"Something happened today. This morning. I was late to work. A damn insurance man came by and held me up. I was half an hour late."
Ruth caught her breath. "Douglas fired you."
"No." Ed ripped a paper napkin slowly into bits. He stuffed the bits in the half-empty water glass. "I was worried as hell. I got off the bus and hurried down the street. I noticed it when I stepped up on the curb in front of the office."
"Noticed what?"
Ed told her. The whole works. Everything.
When he had finished, Ruth sat back, her face white, hands trembling. "I see," she murmured. "No wonder you're upset." She drank a little cold coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer. "What a terrible thing."
Ed leaned intently toward his wife. "Ruth. Do you think I'm going crazy?"
Ruth's red lips twisted. "I don't know what to say. It's so strange...."
"Yeah. Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through them. Like they were clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures." Ed lit a cigarette from Ruth's pack. "When I got out I looked back and there it was. The office building. Like always."
"You were afraid Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren't you?"
"Sure. I was afraid—and guilty." Ed's eyes flickered. "I know what you're thinking. I was late and I couldn't face him. So I had some sort of protective psychotic fit. Retreat from reality," He stubbed the cigarette out savagely. "Ruth, I've been wandering around town since. Two and a half hours. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm afraid like hell to go back."
"Of Douglas?"
"No! The men in white." Ed shuddered. "God. Chasing me. With their damn hoses and—and equipment."
Ruth was silent. Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. "You have to go back, Ed."
"Back? Why?"
"To prove something."
"Prove what?"
"Prove it's all right." Ruth's hand pressed against his. "You have to, Ed. You have to go back and face it. To show yourself there's nothing to be afraid of."
"The hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I saw—behind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don't want to go back. I don't want to see dust people again. Ever."
Ruth's eyes were fixed intently on him. "I'll go back with you," she said.
"For God's sake."
"For your sake. For your sanity. So you'll know." Ruth 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."
"OK," 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. "OK? 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 black. 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. "Hey!" Tom called. "What—?"
Ed hurried down the hall. Terror leaped through him. He had to hurry. He had seen. There wasn't much time. He came to the elevator and stabbed the button. No time.
He ran to the stairs and started down. He reached the second floor. His terror grew. It was a matter of seconds.
Seconds!
The public phone. Ed ran into the phone booth. He dragged the door shut after him. Wildly, he dropped a dime in the slot and dialed. He had to call the police. He held the receiver to his ear, his heart pounding.
Warn them. Changes. Somebody tampering with reality. Altering it. He had been right. The white-clad men... their equipment... going through the building.
"Hello!" Ed shouted hoarsely. There was no answer. No hum. Nothing.
Ed peered frantically out the door.
And he sagged, defeated. Slowly he hung up the telephone receiver.
He was no longer on the second floor. The phone booth was rising, leaving the second floor behind, carrying him up, faster and faster. It rose floor by floor, moving silently, swiftly.
The phone booth passed through the ceiling of the building and out into the bright sunlight. It gained speed. The ground fell away below. Buildings and streets were getting smaller each moment. Tiny specks hurried along, far below, cars and people, dwindling rapidly.
Clouds drifted between him and the earth. Ed shut his eyes, dizzy with fright. He held on desperately to the door handles of the phone booth.
Faster and faster the phone booth climbed. The earth was rapidly being left behind, far below.
Ed peered up wildly. Where? Where was he going? Where was it taking him?
He stood gripping the door handles, waiting.
The Clerk nodded curtly. "That's him, all right. The element in question."
Ed Fletcher looked around him. He was in a huge chamber. The edges fell away into indistinct shadows. In front of him stood a man with notes and ledgers under his arm, peering at him through steel-rimmed glasses. He was a nervous little man, sharp-eyed, with celluloid collar, blue serge suit, vest, watch chain. He wore black shiny shoes. And beyond him—
An old man sat quietly, in an immense modern chair. He watched Fletcher calmly, his blue eyes mild and tired. A strange thrill shot through Fletcher. It was not fear. Rather it was a vibration, rattling his bones—a deep sense of awe, tinged with fascination.
"Where—what is this place?" he asked faintly. He was still dazed from his quick ascent.
"Don't ask questions!" the nervous little man snapped angrily, tapping his pencil against his ledgers. "You're here to answer, not ask."
The Old Man moved a little. He raised his hand. "I will speak to the element alone," he murmured. His voice was low. It vibrated and rumbled through the chamber. Again the wave of fascinated awe swept Ed.
"Alone?" The little fellow backed away, gathering his books and papers in his arms. "Of course." He glanced hostilely at Ed Fletcher. "I'm glad he's finally in custody. All the work and trouble just for—"
He disappeared through a door. The door closed softly behind him. Ed and the Old Man were alone.
"Please sit down," the Old Man said.
Ed found a seat. He sat down awkwardly, nervously. He got out his cigarettes and then put them away again.
