But there were changes. . . .
Arnie drained his glass of beer, wiped his mouth and dialed another. "No, Norvell," he said meditatively, "I wouldn't say that you have succeeded. Not as We Engineers understand success. To Us Engineers, a mechanism—and all of us are mechanisms, Norvell, I, you, everybody—a mechanism is a success when it is functioning at maximum efficiency. Frankly, in my little experiment of suggesting that you try Belly Rave I was attempting to perform what we call 'destructive testing'—the only way in which maximum efficiency can be determined. But what happened? You didn't rise through your own efforts, Norvell. By pure fortuitousness you made a connection and are now a really able man's secretary." He sipped his beer sorrowfully. 'To use an analogy," he said, "it's as if my slipstick were to take credit for the computations I make on it."
"I'm sorry, Arnie," Norvell said. It was very difficult to decide whether he wanted more to laugh in Arnie's face or take out some of his front teeth with a beer glass. "Mr. Mundin thinks a great deal of you and your brother too, you know."
"Naturally,'' Arnie said severely. "That's one of the things you'll have to learn. Like seeks like, in human relations as well as electrostatics."
"I thought in electrostatics like repelled—"
"There you go!" yelled Arnie violently. "The layman! The quibbler! It's people like you that—"
"I'm sorry, Arnie!"
"All right. Don't get so excited. Really able people never lose control of themselves, Norvell! That was a stupid thing for you to get all upset about."
"I'm sorry, Arnie. That's what I was telling Mr. Mundin."
Arnie, raising his glass irritatedly, stopped it in mid-air. "What were you telling Mr. Mundin?" he asked suspiciously.
"Why, that you never lost control in an emergency. That you would be a damned good man to put in charge of—oh, God, Arnie, I shouldn't have said anything!" Norvell covered his mouth with both hands.
Arnie Dworcas said sternly, "Norvell, stop stammering and come out with it! In charge of what?"
Norvie, who had been fighting back a tendency to retch, removed his hands from his mouth. He said, "Well—well, it isn't as if I couldn't trust you, Arnie. It's—it's G.M.L."
"What about G.M.L.?"
Norvie said rapidly, "It's too soon to say anything definite and, please, Arnie, don't let a word of it get out But you've heard the rumors about G.M.L., naturally."
"Naturally!" Arnie said, though his eyes were vacant.
"Mr. Mundin is associated with the—uh—the Coshocton bunch, Arnie. And he's looking around, quietly, you know, for key men to replace some of the old duffers. And I took the liberty of mentioning you to him, Arnie. The only thing is, Mr. Mundin doesn't know much about the technical end, you see, and he wasn't sure just how much experience you had had."
"My record is in the professional journals, Norvell. Not that I would feel free to discuss it in this informal manner in any case, of course."
"Oh, of course! But what Mr. Mundin asked me was just what G.M.L. Homes models you had worked on—serial numbers and locations and so on. And I had to tell him that all that information was locked up, and you couldn't possibly get your hands on it."
Arnie shook his head wonderingly. "Laymen," he said. "Norvell, there is no reason in the world why I can't get microfilms of all that information. It's only corporate fiddle-faddle that causes all the secrecy; We Engineers are accustomed to cutting right through the red tape."
Norvell looked worshipful. "You mean you can?" he cried.
"I have already said so, have I not? It's just a matter of going through the records and picking out the units I've worked on myself, then making microfilms—"
"Better microfilm everything, Arnie," Norvell suggested. "It'll help Mr. Mundin understand the Broad Picture."
Arnie shrugged humorously. "Why not?"
"Don't forget the serial numbers," Norvell said.
Norvell met Mundin at Hussein's late that night, by arrangement, and made his report.
Mundin's expression began to relax. "So far," he said, "so good. And I've done my rounds too; and I imagine Hubble and Coett and Nelson are right on schedule. Let's have a drink."
"Thanks, no," said Norvell Bligh. "It's a long way to Belly Rave and my wife's all alone, except for the kid."
Mundin said, "Look, Bligh, why do you stick to Belly Rave? If it's money——"
Norvie shook his head. "You're paying me plenty for right now. Tell you the truth, I'm getting so I kind of like Belly Rave. As long as I don't have to stay there, you know, there's a lot to be said for it."
"There is?" Mundin asked.
Norvie laughed. "Maybe not a lot. Anyway, I'll stick a while; and I better get along. The Wabbits are supposed to be watch-dogging the house, but they don't think much of Sandy—that's my little girl—and I don't feel right without a man in the house at night."
A vagrant memory stirred in Mundin's mind. "I thought you had a kind of bodyguard?"
"Who? You mean Shep? He doesn't work for me any more." Norvie's expression was unreadable. "He had an accident with a lead pipe."
Chapter Nineteen
The sign on the door said:
Ryan & Mundin, Attorneys-At-Law
The office occupied a solid floor-through of a very good building.
Del Dworcas had to take several long, deep breaths before he pushed the door open and announced himself to a ripely curved blonde receptionist. One of Mundin's minor pleasures these days, when he could spare time for it, was telling salesmen of automatic office equipment just what they could do with their merchandise.
"Pleased be seated, Mr. Dworcas," the girl cooed. "Mr. Mundin asked me to tell you that you'll be the very next person he sees."
The dozen or so other individuals in the waiting room glared at Del Dworcas. However, being a professional politician, he had no difficulty in striking up a conversation with the fellows nearest him. One was a petrochemist who understood there were consultant jobs opening up at Ryan & Mundin. Another was a publisher's bright young man who thought there must be a whale of a story in old man Ryan's sensational comeback, and stood ready to sign it up. The others were easy enough to tag—a couple of crack-pots, two attorneys obviously seeking affiliation with the new firm, a handful of persons who seemed to be in the market for lawyers, and had suddenly come to think that it might be a good idea to retain Ryan & Mundin. Nobody in the waiting room seemed to have any idea what, if anything, was going on in the remainder of the enormous suite.
Dworcas—being a professional politician—was able to absorb information, pump for more, evaluate what he had heard and speculate on its meaning. But the answers were slight and cloudy. All he could make out for sure was: Ryan & Mundin were rising like a rocket; and plenty of shrewd operators were trying to hitch a ride.
At last he got the nod from the receptionist. A hard-faced young man with a badge that said Guide took him in tow.
Ryan & Mundin operated the damnedest law offices that Dworcas, in a full life, had ever seen. Law offices . . . complete with such eccentricities as chemistry labs and kitchens, living quarters and a TV studio, rooms locked off from his view, and open rooms that he could make no sense of.