While Mortals Sleep Part 7

"Oh, you don't have to spell silicone for me," said Amy. "Isn't anything I don't know about silicones after six months in this bughouse."

"Yours truly," said my voice, "Arthur C. Whitney, Jr., Customer Relations Section, Boiler Sales Department, Heavy Apparatus Division, Room 412, Building 77, Pittsburgh Works." Apparatus Division, Room 412, Building 77, Pittsburgh Works."

"ACW:all," Amy typed at the bottom of the letter. She separated the letter and copies from the carbon paper, dropped them into her out-basket, and slipped my record from the spindle of her Dictaphone.

"Why don't you bring your face around to the girl pool sometime, Arthur?" said my wife-to-be to my record. "We'd treat you like Clark Gable, just any man at all." She put another record from her in-basket onto her spindle. "Come on, you old devil, you," she said to the new record, "thaw out this half-frozen Alabama girl. Make me swoon."

"Five carbons, operator," said a new, harsh voice in Amy's ear. "To Mr. Harold N. Brewster, Thrust-Bearing Division, Jorgenson Precision Engineering Products Corporation, Lansing 5, Michigan."

"You are are a hot-blooded old thing, aren't you?" said Amy. "What makes you men up here so pa.s.sionate-the steam heat?" a hot-blooded old thing, aren't you?" said Amy. "What makes you men up here so pa.s.sionate-the steam heat?"

"Did you say something to me, Amy?" said Miss Hostetter, removing her earphones. She was a tall woman, without ornaments, save for her gold twenty-year-service pin. She looked at Amy with bleak reproach. "What's the trouble now?"

Amy stopped her Dictaphone. "I was talking to the gentleman on the record," she said. "Got to talk to somebody around here, or go crazy."

"There are lots of nice people to talk to," said Miss Hostetter. "You're so critical of everything, when you haven't really had time to find out what everything's about."

"You tell me what this is about," said my wife-to-be, including the girl pool in a sweep of her hand.

"There was a very good cartoon about that in the Montezuma Minutes," Montezuma Minutes," said Miss Hostetter. The said Miss Hostetter. The Montezuma Minutes Montezuma Minutes was the company's weekly newspaper for employees. was the company's weekly newspaper for employees.

"The one with the ghost of Florence Nightingale hovering over a stenographer?" said Amy.

"That was a good one," said Miss Hostetter. "But the one I had in mind showed a man with his new Thermolux furnace, and there were thousands of women all around him and the furnace, kind of ghostly. 'He doesn't send orchids, but he should,' the caption said, 'to the ten thousand women behind every dependable Montezuma product.'"

"Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts," said my wife-to-be. "Everybody's ghosts up here. They come out of the smoke and the cold in the morning, and they rush around and worry about boilers and silicone gaskets and molybdenum all day, then they disappear at five, plain fade away without a word. I don't know how anybody up here ever gets married or falls in love or finds anything nice to laugh about, or anything. Back home in high school-"

"High school isn't life," said Miss Hostetter.

"G.o.d help women, if this is life-cooped up all together, with a floor all to themselves," said my wife-to-be.

The two women faced each other with antipathies they'd been honing to razor sharpness for six months. The little blades glinted in their eyes, while they smiled politely.

"Life is what you make it," said Miss Hostetter, "and ingrat.i.tude is one of the worst sins. Look around you! Pictures on the walls, carpets on the floor, beautiful music, hospitalization and retirement, the Christmas party, fresh flowers on our desks, coffee hours, our own cafeteria, our own recreation room with television and ping-pong."

"Everything but life," said my wife-to-be. "The only sign of life I've heard of up here is that poor Larry Barrow."

"Poor Larry Barrow!" said Miss Hostetter, shocked. "Amy-he killed a policeman!"

Amy opened her top desk drawer, and looked down at the picture of Larry Barrow on the front page of the Montezuma Minutes Montezuma Minutes. Barrow, a handsome young criminal, had shot a policeman in a Pittsburgh bank holdup two days before. He had last been seen climbing over a fence to hide somewhere in the vast Montezuma works. There were plenty of places where he could hide.

"He could be in the movies," said Amy.

"As a killer," said Miss Hostetter.