"What's wrong?" the Old Man asked.
"I'm just beginning to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That I'm dead."
The Old Man smiled briefly. "Dead? No, you're not dead. You're... visiting. An unusual event, but necessitated by circumstances." He leaned toward Ed. "Mr. Fletcher, you have got yourself involved in something."
"Yeah," Ed agreed. "I wish I knew what it was. Or how it happened."
"It was not your fault. You're the victim of a clerical error. A mistake was made—not by you. But involving you."
"What mistake?" Ed rubbed his forehead wearily. "I—I got in on something. I saw through. I saw something I wasn't supposed to see."
The Old Man nodded. "That's right. You saw something you were not supposed to see—something few elements have been aware of, let alone witnessed."
"Elements?"
"An official term. Let it pass. A mistake was made, but we hope to rectify it. It is my hope that—"
"Those people," Ed interrupted. "Heaps of dry ash. And gray. Like they were dead. Only it was everything: the stairs and walls and floor. No color or life."
"That Sector had been temporarily de-energized. So the adjustment team could enter and effect changes."
"Changes." Ed nodded. "That's right. When I went back later, everything was alive again. But not the same. It was all different."
"The adjustment was complete by noon. The team finished its work and re-energized the Sector."
"I see," Ed muttered.
"You were supposed to have been in the Sector when the adjustment began. Because of an error you were not. You came into the Sector late—during the adjustment itself. You fled, and when you returned it was over. You saw, and you should not have seen. Instead of a witness you should have been part of the adjustment. Like the others, you should have undergone changes."
Sweat came out on Ed Fletcher's head. He wiped it away. His stomach turned over. Weakly, he cleared his throat. "I get the picture." His voice was almost inaudible. A chilling premonition moved through him. "I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess something went wrong."
"Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new configuration."
"Gosh," Ed muttered. "Well, I won't tell anybody." Cold sweat poured off him. "You can count on that. I'm as good as changed."
"You have already told someone," the Old Man said coldly.
"Me?" Ed blinked. "Who?"
"Your wife."
Ed trembled. The color drained from his face, leaving it sickly white. "That's right. I did."
"Your wife knows." The Old Man's face twisted angrily. "A woman. Of all the things to tell—"
"I didn't know." Ed retreated, panic leaping through him. "But I know now. You can count on me. Consider me changed."
The ancient blue eyes bored keenly into him, peering far into his depths. "And you were going to call the police. You wanted to inform the authorities."
"But I didn't know who was doing the changing."
"Now you know. The natural process must be supplemented—adjusted here and there. Corrections must be made. We are fully licensed to make such corrections. Our adjustment teams perform vital work."
Ed plucked up a measure of courage. "This particular adjustment. Douglas. The office. What was it for? I'm sure it was some worthwhile purpo
se."
The Old Man waved his hand. Behind him in the shadows an immense map glowed into existence. Ed caught his breath. The edges of the map faded off in obscurity. He saw an infinite web of detailed sections, a network of squares and ruled lines. Each square was marked. Some glowed with a blue light. The lights altered constantly.
"The Sector Board," the Old Man said. He sighed wearily. "A staggering job. Sometimes we wonder how we can go on another period. But it must be done. For the good of all. For your good."
"The change. In our—our Sector."
"Your office deals in real estate. The old Douglas was a shrewd man, but rapidly becoming infirm. His physical health was waning. In a few days Douglas will be offered a chance to purchase a large unimproved forest area in western Canada. It will require most of his assets. The older, less virile Douglas would have hesitated. It is imperative he not hesitate. He must purchase the area and clear the land at once. Only a younger man—a younger Douglas—would undertake this.
"When the land is cleared, certain anthropological remains will be discovered. They have already been placed there. Douglas will lease his land to the Canadian Government for scientific study. The remains found there will cause international excitement in learned circles.
"A chain of events will be set in motion. Men from numerous countries will come to Canada to examine the remains. Soviet, Polish, and Czech scientists will make the journey.
"The chain of events will draw these scientists together for the first time in years. National research will be temporarily forgotten in the excitement of these non-national discoveries. One of the leading Soviet scientists will make friends with a Belgian scientist. Before they depart they will agree to correspond—without the knowledge of their governments, of course.
"The circle will widen. Other scientists on both sides will be drawn in. A society will be founded. More and more educated men will transfer an increasing amount of time to this international society. Purely national research will suffer a slight but extremely critical eclipse. The war tension will somewhat wane.
"This alteration is vital. And it is dependent on the purchase and clearing of the section of wilderness in Canada. The old Douglas would not have dared take the risk. But the altered Douglas, and his altered, more youthful staff, will pursue this work with wholehearted enthusiasm. And from this, the vital chain of widening events will come about. The beneficiaries will be you. Our methods may seem strange and indirect. Even incomprehensible. But I assure you we know what we're doing."