Last Summer at Mars Hill (26 page)

One afternoon the copier in her office broke. A vast machine that took up most of a large room, it exhaled manuscripts and charts and reports along with the fumes of dry ink and expensive rag paper. When it died, gasping out a final stream of crumpled papers with a vindictive wheeze, panicky secretaries raced to pile papers atop Rebecca’s desk.

“You can type, right?” the office manager demanded, reshuffling the stack in front of Rebecca so that her own work was on top.

Rebecca nodded, dazed. “But not all this—I can’t possibly do fifteen copies of all this—”

“Then see if
they’ve
got a copier!” snapped the office manager, raking her nails across the sheaf of papers so that they left faint razor lines pointing in the direction of the office next door. “I’ve got a French-wrap manicure scheduled for three and
I need that report ASAP
.”

After the office manager stormed off Rebecca pulled a comb through her hair, wincing at the curls that snarled the plastic teeth. She shouldn’t have tried the home perm. Now her hair was falling out, and the home cello-color kit she’d charged at The Body Electric had stained her dry curls a jaundiced yellow. Hastily she ran a tube of
Oh! de Bris
lip emulsifier over her mouth, then gathered the stack of papers into her arms.

A very small brass plate identified the World Business Forum office. There was no doorbell; no internal security system intercom. Rebecca hesitated before rapping at the polished oaken door. After a moment she knocked again, and this time heard the creak of a chair being pushed across the floor, then the muted thud of footsteps.

“Yes?” An unfamiliar man’s voice, quivering with age and suspicion.

“It’s Rebecca, from next door,” said Rebecca, coughing in embarrassment. “I—um, our copier broke—do you think I could use yours for just a minute please?”

“Hold on.” Scrabbling and clinking; the whirr of bolts being drawn. Then a wizened face popped out. “May I help you?”

Rebecca stepped back, startled, and dropped several reports. “The copier,” she repeated breathlessly, stooping to retrieve the papers and spilling more in the process. “Please—is Mr. Lancaster in?”

The man swung the door inwards, shaking his head. “No, he’s not here today. I really don’t see how I can help you—”

“It’s just that they gave me all this—” Rebecca exclaimed helplessly, stumbling into the office after him.
“Oh
.” She straightened and fell silent.

Dark oaken paneling covered high walls, glistening with lemon oil that scented the room faintly. Burgundy wing chairs, their leather veined and cracked with age, circled a long and intricately carven table. There was a small but ornate desk adorned with marble pen-holders and an ancient Royal Upright typewriter, black and gleaming and segmented like a scorpion. An elephant’s-foot waste-basket filled with papers stood beside the desk.

“I think there might be some carbon paper,” the man was saying brusquely as he marched to the desk. He began to pull open tiny drawers and rummage through pigeonholes adrift with pencils and pen-nibs. “We haven’t hired a girl yet and I really don’t know what’s here—”

“Oh,” Rebecca repeated as she clutched her papers to her chest, staring at the gilded arabesques of an Art Nouveau floor lamp, the bronze bookends shaped like inscrutable sphinxes. With some relief she noted a Magister phone deck in its case on the floor.

“Have you—are you very busy here?”

“Hmm. I know we ordered some,” muttered the old man, glancing up as he clinked together several bottles of Indian ink. “Well, I guess not. No—er, not quite busy. This is a slow time of year for us.” With a muffled groan he straightened and Rebecca grimaced sympathetically.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean for you—thank you anyway.”

The man nodded, rubbing his bald head and then adjusting his cufflinks—which were, Rebecca noted with some amazement, of exquisitely wrought gold, and shaped like the heads of the sphinxes atop the beveled-glass bookcase.

“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” he said gruffly, and with a slight nod motioned her towards the door. “But I must get back to my work now. Goodbye.”

“Bye,” chimed Rebecca, turning to wave. But the door had already clicked shut behind her, leaving only the musky fragrance of old leather and lemon oil in the chilly hallway.

Autumn shuddered into winter and still she remained at the firm. Meanwhile, Lorimer Brothers got involved in the successful buyouts of a large avionics manufacturer and the Paddy O’Furniture chain of deluxe wicker ware. Senior staff members were rewarded with a sky trip to Vail. The office manager’s secretary hired his own secretary. And more and more often Rebecca worked late, hand-addressing Christmas cards and typing up invitation lists for holiday gatherings that never included her.

