got abruptly to her feet, pulling her coat around her. “Come on, Ed. I’ll go with you. We’ll go up there together. To the office of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. I’ll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas.”
Ed got up slowly, staring hard at his wife. “You think I blacked out. Cold feet. Couldn’t face the boss.” His voice was low and strained. “Don’t you?”
Ruth was already threading her way toward the cashier. “Come on. You’ll see. It’ll all be there. Just like it always was.”
“Okay,” Ed said. He followed her slowly. “We’ll go back there—and see which of us is right.”
* * * *
They crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed’s arm. Ahead of them was the building, the towering structure of concrete and metal and glass.
“There it is,” Ruth said. “See?”
There it was, all right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the early afternoon sun, its windows sparkling brightly.
Ed and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid. He winced as his foot touched the pavement—
But nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying past; a kid selling papers. There were sounds, smells, the noises of the city in the middle of the day. And overhead was the sun and the bright blue sky.
“See?” Ruth said. “I was right.”
They walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the seller stood, arms folded, listening to the ball game. “Hi, Mr. Fletcher,” he called to Ed. His face lit up good-naturedly. “Who’s the dame? Your wife know about this?”
Ed laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five businessmen stood waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed, waiting impatiently in a bunch. “Hey, Fletcher,” one said. “Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off.”
“Hello, Earl,” Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth’s arm. “Been a little sick.”
The elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose.
“Hi, Ed,” the elevator operator said. “Who’s the good-looking gal? Why don’t you introduce her around?”
Ed grinned mechanically. “My wife.”
The elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out, heading toward the glass door of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate.
Ed halted, breathing shallowly. “Wait.” He licked his lips. “I—”
Ruth waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. “All right now?”
“Yeah.” Ed moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.
Miss Evans glanced up, ceasing her typing. “Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?”
“I’ve been sick. Hello, Tom.”
Tom glanced up from his work. “Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for your scalp. Where have you been?”
“I know.” Ed turned wearily to Ruth. “I guess I better go in and face the music.”
Ruth squeezed his arm. “You’ll be all right. I know.” She smiled, a relieved flash of white teeth and red lips. “Okay? Call me if you need me.”
“Sure.” Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. “Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot. I don’t know what the hell went wrong with me. I guess it’s over.”
“Forget it. So long.” Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.
“Nice little gal,” Jackie said appreciatively.
“Yeah.” Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—
Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner office—it was changed.
* * * *
The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets, pictures.
Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.
“What’s the matter, Ed?” Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.
Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office.
The office had been gone over. He could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.
Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. “What’s the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is something—?”
Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?
Joe’s face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe’s desk. He saw papers and accounts. The desk—it was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn’t the same desk.
The picture on the wall. It wasn’t the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some were new, others were gone.
He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans’ hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.
In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a red purse, red knit.
“You always…have that purse?” Ed demanded.
Mary glanced up. “What?”
“That purse. You always have that?”
Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes blinking modestly. “Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?”
Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn’t. She had been redone—changed: her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of them knew—but him. His mind spun dizzily. They were all changed. All of them were different. They had all been remolded, recast. Subtly—but it was there.
The wastebasket. It was smaller, not the same. The window shades—white, not ivory. The wall paper was not the same pattern. The lighting fixtures…
Endless, subtle changes.
Ed made his way back to the inner office. He lifted his hand and knocked on Douglas’ door.
“Come in.”
Ed pushed the door open. Nathan Douglas looked up impatiently.
“Mr. Douglas—” Ed began. He came into the room unsteadily—and stopped.
Douglas was not the same. Not at all. His whole office was changed: the rugs, the drapes. The desk was oak, not mahogany. And Douglas himself…
Douglas was younger, thinner. His hair, brown. His skin not so red. His face smoother. No wrinkles. Chin reshaped. Eyes green, not blue. He was a different man. But still Douglas—a different Douglas. A different version!
“What is it?” Douglas demanded impatiently. “Oh, it’s you, Fletcher. Where were you this morning?”
Ed backed out. Fast.
He slammed the door and hurried back through the inner office. Tom and Miss Evans glanced up, startled. Ed passed by them, grabbing the hall door open.