Mario was puzzled. "Why?"
The young man blinked. "I'm sure I don't know. Inefficiency, I suppose."
"It's not important," said Mario hurriedly. "Forget it."
"Sure. Of course. On your way up to the office?"
"Yes, I-I suppose so." Who was this young man? It was a problem he would be called on to face many times, he thought
They approached the elevators. "After you," said Mario. There was such an infinity of detail to be learned, a thousand personal adjustments, the intricate pattern of Ralston Ebery's business. Was there any business left? Ebery certainly would have plundered it of every cent he could endow his new body with. Ebery Air-car was a large concern; still the extracting of even ten million dollars was bound to make a dent and this young man with the clever face, who was he? Mario decided to try indirectness, a vague question. "Now let's see-how long since you've been promoted?" The young man darted a swift side glance, evidently wondering whether Ebery was off his feed. "Why, I've been assistant office manager for two years."
Mario nodded. They stepped into the elevator, and the young man was quick to press the button. Obsequious cur! thought Mario. The door snapped shut, and there came the swoop which stomachs of the age had become inured to. The elevator halted, the doors flung back, they stepped out into a busy office, filled with clicking machinery, clerks, banks of telescreens. Clatter, hum-and sudden silence with every eye on the body of Ralston Ebery. Furtive glances, studied attentiveness to work, exaggerated efficiency.
Mario halted, looked the room over. It was his by default. No one in the world could deny him authority over this concern, unless Ralston Ebery had been too fast, too greedy, raising his ten million plus. If Ralston Ebery had embezzled or swindled, he-Roland Mario in Ebery's body-would be punished. Mario was trapped in Ebery's past. Ebery's shortcomings would be held against him, the hate he had aroused would inflict itself on him, he had inherited Ebery's wife, his family, his mistress, if any.
A short middle-aged man with wide disillusioned eyes, the bitter clasp of mouth that told of many hopes lost or abandoned, approached.
"Morning, Mr. Ebery. Glad you're here. Several matters for your personal attention."
Mario looked sharply at the man. Was that overtone in his voice sarcasm? "In my office," said Mario. The short man turned toward a hallway. Mario followed. "Come along," he said to the assistant office manager.
Gothic letters wrought from silver spelled out Ralston Ebery's name on a door. Mario put his thumb into the lock; the prints meshed, the door slid aside; Mario slowly entered, frowning in distaste at the fussy decor. Ralston Ebery had been a lover of the rococo. He sat down behind the desk of polished black metal, said to the assistant office manager, "Bring me the personnel file on the office staff-records, photographs."
"Yes, sir."
The short man hauled a chair forward. "Now, Mr. Ebery, I'm sorry to say that I consider you've put the business in an ambiguous position."
"What do you mean?" asked Mario frostily, as if he were Ebery himself. The short man snorted. "What do I mean? I mean that the contracts you sold to Atlas Airboat were the biggest moneymakers Ebery Air-car had. As you know very well. We took a terrible drubbing in that deal." The short man jumped to his feet, walked up and down. "Frankly, Mr. Ebery, I don't understand it."
"Just a minute," said Mario. "Let me look at the mail." Killing time, he thumbed through the mail until the assistant office manager returned with a file of cards.
"Thank you," said Mario. "That's all for now."
He flicked through them, glancing at the pictures. This short man had authority, he should be somewhere near the top. Here he was-Louis Correaos, Executive Adviser. Information as to salary, family, age, background-more than he could digest at the moment. He put the file to one side. Louis Correaos was still pacing up and down, fuming.
Correaos paused, darted Mario a venemous stare. "Ill-advised? I think you're crazy!" He shrugged. "I tell you this because my job means nothing to me. The company can't stand the beating you've given it. Not the way you want it run, at any rate. You insist on marketing a flying tea-wagon, festooned with ornaments; then you sell the only profitable contracts, the only features to the ship that make it at all airworthy."
Mario reflected a minute. Then he said, "I had my reasons."
Correaos, halting in his pacing, stared again.
Mario said, "Can you conjecture how I plan to profit from these circumstances?"
Correaos's eyes were like poker chips; his mouth contracted, tightened, pursed to an O. He was thinking. After a moment he said, "You sold our steel plant to Jones and Cahill, our patent on the ride stabilizer to Bluecraft." He gazed narrowly askance at Mario. "It sounds like you're doing what you swore you'd never do. Bring out a new model that would fly."
"How do you like the idea?" asked Mario, looking wise.
Louis Correaos stammered, "Why, Mr. Ebery, this is-fantastic! You asking me what I think! I'm your yes-man. That's what you're paying me for. I know it, you know it, everybody knows it."
"You haven't been yessing me today," said Ebery. "You told me I was crazy."
"Well," stammered Correaos, "I didn't see your idea. It's what I'd like to have done long ago. Put in a new transformer, pull off all that ormolu, use plancheen instead of steel, simplify, simplify-"
"Louis," said Mario, "make the announcement. Start the works rolling. You're in charge. I'll back up anything you want done."
Louis Correaos's face was a drained mask.
"Make your salary anything you want," said Mario. "I've got some new projects I'm going to be busy on. I want you to run the business. You're the boss. Can you handle it?"
"Yes. I can."
"Do it your own way. Bring out a new model that'll beat everything in the field. I'll check on the final set-up, but until then, you're the boss. Right now-clean up all this detail." He pointed to the file of correspondence. "Take it to your office."
Correaos impulsively rushed up, shook Mario's hand. 'I'll do the best I can." He left the room.
Mario said into the communicator, "Get me the African Federal Bank... . "Hello-" to the girl's face on the screen. "-this is Ralston Ebery. Please check on my personal balance."
After a moment she said, "It's down to twelve hundred dollars, Mr. Ebery. Your last withdrawal almost wiped out your balance."
"Thank you," said Mario. He settled the thick body of Ralston Ebery into the chair, and became aware of a great cavernous growling in his abdomen. Ralston Ebery was hungry.
Mario grinned a ghastly sour grin. He called food service. "Send up a chopped olive sandwich, celery, a glass of skim milk."
CHAPTER V
An Understanding
During the afternoon he became aware of an ordeal he could no longer ignore: acquainting himself with Ralston Ebery's family, his home life. It could not be a happy one. No happy husband and father would leave his wife and children at the mercy of a stranger. It was the act of hate, rather than love.
A group photograph stood on the desk-a picture inconspicuously placed, as if it were there on sufferance. This was his family. Florence Ebery was a frail woman, filmy, timid, over-dressed, and her face peering out from under a preposterous hat, wore the patient perplexed expression of a family pet dressed in doll clothes-somehow pathetic.
Luther and Ralston Jr. were stocky young men with set mulish faces, Clydia a full-cheeked creature with a petulant mouth.
At three o'clock Mario finally summoned up his courage, called Ebery's home on the screen, had Florence Ebery put on. She said in a thin distant voice, "Yes, Ralston."
"I'll be home this evening, dear." Mario added the last word with conscious effort.
She wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips and her eyes shone as if she were about to cry. "You don't even tell me where you've been."