remote from the 36th floor as interior New Guinea. Now this Tzadi came along, and soon the lovely, secure life would go down the drain. And what would he do then? His face went gray, and he whispered, "I could go back to writing...." He groaned. It was impossible! He couldn't write. He couldn't even sit for the hours necessary for writing! A deal. He had to make a deal with Tzadi. Twenty a week for as long as he was allowed to go on this way. Or thirty. Maybe even forty. "Or kill the dirty little...." His voice, hard and shrill, shocked him. He was standing, fists clenched, body trembling, leaning forward as if about to rush to the door and up the hall. He made himself sit down. He laughed, but it didn't come out his hearty, impressive laugh. It was a laugh he hadn't heard since college days (except in dreams; nightmares of the past)--weak, frightened, ineffectual and apologetic. There was a knock at the door. He straightened in his chair, took a deep breath, said, "Come ahead." The door opened. Mr. Tzadi stood there, his round face solemn. "Before you become too involved in your numerous and important duties, Der, I would like to suggest that we have lunch together." Derrence blinked. "Yes ... how about today?" "Today would be fine, Der. We could talk about the company and our respective positions. You could, perhaps, help me with a rather pressing problem." Derrence relaxed quite suddenly. "Twelve o'clock. Come by here?" "Yes, Der." The door closed. Derrence lit a cigarette. He no longer trembled. In that luncheon invitation he read a deal. * * * * * At noon, Tzadi appeared in the office doorway. Derrence was dictating a memo to Personnel on the company's tacit acceptance of two-hour lunch periods by all but secretarial help. He broke off in mid-sentence and smiled at Mercy. "We'll finish later, dear. You've typed those other memos, haven't you?" Mercy said, "Most of them." She rose and turned to the door, and only then saw Tzadi. She said, "Hi, Ed," and walked by him and out of the office. Tzadi came inside. "Lovely young lady." It was a remarkably mild comment compared to what most of the writers said when watching Mercy swinging along. She was nineteen, and very good to look at--especially from the rear. Which was further proof, if any were needed, that Tzadi was the company spy type; not likely to be swayed by emotions that moved other men. Yet he wanted _something_; of that Derrence was sure. It could only be money. "Yes," Derrence said. "I keep her busy. Memos, memos, dozens of memos." Which was the truth, except that once Mercy brought him the memos, neatly typed, he tore them into small pieces and filed them in his waste basket. "Is she dependable in her work?" Tzadi asked, looking as if he were thinking of other things. "I thought you knew her. She seemed to know you--calling you by your first name."