Tuesday to Bed. Francis Sill Wickware
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it,” Stanton said gently. He thought, She’s behaving like a child, behaving the way I thought Jerry might behave, but never did. This is a bad situation, he added to himself. He turned to the windows and said, “Suppose you call Wilhelm for me now, Helen? I want to talk to Jake for a minute.”
“Yes, Mr. Wylie.”
It was a small office, too small for Stanton’s needs, but the best he could find, and the first office he ever had had for himself. The reception room was not much larger than a closet, and Stanton’s own office barely accommodated his necessary furniture and a drawing board, with a few square feet of clear space by the windows where he could pace back and forth when he had a problem on his mind. There was a third room which they called the shop, although it was too cramped for any real production. Stanton’s ambition was to get enough space so that he could have his own model department, instead of sending jobs outside, because model building was the part of the work which he most enjoyed.
He walked into the shop and greeted Jake Bundy, his young assistant who had come to him during the summer, fresh out of Harvard. Jake was an agreeably homely, pug-faced youth with black-rimmed glasses and a crew haircut. He was now rummaging about in the racks where they kept samples of new materials.
“Morning, Jake. What’s the word?”
“I’m looking for something else to try,” Jake said. “I fiddled around with spun glass, but it won’t work. See.”
Stanton went over to the workbench under the fluorescent-light fixture. There were two oblong pieces of blue Koroseal stretched across the bench, and a fluffy pile of spun glass. The bench also held a small power saw, and an electric drill.
“It’s too bulky, for one thing,” Jake said. He spread a layer of the glass over one piece of Koroseal, then placed the other strip on top of it. “You see? And I can’t figure out a way to bind the glass to the plastic. It would all bunch up every time you put the top up or down.”
Stanton usually had several experimental projects going, and this was one of them—a Koroseal top for convertible automobiles. Koroseal had any number of advantages over the conventional rubberized canvas material. It was practically impervious to weather, could be matched to any finish color, and could be kept immaculately clean with a minimum of effort. The problem was to find a durable filler material that could be used between layers of Koroseal to serve as insulation and make the top opaque.
“No, that’s no good,” Stanton said. “I heard about a new DuPont fabric that might be just the thing—heavy parachute nylon impregnated with styrene. I should think several thicknesses could be laminated.”
“Yes, that would do it. We wouldn’t have to worry about binding it, either. The Koroseal would fit over it, like an envelope.”
“Give DuPont a ring Monday morning, Jake, and have them send us some samples. I don’t know what they call the stuff, but Harrison will tell you. Now, why don’t you knock off for the rest of the day? I’m not going to do anything, and there’s no reason for you hanging around.”
“Well, if you don’t need me——”
“No, not a thing. This isn’t a good day for working, somehow. Why don’t you go out to the track?” he suggested, knowing that Jake had a fondness for improving the breed. “Where are they running now?”
“Empire,” said Jake. “I might do that. I’ve got my eye on a nag in the fifth.”
“Sure, good idea,” said Stanton. “While you’re at it, how about putting down a little bet for me?” He took out his wallet and handed Jake a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll split with you.”
“Okay. I hope the nag doesn’t run backward.”
Miss Rice appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Wylie,” she said. “The secretary of a Mr. Hazen is on the wire, and wants to know if he can come and see you at two-thirty. She says it’s very important.”
“Oh, yes,” Stanton said with a quick frown. “Tell her I’ll be expecting him. Well, good luck, Jake,” he added. “Come back from the race with a bundle.”
“I’ll try,” said Jake. “Thanks for letting me off, and the very best to you in Chicago, Mr. Wylie. Not that you’ll need any luck out there, of course, but still we’ll all be chewing our nails tomorrow night. So long!”
Stanton returned to his office and sat down at his desk. The much edited manuscript of his speech was in front of him, and he leafed through the pages, holding one of the thin brown architect’s pencils which Miss Rice kept needle-sharp for him. But he couldn’t seem to concentrate, and after a while he got up and moved to the windows. He stood there, looking out at the gray sky and listening to the muted roar of the city which ascended thirty stories from the street. What’s the matter with me? Stanton said to himself. Probably one of Hazen’s clients has some job or other, and the old man’s excited about it. But why—?
Chester Hazen arrived almost on the second of half past two. He seemed to show his age much more than he had in the morning, and there was no merriment in his face when Miss Rice led him into the office. She helped him off with his coat. He nodded thanks to her, and shook hands with Stanton.
“Sit down, Mr. Hazen,” Stanton said. “That armchair there is an odd shape, but it’s comfortable.”
“No—no, think I’ll stay on my feet. You sit down, Stanton, wherever you usually sit.” He produced a handkerchief and ran it across his forehead. “I hoped I wouldn’t have any occasion to make this visit, but I . . . well, here I am.”
“You certainly managed to puzzle me a good deal,” Stanton said. “I’ve been wondering what this is about.”
“Yes. I’m sorry for that, but I had a reason. Stanton—” the lawyer faced him across the desk—“you aren’t going to like what I have to say any more than I like saying it. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do for years.”
There was a tap at the door of the office, and Miss Rice entered.
“Yes, Helen?”
“There’s a man on the wire from the American Weekly,” she said. “He’s writing a feature story about the new UN development, and he wants to know whether you think there’s any way of making the buildings so that they can survive an atom-bomb attack.”
“Certainly,” said Stanton.
“There is?” Miss Rice asked in surprise. “How?”
“All they have to do is to construct the buildings so that the top stories are a quarter of a mile underground.”
“Oh, Mr. Wylie! You don’t really want to tell him that, do you?”
“No, I suppose not,” Stanton said. “Tell him—tell him there’s no possible way of building an atomproof skyscraper. And Helen——”
“Yes, sir?”
“No more calls or interruptions, please, while I’m with Mr. Hazen.”
“All right, Mr. Wylie.”
“Now?” said Stanton, when Miss Rice closed the door. He sank into his desk chair. “Go on, Mr. Hazen.”
The lawyer again used his handkerchief. “You’ll have to be patient with me, Stanton, if I seem to tell you this in a round-about way,” he said. “I can deal with proxies, and SEC filing patent litigation, that sort of thing, but this is——”
“Go on, Mr. Hazen.”
“Well, to begin with, you understand that my firm handles corporation accounts exclusively. We don’t do any criminal law, or any divorce work.”
Stanton said nothing. The office suddenly seemed quite chilly, although Hazen’s face was shining pinkly.
“But once in a while a client comes to us, and says he wants a divorce, and what should he do about