One such evening found her there past nine o’clock. All day the Nuzak endlessly intoned market returns, futures information, industrial averages. Now it finally fell silent. From back offices wafted the faint ticking of sleepless analysts’ fingers upon keyboards. She heard the fax keening to itself; the dry chatter of the telex machine chewing through reels of newsprint. After several hours Banzai Sushi-Togo delivered a plastic laminate tray of sashimi for the analysts and VPs. Rebecca smiled wanly as the leather-clad courier left, trailing the scent of wasabi and shaved bonito, and wished she’d brought an extra can of tuna fish. Once or twice the telephone rang and she took messages. She addressed more Christmas cards and read the latest issue of SEXFAX! She dozed.

And jerked awake, the edge of the console raking her wrist as she shook her head. Shouting. Certain she’d been caught sleeping again, she whirled and snagged her ankle in the stirrup of the ergonomic chair as she stumbled to her feet.

There was no one in the front office. Rebecca blinked and rubbed her eyes, wincing as the charcoal mascara left smears across her hand. Muffled thuds and moans from the back offices signaled that the analysts and VPs were taking a break from research and performing their plastimetrix exercises. That was all. Rebecca turned back to her console, relieved.

And heard it again. Deep chanting tones, masculine, wordless, throbbing with obscene portent. They echoed dully from the hallway, and with a start Rebecca realized the ominous voices came from the World Business Forum.

Football?
she wondered, but it was Tuesday night. Warily she crept from her console.

That was when she saw the smoke curling from beneath the door of the World Business Forum office. For a long moment she just stared, watching the gray-green plumes rising from the aubergine carpet to form a heavy viscous curtain that severed her view of the corridor. Not until she actually smelled the smoke did she stir. An acrid yet cloying scent, redolent of funerals and the wrong sort of poster shops. With a muted shriek Rebecca dashed into the hallway.

“Mr. Lancaster! Mr. Lancaster! Are you okay?” she choked, pounding on the door. Smoke slid down her throat like pungent oil. “Mr. Lancaster!”

Abruptly the door swung open. Coughing, Rebecca wiped tears from her eyes to focus on the pinched shape of the frail old man she had seen last time.

“Yes?” he hissed, waving the smoke from his cheeks with an irritated flourish. “What is it now?”

Rebecca stared dumbfounded. Then came a small sound, like the turning of a key in a lock, and Mr. Lancaster stepped from the haze, smiling gently.

“My dear Miss Strunk!” he murmured, and clapped his hand upon the other man’s shoulder. “I beg your pardon, Edmund…”

Glowering, the first man stalked back into the murky office. Mr. Lancaster produced a huge linen handkerchief and waved it, dispersing most of the smoke. “You must forgive us, Miss Strunk,” he said. From a hidden pocket in his somber gray, suit he withdrew a tiny scissors and a cigar bound with silver filigree. “The proverbial gathering of the Old Boy Network in a smoke-filled room.” With a wry smile he sheared the end from the cigar.

“Ohhh,” Rebecca breathed in relief. “I was so afraid—I thought the smoke—I thought there was a fire.”

Mr. Lancaster replaced the scissors, pursing his lips. “How thoughtful of you to think of us,” he said gently, placing one hand upon Rebecca’s shoulder to steer her towards her own office. “Although—heaven forbid!—should there ever be a
real
fire, certainly you should think of your own safety, and call the fire department.”

Crestfallen, Rebecca nodded and bit her lip. “I panicked,” she admitted.

“Don’t fret, Miss Strunk,” continued Mr. Lancaster, pausing in his office’s doorway. “People panic over less important things all the time. Perhaps you are over-tired.” He peered thoughtfully at her wide pale face and reddened eyes, pinched to slits by fatigue. “It’s late. Why don’t you go home now?”

“Oh, I will. Soon,” sighed Rebecca, then smiled. “Good night, Mr. Lancaster.”

Next morning she overslept. She arrived thirty minutes late to discover a new mound of invitations to be addressed, printed on mock papyrus with the Lorimer Brothers hologram. There was also a memo revoking extra holiday leave for all non-essential personnel. Sighing, Rebecca settled at her console and began sifting through her morning’s work.

She didn’t even hear the Engels enter the office. A slight cough made her jump, dropping her alphabetized stack of cards. When she looked up they stood before her desk, stark and stunning as twin pillars of gold.

