The ulcer was the most important thing.
After the ulcer his wife, and then his job, and finally his children. These were Mr Murphy’s interests. At the moment the ulcer was more important to him than all the others together.
Ever since Mr Murphy could remember, he had had pains in his stomach. Not really bad pains: just unpleasant sensations. In recent years this had gotten worse. A month before, a doctor examined him and said that he had an ulcer. The doctor was very serious and there was talk of further tests. Then Mr Murphy read a picture magazine article on cancer.
He did not suspect cancer: he knew. The doctor, although he had been rather grave, had said nothing about cancer, but Mr Murphy was confident he had it. He had tried to do everything right, to cure himself with bicarbonate of soda and other medicines but the pains not only didn’t go away but they got worse when he thought about them.
He pushed his fist into his stomach for a moment and felt the pain under his fingers. He cursed himself for having gone to the party the night before.
As he walked through his office he wished that he were home in bed. It would have been harder, of course, to stay home, because his wife was not very good with an illness. She had a tendency to become hysterical if she had to do anything unusual. No, it was better to be here at the office. To be here even if he was dying. This last thought made him uncomfortable and he put it out of his mind.
He looked at his watch—eleven-fifteen. The meeting would begin soon. Mr Golden insisted that all meetings begin on time.
Mr Murphy left his office. As he walked through the rooms he was pleased to have everyone speak to him politely. He was a person of importance here and he had become this all by himself with no help from anyone; practically no help.
The executive offices were larger and better decorated than the other offices. There were several uniform rooms where the vice-presidents (they used to be partners but Mr Golden had changed that) sat at big desks and received clients and dictated letters and did other things. Then there was the anteroom. This was a small room with red leather couches, a receptionist, some modern lamps and two portraits on the walls. These paintings were of Mr Heywood and Mr Golden. Beyond the anteroom was the boardroom.
The receptionist smiled at Mr Murphy. He smiled back at her and sat down in one of the red leather couches. Two minor vice-presidents were also seated and waiting. They greeted him soberly.
“Nice morning,” said the younger of the vice-presidents; he had been a lieutenant commander in the navy.
“Certainly is,” said Mr Murphy.
“I understood we’re in for a cold winter,” commented the older of the two vice-presidents; he had been a commander in the navy.
“Nothing like a real old-fashioned Christmas,” said Mr Murphy in a smooth low voice. He was conscious of a difference in their voices. His own voice sounded rough to him while their voices were always smooth and almost British. He had noticed these differences before but there was nothing much he could do about them. In the front office he always felt less important because of this difference, and because of this and other things, too, he was made to feel an outsider.
The vice-presidents then talked in their cultured near-British voices about a certain college football game. Mr Murphy lay back in his red couch and wondered if perhaps he should drink more milk. That was good for ulcers; but nothing was good for cancer. He shuddered.
A few more vice-presidents and section heads came into the anteroom. They talked and laughed together and Oliver L. Murphy talked and laughed with them.
There was a buzz and everyone stopped talking. The receptionist looked up from her desk. “They’re ready,” she said.
The men walked into the boardroom of Heywood and Golden.
A long room, with indirect lighting, thick carpets, and a long table with armchairs around it: this was the boardroom. On the walls were charts of stocks and trends.
Mr Heywood was sitting at one end of the table and Mr Golden was sitting at the other end of the table. Murphy sat down on the left of Mr Heywood. This was his usual seat.
“Hello, Oliver,” said Mr Heywood cheerily.
“Hello, Mr Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr Heywood had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was well-pleased, or wanted something.
Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr Heywood sat rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for the others to be seated.
Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful manner.
He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was not near-British like his vice-presidents: it was British. He had gone to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.
Mr Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another thing to be said for him—he knew how to choose women. Mr Murphy wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.
“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr Heywood suddenly.
“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr Heywood laughed gently at the thought.
“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.
“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive woman twenty years ago. She married...” Mr Heywood decided not to reminisce in front of Murphy.
