I think they were called. Somebody must have dredged them up from the past."

Probably Gates and Sugermann. And one of the anonymous bundles could represent the Mental Health Resort. In the back of his mind was the conviction that Malparto would be seeking to recover his investment.

The staff quit work and lined up for his inspection. He shook hands, made random inquiries, spoke sage comments, greeted personnel he remembered. It was almost noon by the time he and Mavis had made the circuit of the building.

"That was kind of a bad scrape, last night," Mavis said, as they returned to the office. "Blake-Moffet has been after the directorship for years. It must hurt like h--l to see you in."

Allen opened the file he had brought and rummaged for a packet. "Remember this?" He passed it to Mavis. "Everything started with this."

"Oh yes." Mavis nodded. "The tree that died. The anti-colonization Morec."

"You know better than that," Allen said.

Mavis looked bland. "Symbol of spiritual starvation, then. Severed from the folk-soul. You're going to put that through? The new Renaissance in propaganda. What Dante did for the afterworld, you're going to do for this."

"This particular packet," Allen said, "is long overdue. It should have come out months ago. I suppose I could start out cautiously, process only what's already been bought. Interfere with the staff as little as possible. Let them go the way they've been going—the low-risk approach." He opened the packet. "But."

"Not but." Mavis leaned close, put the side of his hand to his lips, and whispered hoarsely: "The watchword is Excelsior."

He shook hands with Allen, wished him luck, hung lonelily around the building for an hour or so, and then was gone.

Watching Mavis shuffle off, Allen was conscious of his own burden. But the sense of weight made him cheerful.

"Seven with one blow," he said.

"Yes, Mr. Purcell," a battery of intercoms responded, as secretaries came to life.

"My father can lick your father," Allen said. "I'm just testing the equipment. You can go back to sleep, or whatever it is you're doing."

Removing his coat he settled himself at his desk and began dividing up the packet. There was still nothing in it he cared to alter, so he marked it "satisfactory" and tossed it in the basket. The basket whisked it off, and, somewhere down the long chain of command, the packet was received and put into process.

He picked up the phone and called his wife.

"Where are you?" she said, as if she was afraid to believe it. Are you..."

"I'm there," he said.

"H-how's the job?"

"Power unlimited."

She seemed to relax. "You want to celebrate tonight?"

The idea sounded good. "Sure. This is our big triumph; we should enjoy it." He tried to think what would be appropriate. "I could bring home a quart of ice cream."

Janet said: "I'd feel better if you told me what happened last night with Mrs. Frost."

There was no point in giving her grounds for her anxiety. "You worry too much. It came out all right, and that's what matters. This morning I put through the tree packet. Remember that? Now they can't bury it in dust. I'm going to transfer my best men from the Agency, men like Harry Priar. I'll trim down the staff here until I have something manageable."

"You won't make the projections too hard to understand, will you? I mean, don't put together things over people's heads."

"Nobody can say what's ‘over people's heads,' " Allen said. "The aged-in-the-stalk formula material is on its way out, and all sorts of new stuff is coming in. We'll try a little of everything."