"Not necessarily," said Amy. "He looks like a lot of nice boys I knew in high school."

"Don't be childish," said Miss Hostetter. She dusted her big hands briskly. "Well, we aren't getting any work done, are we? Ten minutes to go until morning coffee break. Let's make the most of them."

Amy turned on her Dictaphone. "Dear Mr. Brewster," said the voice, "your request for estimates on modernization of your present heating plant with DM-114 Thermolux conversion condensers has been forwarded by company teletype to our Thermolux specialist in your district, and..."

Amy, as her fingers danced expertly over the keys, was free to think about whatever she pleased, and, with her top drawer still open, with Larry Barrow's picture still in view, she thought about a man, wounded, freezing, starving, hated, hunted, and alone, somewhere out in the works.

"Considering the thermal conductivity of the brick walls of the buildings to be heated," said the voice in Amy's ear, "as five Btu-that's abbreviation for British thermal unit, operator, with a capital five Btu-that's abbreviation for British thermal unit, operator, with a capital B B-per square foot per hour per degree Fahrenheit-capitalize Fahrenheit, operator-per inch..."

And my wife-to-be saw herself in the clouds of pink tulle she'd worn on the June night of the high school graduation dance, and, on her arm, limping, healing, free, was Larry Barrow. The scene was in the South.

"And, taking the thermal diffusivity-d-i-f-f-u-s-i-v-i-t-y, operator-as, k over w," said the voice in Amy's ear, "it seems safe to say that..."

And my wife-to-be was helplessly in love with Larry Barrow. The love filled her life, thrilled her, and nothing else mattered.

"Ting-a-ling," said Miss Hostetter, looking at the wall clock and removing her earphones. There was a coffee break in the morning, and another in the afternoon, and Miss Hostetter greeted each as though she were a cheery little bell connected to the clock. "Ting-a-ling, everybody."

Amy looked at Miss Hostetter's craggy, loveless, humorless face, and her dream fell to pieces.

"A penny for your thoughts, Amy," said Miss Hostetter.

"I was thinking about Larry Barrow," said Amy. "What would you do if you saw him?"

"I'd keep right on walking," said Miss Hostetter primly. "I'd pretend I hadn't recognized him, and I'd keep right on walking until I could get help."

"What if he suddenly grabbed you, and made you a prisoner?" said Amy.

Miss Hostetter reddened over her high cheekbones. "That's quite enough of that that kind of talk," she said. "That's how panic gets started. I understand that some of the girls in kind of talk," she said. "That's how panic gets started. I understand that some of the girls in the Wire and Cable Department got each other so upset about this man they had to be sent home. That isn't going to happen here. The girls in the girl pool are a cut above that." the Wire and Cable Department got each other so upset about this man they had to be sent home. That isn't going to happen here. The girls in the girl pool are a cut above that."

"Even so-" said Amy.

"He isn't anywhere near this part of the works," said Miss Hostetter. "He's probably dead by now, anyway. They said there was blood in that office he broke into last night, so he isn't in any condition to go around grabbing people."

"n.o.body really knows," said Amy.

"What you need," said Miss Hostetter, "is a cup of hot coffee, and a fast game of ping-pong. Come on. I'm going to beat you."

"Dear Sir:" said a voice in the pretty ear of my wife-to-be that afternoon, "We would very much like to have you as our guest at a demonstration of the entire line of Thermolux heating equipment in the Bronze Room of the Hotel Gresham at four-thirty, Wednesday..." The letter was not to one man, but to thirty. Each of the thirty was to get an individually typed invitation.

By the tenth time Amy had typed the same letter, she felt as though she were drowning. She put the project aside, temporarily, and, for the sake of variety, slipped another record from her in-box onto her Dictaphone spindle.

She rested her fingers on the keyboard, on a, s, d a, s, d, and f f, on j, k, l j, k, l, and ; ;, awaiting orders from the record. But the only sound from the record was a shus.h.i.+ng sound, like the sound of the sea in a seash.e.l.l.

After many seconds, a soft, deep, sweetly wheedling voice spoke in Amy's ear, spoke from the record.

