Wistfully, Janet said: "Remember how much fun it was when we started? Forming the Agency, hitting T-M with our new ideas, our new kind of packets."

He remembered. "Just keep thinking about that. I'll see you tonight. Everything's coming out fine, so don't worry." He added goodbye, and then hung up.

"Mr. Purcell," his desk intercom said, "there are a number of people waiting to see you."

"Okay, Doris," he said.

"Vivian, Mr. Purcell." What sounded like a giggle. "Shall I send the first one in?"

"Send him, her, or it in," Allen said. He folded his hands in front of him and scrutinized the door.

The first person was a woman, and she was Gretchen Malparto.

CHAPTER 17

Gretchen wore a tight blue suit, carried a beaded purse, was pale and drawn, dark-eyed with tension. She smelled of fresh flowers and looked beautiful and expensive. Closing the door, she said:

"I got your note."

"The baby was a boy. Six pounds." The office seemed filled with tiny drifting particles; he rested his palms against the desk and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes the particles were gone but Gretchen was still there; she had seated herself, crossed her legs, and was fingering the edge of her skirt.

"When did you arrive back here?" she asked.

"Sunday night."

"I got in this morning." Her eyebrows wavered and across her face flitted a blind, crumpled pain. "You certainly walked right out."

"Well," he said, "I figured out where I was."

"Was it so bad?"

Allen said: "I can call people in here and have you tossed out. I can have you barred; I can have all kinds of things done to you. I can even have you arrested and prosecuted for a felony, you and your brother and that demented outfit you run. But that puts an end to me. Even Vivian walking in to take dictation is the end, with you sitting there."

"Who's Vivian?"

"One of my new secretaries. She comes along with the job."

Color had returned to Gretchen's features. "You're exaggerating."

Allen went over and examined the door. It had a lock, so he locked it. He then went to the intercom, pressed the button, and said: "I don't want to be disturbed."

"Yes, Mr. Purcell," Vivian's voice sounded.

Picking up the phone, Allen called his Agency. Harry Priar answered. "Harry," Allen said, "get over here to T-M in something, a sliver or a Getabout. Park as close as you can and then come upstairs to my office."

"What's going on?"

"When you're here, phone me from my secretary's desk. Don't use the intercom." He hung up, bent over, and ripped the intercom loose. "These things are natural taps," he explained to Gretchen.

"You're really serious."

"Bet you I am [ sic] ." He folded his arms, leaned against the side of the desk. "Is your brother crazy?"

She gulped. "He—is, in a sense. A mania, collecting. But they all have it. This Psi mysticism. There was such a blob on your -gram; it tipped him across."

"How about you?"

"I suppose I'm not so clever either." Her voice was thin, brittle. "I've had four days travelling in to think about it. As soon as I saw you were gone, I followed. I—really thought you'd come back to the house. Wishful thinking... it was so damn nice and cozy." Suddenly she lashed out furiously. "You stupid bastard!"

Allen looked at his watch and saw that Harry Priar would, be another ten minutes. Probably he was just now backing the sliver onto the roof field of the Agency.

"What are you going to do with me?" Gretchen said.

"Drive you out somewhere and dump you." He wondered if Gates could help. Maybe she could be detained at Hok- kaido. But that was their gimmick. "Didn't it seem a little unfair to me?" he said. "I went to you for help; I acted in good faith."

Staring at the floor, Gretchen said: "My brother's responsible. I didn't know in advance; you were starting out the door to leave, and then you keeled over. He gas-pelleted you. Somebody was detailed to get you to Other World; they were going to ship you there by freight, in a cataleptic state. I—was afraid you might die. It's risky. So I accompanied you." She raised her head. "I wanted to. It was a terrible thing to do, but it was going to happen anyhow."

He felt less hostility, since it was probably true. "You're an opportunist," he murmured. "The whole affair was ingenious. Especially that bit when the house dissolved. What's this blob on my -gram?"

"My brother puzzled over it from the time he got it. He never figured it out, and neither did the Dickson. Some psionic talent. Precognition, he thinks. You japed the statue to prevent your own murder at the hands of the Cohorts. He thinks the Cohorts kill people who rise too high."

"Do you agree?"

"No," she said, "because I know what the blob means. You do have something in your mind nobody else has. But it's not precognition."

"What is it?"

Gretchen said: "You have a sense of humor."

The office was quiet as Allen considered and Gretchen sat smoothing her skirt.

"Maybe so," Allen said finally.

"And a sense of humor doesn't fit in with Morec. Or with us. You're not a ‘mutant'; you're just a balanced human being." Her voice gained strength. "The japery, everything you've done. You're just trying to re-establish a balance in an unbalanced world. And it's something you can't even admit to yourself. On the top you believe in Morec. Underneath there's that blob, that irreducible core, that grins and laughs and plays pranks."

"Childish," he said.

"Not at all."

"Thanks." He smiled down at her.

"This is such a goddamn mess." From her purse she got her handkerchief; she wiped her eyes and then stuffed the handkerchief into her coat pocket. "You've got this job, Director of Telemedia, the high post of morality. Guardian of public ethics. You create the ethics. What a screwy, mixed-up situation."

"But I want this job."

"Yes, your ethics are very high. But they're not the ethics of this society. The block meetings—you loathe them. The faceless accusers. The juveniles—the busybody prying. This senseless struggle for leases. The anxiety. The tension and strain; look at Myron Mavis. And the overtones of guilt and suspicion. Everything becomes—tainted. The fear of contamination; fear of committing an indecent act. Sex is morbid; people hounded for natural acts. This whole structure is like a giant torture chamber, with everybody staring at one another, trying to find fault, trying to break one another down. Witchhunts and star chambers. Dread and censorship, Mr. Bluenose banning books. Children kept from hearing evil. Morec was invented by sick minds, and it creates more sick minds."

"All right," Allen said, listening. "But I'm not going to lie around watching girls sun-bathe. Like a salseman on vacation."

"That's all you see in the Resort?"

"That's all I see in Other World. And the Resort is a machine to process people there."

"It does more than that. It provides them with a place they can escape to. When their resentment and anxiety starts destroying them—" She gestured. "Then they go over."

"Then they don't smash store windows. Or jape statues. I'd rather jape statues."

"You came to us once."

"As I see it," Allen said, "the Resort acts as part of the system. Morec is one half and you're the other. Two sides of the coin: Morec is all work and you're the badminton and checkers set. Together you form a society; you uphold and support each other. I can't be in both parts, and of the two I prefer this."

"Why?"

"At least something's being done, here. People are working. You tell them to go out and fish."

"So you won't go back with me," she said reasonably. "I didn't really think you would."