Adjustment Team Read online

  “That’s right.” The clerk’s voice was faint and husky. “Very unfortunate.”

  “What exactly occurred?”

  “I started out this morning with my instruction sheets. The material relating to T137 had top priority, of course. I served notice on the summoner in my area that an eight-fifteen summons was required.”

  “Did the summoner understand the urgency?”

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk hesitated. “But—”

  “But what?”

  The clerk twisted miserably. “While my back was turned the summoner crawled back in his shed and went to sleep. I was occupied, checking the exact time with my watch. I called the moment—but there was no response.”

  “You called at eight-fifteen exactly?”

  “Yes, sir! Exactly eight-fifteen. But the summoner was asleep. By the time I managed to arouse him it was eight-sixteen. He summoned, but instead of a friend with a car we got a—a life insurance salesman.” The clerk’s face screwed up with disgust. “The salesman kept the element there until almost nine-thirty. Therefore he was late to work instead of early.”

  For a moment the old man was silent. “Then the element was not within T137 when the adjustment began.”

  “No. He arrived about ten o’clock.”

  “During the middle of the adjustment.” The old man got to his feet and paced slowly back and forth, face grim, hands behind his back. His long robe flowed out behind him. “A serious matter. During a sector adjustment all related elements from other sectors must be included. Otherwise, their orientations remain out of phase. When this element entered T137 the adjustment had been in progress fifty minutes. The element encountered the sector at its most de-energized stage. He wandered about until one of the adjustment teams met him.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “Unfortunately no. He fled, out of the sector. Into a nearby fully energized area.”

  “What—what then?”

  The old man stopped pacing, his lined face grim. He ran a heavy hand through his long white hair. “We do not know. We lost contact with him. We will reestablish contact soon, of course. But for the moment he is out of control.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “He must be contacted and contained. He must be brought up here. There’s no other solution.”

  “Up here!”

  “It is too late to de-energize him. By the time he is regained he will have told others. To wipe his mind clean would only complicate matters. Usual methods will not suffice. I must deal with this problem myself.”

  “I hope he’s located quickly,” the clerk said.

  “He will be. Every watcher is alerted. Every watcher and every summoner.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Even the clerks, although we hesitate to count on them.”

  The clerk flushed. “I’ll be glad when this thing is over,” he muttered.

  Ruth came tripping down the stairs and out of the building, into the hot noonday sun. She lit a cigarette and hurried along the walk, her small bosom rising and falling as she breathed in the spring air.

  “Ruth.” Ed stepped up behind her.

  “Ed!” She spun, gasping in astonishment. “What are you doing away from—?”

  “Come on.” Ed grabbed her arm, pulling her along. “Let’s keep moving.”

  “But what—?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” Ed’s face was pale and grim. “Let’s go where we can talk. In private.”

  “I was going down to have lunch at Louie’s. We can talk there.” Ruth hurried along breathlessly. “What is it? What’s happened? You look so strange. And why aren’t you at work? Did you—did you get fired?”

  They crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. Men and women milled around, getting their lunch. Ed found a table in the back, secluded in a corner. “Here.” He sat down abruptly. “This will do.” She slid into the other chair.

  Ed ordered a cup of coffee. Ruth had salad and creamed tuna on toast, coffee and peach pie. Silently, Ed watched her as she ate, his face dark and moody.

  “Please tell me,” Ruth begged.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Of course I want to know!” Ruth put her small hand anxiously on his. “I’m your wife.”

  “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.”

  “Okay,” 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. “Okay? 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 qu
estion.”

  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.”