"I read about you girls on the bulletin board," said the voice. "Says you girls belong to anybody with access to a Dictaphone." The voice laughed quietly. " voice. "Says you girls belong to anybody with access to a Dictaphone." The voice laughed quietly. "I got access to a Dictaphone." got access to a Dictaphone."

The record scratched on in another long silence.

"I'm cold and sick and lonely and hungry, Miss," said the voice at last. There was a cough. "I'm feverish, and I'm dying, Miss. Guess everybody will be real glad when I'm dead."

Another silence, another cough.

"All I ever did wrong was not let anybody push me around, Miss," said the voice. "Somewhere, somewhere, maybe there's a girl who thinks a boy shouldn't be shot or starved or locked up like an animal. Somewhere, maybe there's a girl who's got a heart left inside her.

"Somewhere," said the voice, "maybe there's a girl with a heart, who'd bring this boy something to eat, and some bandages, and give him a chance to live a little while longer.

"Maybe," said the voice, "she's got a heart of ice, and she'll go tell the police, so they can shoot this boy, and she can be real proud and happy.

"Miss," said the voice to my wife-to-be, "I'm going to tell you where I've been and where I'll be when you hear this. You can do anything you want with me-save me or get me killed, or plain let me die. I'll be in building 227." The voice laughed quietly again. "I'll be back of a barrel. Isn't much of a building, Miss. You won't have any trouble finding me in it."

The record ended.

Amy imagined herself cradling Larry Barrow's curly head in her round, soft arms.

"There, there," she murmured. "There, there." Tears filled her eyes.

A hand dropped on Amy's shoulder. It was Miss Hostetter's hand. "Didn't you hear me say ting-a-ling for the coffee break?" she said. hand. "Didn't you hear me say ting-a-ling for the coffee break?" she said.

"No," said Amy.

"I've been watching you, Amy," said Miss Hostetter. "You've just been listening. You haven't been typing. Is there something strange about that record?"

"Perfectly ordinary record," said Amy.

"You looked so upset."

"I'm all right. I'm fine," said Amy tensely.

"I'm your big sister," said Miss Hostetter. "If there's anything-"

"I don't want want a big sister!" said Amy pa.s.sionately. a big sister!" said Amy pa.s.sionately.

Miss Hostetter bit her lip, turned white, and stalked into the recreation room.

Furtively, Amy wrapped Larry Barrow's record in face tissues, and hid it in the bottom drawer of her desk, with her hand cream, face cream, lipstick, powder, rouge, perfume, nail polish, manicure scissors, nail file, nail buffer, eyebrow pencil, tweezers, bobby pins, vitamin tablets, needle and thread, eyedrops, brush, and comb.

She closed the drawer, and looked up to see the baleful eyes of Miss Hostetter, who watched her through a screen of milling girls in the doorway of the recreation room, watched her over a cup of steaming coffee and a saucer with two little cookies on it.

Amy smiled at her gla.s.sily, and went into the recreation room. "Ping-pong, anybody?" said Amy, fighting to keep her voice even.

She received a dozen merry challenges, and, during the recreation period, she daydreamed to the took-took of the ping-pong ball instead of the tack-tack of her typewriter.

At five, whistles blew triumphantly in the works and all over Pittsburgh.

My wife-to-be had spent the afternoon in a suppressed frenzy of fear, excitement, and love. Her wastebasket was stuffed with mistakes. She hadn't dared to play Barrow's record again, or even to exchange a glance with Miss Hostetter, for fear of giving away her terrible secret.

Now, at five, Andre Kostelanetz and Mantovani and the blowers of the heating system were turned off. The mail girls came into the girl pool with trays of cylinders to be transcribed first thing in the morning. They emptied withered flowers from the vases on the desks. They would bring fresh flowers from the company hothouse in the morning. The girl pool became whirlpools around a dozen coatracks. In separate whirlpools, Amy and Miss Hostetter pulled on their cloth coats.

The girl pool became a river, flowing down the fireproof iron stairway into the company street. At the very end of the river was my wife-to-be.

Amy stopped, and the river left her behind, in the little cyclones of fly ash, in the canyon walled by numbered building facades.

Amy returned to the girl pool. The only light now came from the orange fires of furnaces in the distance.

Trembling, she opened the bottom drawer of her desk, and found the record gone.

