"Money due is always paid," Howards said, flipping open the rusty book while trying to touch it only with the tips of his fingers. He Pointed to a torn fragment of paper. "Here is the reason. The page is missing. To authorize payment you must get form 925/lk(43) and have it filled out."
"I have it," the woman told him, and pushed over — almost threw, in fact) — an even more creased and soiled piece of paper. Howards hoped that none of his feelings were revealed on his face as he turned and read it.
"This is the correct form, madam, but it is not completely rilled out. In this blank here you must enter your deceased husband's insurance number."
"I do not know his number," the woman shrilled and clutched tightly to the counter's edge. "He is dead and his papers, they were all destroyed, you see."
"In that case you must obtain form 276/po(67), which is an application to the proper authorities for the required information." He pushed the papers with what he hoped was a smile. "You can obtain an application for this form—"
"I will die first," the old woman screamed and threw all her papers into the air so that they fluttered down around her like filthy confetti. "I have not eaten for a week. I demand justice. I must have money for food…"
It was all quite distasteful. "I wish I could oblige, madam, but I have no authority. You should apply for the form of application to see the Emergency officer…"
"I will be dead first!" she shouted hoarsely, and thrust her face toward his. He could smell her sour breath and quickly withdrew. "Have you no pity on someone my age? I could be your mother."
"Thankfully, madam, you are not. My mother has the proper forms…"
"Forms!" Her voice screeched higher and higher until it cracked. "You care more for forms than for human life. I swore I would kill myself unless I obtained money for food today. Save me!"
"Please do not threaten. I have done what I can." Had he? Was there some authority he should summon? Was he correct—?
"Better a quick death than one of slow starvation. Money — or I die!"
She had a large bread knife now and was waving it before him. Was this a threat? Did it call for the guards?
"I cannot…" Howards gasped, and his fingers hovered over the keys in an agony of indecision. Guards? Doctor? Police?
"Then I die, and it is a world I do not regret losing." She held one hand on the counter, palm up, and with a savage slash of the knife almost severed the hand from the wrist. Thick blood spurted high.
"What have you done?" he shouted and reached for the keys. But she began to scream and wave her arm and blood spattered him and gushed over the counter.
"The Book!" he gasped. "You're getting blood on the Book! You cannot!" He pulled it away and began to dab at it with his handkerchief, then remembered that he had not yet summoned help. He hesitated, torn, then put the Book in the farthest corner and rushed back to his position. There was blood everywhere — had he made a mistake? — and the woman had sunk from sight but he could still hear her moans.
"Medical assistance," he said quickly into the microphone. "First aid needed. At once."
Should he do something for her? But he could not leave his station. And the blood, everywhere, on his hands and shirt. He held them out in horror. He had never seen so much blood, human blood, before. .
And at nine o'clock, precisely, the post office would open. Another day, just like any other.
What was wrong with his hands? Was there something he should remember? Like a vanishing echo a memory rushed away — a memory of what? There was nothing wrong: he was at his position where he belonged, with his Book close at hand and the shining mass of the multifrank before him. He belonged, of course he belonged — then why, again, a fleeting, fading, frightening memory that it was wrong?
Why was he looking at his hands? Howards shivered and unlocked the machine and cleared it, flipped the test and operational switch so the light glowed green, checked the cleared reading and set up 4,999. .
This was not right. Why had he done it? With a furtive glance over his shoulder he quickly cleared the machine. The long black hand of the clock clicked one notch forward and was vertical and an immense queue of people formed outside his position. They were jammed solid, all looking at him, quiet now, though there was a murmur from the rear.
"Good morning, sir," he said to the red-faced gentleman who headed the line. "What may I—"
"None of your conversation. I want service not chatter. This letter, special delivery, at once, to Capitello, Salerno, Italy. What will it cost?"
"That depends," Howards said, reaching for the envelope, which the man pulled back.
"Depends upon what, damn it? I want to mail this thing, not talk about it."
There was a murmur of impatience from the waiting people and, smiling insincerely, Howards said, "It depends upon the weight, sir. Special-delivery letters are delivered by orbiting rocket and the charge varies according to the weight."
