“What’s to do?” He shrugged and stood there, a pitiable, defeated sight.
“March right back in there and let him know what’ll happen if he lets you go. Give him a picture of the impact that the loss of your expertise will have on this organization.”
“Oh, Tal, I can’t do that. I can’t blow my own horn,” he said despairingly. “He wouldn’t believe me as much as he would someone else.”
“By God, then I’ll do it!” I exclaimed, not unaware of the admiring attention I was receiving from the other workers sitting nearby. “I’ll go in and lay it out for Stromberg. Don’t worry, Mac, you’ll still have your job at the end of the day.”
Then to the silent huzzas of the people in the outer office I marched down the long aisle formed by two rows of identical desks to the ominous green door behind which sat the equally ominous Stromberg. I tell you it took nerve and I won’t say I didn’t look back. I did once and was confirmed in my resolve when I saw the glimmer of hope spreading across the face of my little buddy, Yuddic McGill.
I pushed myself forward, ignoring the protest of Miss Frisby, Stromberg’s secretary, and threw open the door. Stromberg looked up from a pink form in front of him and smiled inquiringly as if he had been expecting me (the man has spies everywhere). I recognized the form and noticed it was still blank. Talk about timing!
I moved into the office, slammed the door, and before Stromberg could say one word, was all over him.
“Mr. Stromberg, if you fill in that pink slip you’re getting rid of one of the best men we have. McGill’s a man of unquestioned ability. Firing him will be like slicing off your right arm. Accounts Receivable will pile up a week’s backlog in two or three days. He’s the real strength in this department.”
And I went on with much more of the same puffery, but that gives you the idea. All the time Stromberg just sat there silently and smilingly taking it in. When I paused to catch my breath, he said crisply, “Thanks. Appreciate it.” Then he picked up the phone and pressed an intercom button.
Miss Frisby came on and Stromberg barked, “Ring McGill’s desk!” A pause during which he smiled some more at me. “That you, Mac? Forget what I told you earlier. Right, you’re not fired. Good God, man, stop blubbering and get back to work!”
He slammed down the instrument and looked at me. I’m sure my face showed real gratitude as I said, “You won’t regret it, sir. McGill will give you a fair shake. Nine for every eight you pay him, I’m sure.”
“Took a lot of courage coming in here,” Stromberg said briefly and then went back to the pink form in front of him and began filling in the spaces.
What’s this? I thought. Was it all some sort of unfeeling joke played on poor Mac?
I was wrong. Stromberg handed me a copy of the completed form. My name was on it. There I had it, my two weeks’ notice. I was fired! I could hardly keep myself from strangling the man right there at his desk.
“It was either McGill or you,” Stromberg explained. “It was McGill until you barged in here and did a good selling job on him.”
“Oh, sir,” I whined, all the starch gone from my voice, “won’t you please reconsider?”
“Sure, if you can get McGill to quit,” Stromberg said and cackled cruelly.
In the outer office I joined the others in congratulating Mac on his deliverance and in accepting accolades for my part in it. I didn’t tell anyone that I’d gotten the ax, particularly not Mac. I couldn’t spoil his good news with my bad; nor could I make the ridiculous request that he decline Stromberg’s benevolence so that I’d be kept on.
Instead, I put on a good face and only let it slip when my eye chanced on the green door at the end of the aisle. Then and there I devised a course of action that, while precipitate, would be extremely satisfying.
That’s why I am waiting now on this stairwell. My character is repulsed at what I have resolved to do, but a spirit of survival possesses me. I’ve finally learned that, these days, the bell tolls only for the guy going to his own funeral. A bystander’s got to close his ears to the ding-dong.
He’s up there in the office, concluding the conscientious extra hour he always puts in. Stromberg left some time ago. Only Mac and I are in the building.
Sorry, little buddy.
The Box
by Isak Romun
Working for Stromberg was like being locked in a box. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t get out. That’s how I felt — as if I were in a box, and only Stromberg had the key.
But one day I found another key, one that would unlock the lid of the box just as effectively as Stromberg’s key. Which he would never use. So I would use my own.
My key was death.
Once I had made the decision, I found it quite easy to live with. With something like gusto I attacked the matter of a plan — how I would kill Stromberg. It should not be something complex or difficult. Simple plans are usually the safest. But I had no experience.
Oh, certainly, I had read mystery stories, had even in my mind concocted ways and means of putting to rest the fictional victims I met on the printed page. And with more panache than many of their creators! But there’s a difference between a cold, paper thing and a warm, pulsing human organism. Not that Stromberg could be called warm and pulsing. He was like a fish, and it was my intent to hook that fish.
But how to hook him? I thought of poison. Traceable. A hit-and-run accident. Unpredictable — Stromberg might not die. A gun. Noisy and messy. Besides, none of these methods passed the test of simplicity. I determined to use materials and circumstances at hand.
I was evaluating the merits of a push down a stairway when Hopkinson came up to me. “I’ll need two dollars from you,” he said. I asked why. “Stromberg’s farewell gift. He’s put in for retirement. Lucky you. I hear he said you were the only man to fill his shoes.” Did I hear right? Was it true?
It was true! Suddenly I was outside my box. I would not have to kill Stromberg. Matter of fact, he began to look quite human to me. I realized with remorse that what I thought were constraints on me were, in reality, his way of testing me, of training me. That good fellow really had my best interests at heart. At his retirement bash we posed for a parting photo, smiling, each with an arm about the other’s shoulder.
I’ve been chief now for almost five years. But don’t think it’s been all fun. By no means. When you become a supervisor, you take on something called responsibility. Something only you have. It’s up to you to see that the job gets done, that your section functions smoothly.
I swear, though, there are times I throw up my hands in despair. I’m pressured to produce, but with what must I produce? A bunch of incompetents who’d rather hang around the water cooler than do an honest day’s work.
The worst is Hopkinson. He said a strange unsettling thing to me the other day. He said working for me is like being locked in a box.
Perhaps I should check with the personnel office about retirement.
The Physician and the Opium Fiend
by R. L. Stevens
The lamplights along Cavendish Square were just being lit, casting a soft pale glow across the damp London night, as Blair slipped from the court behind Dr. Lanyon’s house. It had been another failure, another robbery of a physician’s office that yielded him but a few shillings. He cursed silently and started across the Square, then drew back quickly as a hansom cab hurried past, the horse’s hoofs clattering on the cobblestones.