Livermore ignored the note of pleading in the man's voice and stirred his coffee to cool it. "You know what to do without bothering me. It's your problem. You're an adult. Solve it. With your wife or family counseling or whatever. Right now I have something slightly more important to think about with this sabotage and the FBI and the rest of it."
Gust sat up straighter and almost smiled. "You're right. My problem isn't that world-shaking and I'll take care of it. Do you realize that you and I and Leatha seem to be the FBI's prime suspects? He must have called the apartment if he knew I wasn't there. And he followed us to the restaurant last night. Why us?"
"Propinquity, I imagine. We and the technicians are the only ones who go in and out of the bottle rooms at will. And one of the technicians is a plant, he told us that, so they are being watched from their own ranks. Which leaves us."
"I don't understand it at all. Why should anyone want to sabotage the bottles?"
Livermore nodded slowly.
"That's the question that Blalock should be asking. Until he finds out the why of this business he's never going to find who is doing it."
Leatha came silently into the office and said nothing as she closed the door behind her. Gust looked up from the papers on his desk, surprised; she had never been in his office before.
"Why did you do it, why?" she said in a hoarse voice, her face drawn, ugly with the strain of her emotions. He was stunned into silence.
"Don't think I don't know — that Blalock came to see me and told me everything. Where you were last night, about her, so don't try to deny it. He wasn't lying, I could tell."
Gust was tired and not up to playing a role in a bitter exchange. "Why would he tell you these things?" he asked.
"Why? That's fairly obvious. He doesn't care about you or me, just his job. He suspects me, I could tell that, thinks I could sabotage the bottles. He wanted me to lose my temper, and I did, not that it did any good. Now answer me — pig— why did you do it? That's all I want to know, why?"
Gust looked at his fists clenched on the desk before him. "I wanted to, I suppose."
"You wanted to!" Leatha shrieked the words. "That's the kind of man you are, you wanted to, so you just went there. I suppose I don't have to bother asking you what happened— my imagination is good enough for that."
"Lea, this isn't the time or place to talk about this—"
"Oh, isn't it? It doesn't take any special place for me to tell you what I think of you, you. traitor!"
His fixed and silent face only angered her more, beyond words. On the table close by was a cutaway model of New Town, prepared when it was still in the design stage. She seized it in both hands, raised it over her head, and hurled it at him. But it was too light, and it spun end over end in the air, striking him harmlessly on the arm and falling to the floor where it broke, shedding small chunks of plastic.
"You shouldn't have done that," Gust said, bending to retrieve the model. "Here you've broken it and it costs money. I'm responsible for it."
The only response was a slam, and he looked up to see that Leatha was gone.
Anger filled her, stronger than anything she had ever experienced before in her life. Her chest hurt and she had trouble breathing. How could he have done this to her? She walked fast, until she had to gasp for breath, through the corridors of New Town. Aimlessly, she thought, until she looked at the entrance to the nearby offices and realized that she had had a goal all the time. centengcom, the sign read, an unattractive acronym for the Central Engineering Commission. Could she enter here, and if she did, what could she say? A man came out and held the door for her; she couldn't begin to explain why she was standing there so she went in. There was a floor plan on the facing wall, and she pressed the button labeled secretarial pool, then turned in the indicated direction.
It really proved quite easy to do. A number of girls worked in the large room surrounded by the hum of office machines and typers. People were going in and out, and she stood for a minute until a young man carrying a sheaf of papers emerged. He stopped when she spoke to him.
"Could you help me? I'm looking for a… Miss Georgette Booker. I understand she works here."
"Georgy, sure. Over there at that desk against the far wall, wearing the white shirt or whatever you call it. Want me to tell her you're here?"
"No, that's fine, thank you very much. I'll talk to her myself."