Stunned and angry, she opened Miss Hostetter's bottom drawer. The record was there. The only other objects in the green steel bin were a bottle of Mercurochrome and a clipping from the from the Montezuma Minutes Montezuma Minutes, ent.i.tled, "Creed of a Woman of Montezuma." "I am a Woman of Montezuma," the creed began, "hand in hand with Men, marching to a Better Tomorrow under the three banners of G.o.d, Country, and Company, bearing the proud s.h.i.+eld of Service."

Amy wailed in anguish. She ran out of the girl pool, down the iron stairway, and down the company street to the main gate, to the headquarters of the company police. She was sure Miss Hostetter was there, proudly telling the police what she'd learned from the record.

The headquarters of the company police were in one corner of a great reception room by the main gate. Around the walls of the room were exhibits of the company's products and methods. In its center was a stand, where a fat concessionaire sold candy, tobacco, and magazines.

A tall woman in a cloth coat was talking animatedly to the policeman on duty.

"Miss Hostetter!" said Amy breathlessly, coming up behind her.

The woman turned to look curiously at my wife-to-be, and then returned her attention to the policeman. She was not Miss Hostetter. She was a visitor, who had taken a tour of the works and lost her purse inside.

"It could have been lost or stolen just anywhere," said the woman, "where all that terrible noise was, with all the hot steel and sparks; where that big hammer came cras.h.i.+ng down; where that scientist showed us his whatchamacallit in his laboratory-anywhere! Maybe that killer who's running around wild in there s.n.a.t.c.hed it while I wasn't looking."

"Lady," said the policeman patiently, "it's almost sure he's dead. And he isn't after purses, if he is alive. He's after something to eat. He's after life." He smiled grimly. "But he isn't going to get it-not for long."

The corners of my wife-to-be's sweet red mouth pulled down involuntarily.

Somewhere out in the works, dogs bayed.

"Hear that?" said the policeman with satisfaction. "They got dogs looking for him now. If he's got your purse, lady, which he doesn't, we'll have it back in jig time."

Amy looked around the big room for Miss Hostetter. Miss Hostetter wasn't there. Helplessness weakened Amy, and she sat down on a hard bench before a display ent.i.tled, "Can Silicones Solve Your Problems?"

Depression settled over Amy. She recognized it for what it was-the depression she always felt when a good movie ended. The theater lights were coming on, taking from her elation and importance and love she really had no claim to. She was only a spectator-one of many.

"Hear them dogs?" said the concessionaire to a customer behind Amy. "Special kind, I heard. Bloodhounds are the gentlest dogs alive, but the ones they've got after Barrow are half c.o.o.nhound. They can teach that kind to be tough-to take care of the tough customers."

Amy stood suddenly, and went to the candy counter. "I want a chocolate bar," she said, "the big kind, the twenty-five-cent kind. And a b.u.t.terfinger and a Coconut Mounds bar, and one of those caramel things-and some peanuts."

"Yes, ma'am!" said the concessionaire. "Going to have yourself a real banquet, aren't you? Just watch out you don't hurt that complexion with too much sweets-that's all."

Amy hurried back into the works, and squeezed into a crowded company bus. She was the only girl on the bus. The rest were men on the evening s.h.i.+ft. When they saw my wife-to-be, they grew heavily polite and attentive.

"Could you please let me out at building 227?" said Amy to the driver. "I don't know where it is."

"Don't know as I know where it is, either," said the driver. "Don't get much call for that one." He took a dog-eared map of the works down from the sun visor.

"You don't get any any call for that one," said a pa.s.senger. "Nothing in 227 but a bunch of lanterns, some barrels of sand, and maybe a potbellied stove. You don't want 227, Miss." call for that one," said a pa.s.senger. "Nothing in 227 but a bunch of lanterns, some barrels of sand, and maybe a potbellied stove. You don't want 227, Miss."

"A man called the girl pool for a stenographer to work late," said Amy. "I thought he said 227." She looked at the driver's map, and saw the driver's finger pointing to a tiny square all by itself in the middle of the railroad yard, building 227. There was a big building fairly near to it, on the edge of the yard, building 224. "He might have said building 224," said Amy.