"And you think I'll stand for that?" Tom said.
"Perhaps not," Andrusco said. "But frankly—I don't really know what you can do about it. Except, of course, repeat this explanation to the authorities. You're free to do that, Tom. Any time at all." He smiled, slyly.
"You think they won't believe me?"
Livia came over to Tom's chair, and slithered one arm around his shoulder.
"Why, Tom, darling. Are you so sure that you believe it?"
He left the apartment some ten minutes later, and took a cab to 320 Fifth-Madison. It was almost five o'clock, and the steel-and-glass cylinder was emptying rapidly of its Homelovers employees. He watched the stream of ordinary people stepping off the elevators: the young secretaries with their fresh faces and slim figures, laughing at office anecdotes and sharing intimate confidences about office bachelors; the smooth-cheeked young executives, in their gray and blue suits, gripping well-stocked brief cases, and striding energetically down the lobby, heading for the commuter trains; the paunchy, dignified men with their gray temples and gleaming spectacles, walking slowly to the exits, quoting stock prices and planning golf dates.
The crowd eddied about him like a battling current as he made his way towards the elevators, and their images swam before his face in pink-and-white blurs. And for one terrible moment, in the thickest vortex of the crowd, he began to imagine that the faces were melting before his eyes, the mouths disappearing into the flesh, and below the white collars and black-knit ties and starched pink blouses appeared a shimmering collection of ugly scales.
He shuddered, and stepped into an empty car, punching the button that shot him to the executive floor of the Homelovers Building.
In his office, he switched on the visiphone and made contact with a square-faced man who frowned mightily when he recognized his caller.