back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.
"Nice little gal," Jackie said appreciatively.
"Yeah." Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—
Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner office—it was changed.
The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets, pictures.
Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.
"What's the matter, Ed?" Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.
Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office. The office had been gone over. He could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.
Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. "What's the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is something—?"
Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?
Joe's face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe's desk. He saw papers and accounts. The desk—it was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn't the same desk.
The picture on the wall. It wasn't the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some were new, others were gone.
He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans' hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.
In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a red purse, red knit.
"You always...have that purse?" Ed demanded.
Mary glanced up. "What?"
"That purse. You always have that?"
Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes blinking modestly. "Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?"
Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn't. She had been redone—changed: her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of them knew—but him. His mind
