The god on the 36th floor

By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by FINLAY
Mercy Adrians was 19, and good to look at. Edwin Tzadi was of undetermined age and not good to look at. Derrence Cale was a phoney. But at least, he thought, he was a man.
Derrence Cale walked into the glittering tile, marble and metal lobby of the Chester Chemical Company Building at a quarter to nine. Office hours were nine-fifteen to five-fifteen, but Derrence came early and left late every day. He unlocked the doors to the Public Relations department, checked to see that the custodial staff hadn't left any rags or buckets around and, in general, fulfilled the duties of floor manager.
Not that Derrence had been assigned these duties. He'd assumed them over the past eight years, and because Chester Chemical was as big as it was, he got away with it. Derrence had effectively hidden himself among the 9,000 Chester employees; lost himself, as so many talentless but shrewd people do, in the hive of offices that make up a giant corporation. That was why he was able to draw a salary, and merely play at working.
He was alone in the self-service elevator when it shot upward. He was alone when he stepped out on the 36th floor. But after unlocking the doors across the hall from the reception room, he was immediately aware that he was not alone.
From down the long, pastel-green, fluorescent-lighted corridor on his left had come, and still came, the sound of a voice. A high-pitched male voice, totally unfamiliar to Derrence Cale. There was no answering voice, so the man was using a phone.
It could only be one of the cleaning staff; and they'd been warned by management never to use office equipment.
Derrence strode toward the voice, heels clicking sharply on the black squares of asphalt tile. The voice stopped. Aha, a little game of cat and mouse, was it? Derrence kept going, watching the seemingly endless line of offices on his right for one with its door open or a light shining through the frosted glass panel. And he saw the light in the office ahead.