“Ah—can I help you?” Rebecca stammered, stumbling to her feet and ripping her stockings on the console.

The woman regarded her coldly. “We are here to see the Vice Presidents.” Her crimson lips parted to reveal teeth so glitteringly white that Rebecca didn’t even notice they were bared in a snarl rather than a smile. “Will you tell them we are here?”

“Uh—n-no one without an appointment,” stuttered Rebecca. In the halogen lights the woman’s hair flamed in a brilliant golden nimbus around her face. Blinking, Rebecca turned to stare at the man beside her. He did not smile, but his azure eyes gazed at Rebecca caressingly. When he licked his lips she slid limply back into her chair.

“Tell them the Engels are here,” he purred, glancing down at a scrawled note on her desk.
“Rebecca.”

“The Engels,” she repeated, looking at them with a glazed expression.

“Myself and my sister,” the man explained, flicking an atom of dust from the lapel of his caracal overcoat. “Our card.” He whisked a tiny placard from an onyx case and placed it before her. Then he smiled and, taking his sister’s arm, glanced conspiratorially at Rebecca.

“This way?” He raised an eyebrow rakishly, pointing to the back offices with a kid-gloved hand.
“Rebecca?”

Rebecca nodded rapidly, still too dazed to speak, and watched the pair stride past. Their briefcases bumped together with a kiss of exotic leathers: distressed ostrich and moray eelskin. Rebecca wondered if the metal clasps and hinges glowing so lustrously could possibly be real gold and platinum.

“Gee,” she whispered when they had disappeared, and only then realized her intercom was buzzing.

“This is Rebecca,” she answered breathlessly, but the caller was already gone. When she looked up the office manager was marching down the hall towards her.

“Who the hell was that?” she demanded, snatching the business card but holding it so that Rebecca could read as well.

Grædig & Avaratia Engel

Futures Speculation

“Oh,” the office manager said knowingly.
“Europeans.”
Then she glared at Rebecca. “But
no one
comes in without an appointment. I see I’ll just have to do your job for you.” She spun about, her chrome heel grinding into the carpet, and called back warningly, “Your six-month review is coming soon, Rebecca.” Then she stalked into the back office.

Rebecca waited anxiously for the office manager to return, Engels in tow. An hour passed; nothing. When she tried to patch phone calls to the VPs their secretaries flashed
DO NOT DISTURB
signals back to Rebecca’s console. Several times admiring laughter echoed from the offices, and once a brittle burst of applause startled Rebecca as she hunched over her mound of invitations.

At lunchtime she finally heard doors opening in the back, and after a few minutes the Engels entered the reception area once more—this time surrounded by excited VPs and analysts. The office manager trailed several feet behind them, her yearning gaze fixed upon Grædig Engel’s caracal topcoat.

“Will you please make a luncheon reservation for thirteen at Priazzi Inferno?” a VP commanded Rebecca, then turned to pump Avaratia Engel’s hand.

“This is an extraordinary piece of work,” the VP beamed, waving a portfolio bound in glossy black sharkskin. “And I just can’t tell you how fortuitous it is that you approached us first, Ms. Engel—”

“I believe you mean
fortunate
,” Grædig Engel corrected him, deflecting a yawn with his long pale fingers. “And I regret that my sister and I will be unable to join you for lunch—”

“But you must!” cried another Vice President, covetously eyeing Grædig Engel’s attaché case. “They serve the most superb blowfish
rillettes
!”

Avaratia wrinkled her nose in distaste, stooping to whisk a chamois glove across the instep of one gavial boot. “I’m afraid we have another appointment this afternoon,” she said, tossing her mane of golden hair. “Perhaps another time.”

The Vice President looked crushed. Smiling, Avaratia took her brother’s arm. Rebecca stared entranced at the curve of her neck, the warm reflection cast upon her throat by the heavy gold chain nestling there. For a moment the two stood poised, Avaratia gazing out into the corridor, Grædig beside her a lupine shadow hidden within the folds of his caracal coat, cashmere scarf coiled about his neck. Then, with slight bows to the staff crowding the reception area, the Engels turned and strode down the hall.

A breathless instant, so still that Rebecca could hear the creak of Avaratia’s boots, the rustle of her brother’s coat. Then—

“Did you see his
ring
?”

“—guarantees return at three-hundred percent if we strike this week!”

“—dyed,
has
to be—”