"I think I told you that we don't ask them detailed questions, Mr. Manning. In this case it seems obvious that he's using the office only as a sales outlet. Somebody else supplies him with the carburetors." Manning bit savagely into the end of his cigar. "I thought of that. I've had his office shadowed for the last week. He's had everything else delivered to him--refrigerators and typewriters and sofas and stoves. But no carburetors." The agent looked a little smug. "It's a free country, Mr. Manning, he can order what he wants. And if your men didn't see any carburetors, then I would start to worry about their reliability. Forsythe must get his carburetors from somewhere and he must have them delivered." Manning flushed and stood up to leave. "And if I were you, I'd start to worry about whom I rented office space to. And I'd start to worry about the condition I kept my buildings in. I would've sworn that there were at least a dozen violations of the civic fire ordinance there." "But really, Manning! I had no...." Manning started for the door. "Thanks for all the information I didn't get. And thanks for the cigar." * * * * * He stood on the street for a few minutes after leaving the building agent's office. It was a hot summer day, the only relief being the slight breeze that blew off the lake. The street was crowded with men in seer sucker suits, sweltering in the heat and mopping their foreheads. Young girls in thin blouses and light weight skirts, as young girls always seemed to do, managed to look cool and fresh. His last summer, Manning thought slowly. Take a good look and enjoy it while you can. He walked slowly towards the Loop, looking at the scenery along the way as if he had never seen it before. It was a great world, he thought. But you didn't begin to appreciate it until you found out that one of these days you weren't going to be around any more. He stopped in at a cigar store near Madison street. "Some fine Havanas just came in, Mr. Manning." There was a time when he had thought about cutting down on smoking. It didn't make much difference now. "A half dozen should do it, Jeff." The clerk wrapped them up. "Any razor blades or shaving cream? And we got a new order of fountain pens. Guaranteed to last a lifetime without re-filling." Manning stuffed the package of cigars into his pocket. "No thanks. I don't care much for ball-point pens anyway." The clerk looked a little disappointed. "Pens are kind of hard to move during summer; guess most people think of them as Christmas presents. That's what I tried to tell the man who sold them to me. They're not real ball-points, though." Guaranteed to last a lifetime, Manning thought suddenly. A lifetime. Not just for a year or for a solid mile of writing--but a lifetime. "Let me see one."