* *

He left the apartment some ten minutes later, and took a cab to 320
Fifth-Madison. It was almost five o'clock, and the steel-and-glass
cylinder was emptying rapidly of its Homelovers employees. He watched
the stream of ordinary people stepping off the elevators: the young
secretaries with their fresh faces and slim figures, laughing at office
anecdotes and sharing intimate confidences about office bachelors; the
smooth-cheeked young executives, in their gray and blue suits, gripping
well-stocked brief cases, and striding energetically down the lobby,
heading for the commuter trains; the paunchy, dignified men with their
gray temples and gleaming spectacles, walking slowly to the exits,
quoting stock prices and planning golf dates.

The crowd eddied about him like a battling current as he made his way
towards the elevators, and their images swam before his face in
pink-and-white blurs. And for one terrible moment, in the thickest
vortex of the crowd, he began to imagine that the faces were melting
before his eyes, the mouths disappearing into the flesh, and below the
white collars and black-knit ties and starched pink blouses appeared a
shimmering collection of ugly scales.

He shuddered, and stepped into an empty car, punching the button that
shot him to the executive floor of the Homelovers Building.

In his office, he switched on the visiphone and made contact with a
square-faced man who frowned mightily when he recognized his caller.

"What do you want?" Stinson said.

"I have to see you," Tom told him. "I learned something this afternoon,
about Walt Spencer. I don't know whether you'll believe it or not, but I
have to take that chance. Will you talk to me?"

"All right. But we'll have to make it down here."

"I'll be there in an hour. I want to organize a few things first. Then
we can talk."

Tom switched off, and began to empty his desk. He found nothing in the
official communications of the Homelovers that would substantiate his
story, but he continued to gather what information he could about the PR
program.

He was just clicking the locks on his brief case, when a gray-haired
woman with a pencil thrust into her curls popped her head in the
doorway.

"Mr. Blacker?" she smiled. "I'm Dora, Mr. Wright's secretary. Mr. Wright
wants to know if you'll stop in to see him."

"Wright?" Tom said blankly.

"The treasurer. His office is just down the hall. He's very anxious to
see you, somethi