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By Darwin L. Teilhet

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Sample text

She reseated herself and from a memorandum resumed reading aloud and with great clarity into the audio-typer, which immediately flashed a green light, gave me the impression of listening, suddenly burst out with a few microseconds of furious clacking, and then again appeared to listen intently. The door to my right opened. A large man of about fifty, with iron-gray hair in need of a haircut, and an old-shoe worn-looking face centered around a big nose above a long jaw, now entered, and quickly shut the door.

Laurel opened the door, pausing to say she'd be back within ten minutes or quicker. Turn on the heat lamp. Stay in here. Don't move. Everything was still all right. Just relax. She closed the door on me. The outer door tinkled. Laurel had gone, leaving me with a Rennilin tranquilizer between my fingers and the assurance everything was still all right and to relax. Just try. My watch said 4:08. Then, 4:09. I remembered a photomural on the corridor wall. The one showing one of the glowing tublike furnaces in which Transistor Productions grew silicon crystals.

Because of the rugs on the floor in this part of the building the messenger kid didn't have the roller skates; but the only thing slowing her speed below that of sound was me. While being guided through a long hushed corridor I saw another enlarged photomural extending all along one wall, and enormous ceiling-high windows along the other. The windows gave a view of rain, wet grass, drenched canvas chairs, a tile swimming pool and cabanas, all contained within the employee relaxation area. Another door opened.

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