“He’s worked in my section, in the office, just fine.”
“That’s good. I don’t know him myself but I have some plans for him. We’re going to the same party tonight.” Mr Heywood laughed gently again. “Perhaps we’ll get to know each other. It’s so hard ever getting to know employees in the office,” sighed Mr Heywood. “I rather wish there weren’t so many of them sometimes.”
“I know just how it is.”
“We going to call this meeting together?” It was Mr Golden’s high voice from the other end of the table.
“Certainly, Ben,” said Mr Heywood. “We’ll start right now.” He picked up a black ebony gavel and tapped lightly, apologetically with it. The men stopped talking. “Now, let’s see,” began Mr Heywood.
“The Steel account, that’s the big thing we’re going to talk about,” said Mr Golden.
“That’s right.” Mr Heywood sounded bored. “That’s right. Well, gentlemen, it seems that we have a problem.”
Mr Murphy relaxed in his chair. Mr Heywood’s voice, gentle and cultured, came to him soothingly. The Steel account was of no interest to Mr Murphy; in fact, these conferences were generally of no interest to him. He was just there to talk about Statistics.
He played with papers in front of him. The voice of Mr Heywood flowed about him. He was lost in a slow current of polite vowels. The pain in his stomach was, for the time, gone.
Mr Heywood spoke of the market, of stocks and shares, of the state of the Union. He spoke convincingly because his manner was convincing and, also, because his ideas and facts had been given him by many clever men.
Mr Golden sat at his end of the table and listened. He sat there very straight, his little mouth set in a soft line of pseudo-firmness. His small hands drummed on the table and his eyes glanced about the room. His eyes were always in motion. The fear of a thousand years was in Mr Golden’s eyes.
From time to time he interrupted. Mr Heywood would pause and listen; then, when the other had finished, he would continue in his gentle voice to tell the others what clever men had told him about Steel, and the men, whose livings depended upon him, listened respectfully to their ideas.
Mr Murphy observed these things as he sat in his chair. He felt less important in these conferences but he did feel secure. Here in the boardroom he felt himself to be a part of something large and opulent—of American Business. This thought was comforting as well as sobering. There was no security in the world to equal that of belonging. It made no difference to what one belonged just as long as one was a part of something big and secure. And what, Oliver Murphy asked himself, could be bigger or more secure than Business? He saw these things clearly because he had a philosopher’s mind and the Celt’s ability to envisage life in a clear perspective. He could, he knew, see the trees as well as the forest. That was what made him different from the others. They felt, perhaps, that they belonged, but he knew.
Then the ulcer began to bother him.
He no longer was conscious of Mr Heywood’s voice. The only thing of importance now was the dull pain in his stomach. He moved uneasily in his chair. He pushed a hand into his stomach. This helped a little. The pain shifted slightly. He followed it with his hand, his fingers pressing gently into the pain.
“We’ll want complete figures on the rise and fall of Arizona Zinc during the past five years.”
This was said by Mr Heywood. It registered in Mr Murphy’s mind but he didn’t respond for a moment.
“You’ll have those figures for us next meeting, won’t you?” Heywood asked, irritation in his voice.
“Certainly, Mr Heywood,” said Murphy. He sat up straight and Mr Heywood nodded to him and then continued to talk.
Oliver Murphy listened carefully to everything said. He was beginning to sweat from the pain and the fear (more fear than pain, he told himself) but still he strained to hear every word and, slowly, as he listened, magic took place and the pain went away.
At last, when certain decisions had been made, Mr Heywood adjourned the meeting.
Murphy stood up. He felt better now. He wondered if perhaps he might not be mistaken about the cancer.
“Oh, Murphy.”
“Yes, Mr Heywood?”
“That fellow in your office, that Holton, you think he’s quite efficient?”
“I do.”
“I wonder,” said Mr Heywood hesitantly, “I wonder how he might work out as one of our customers’ men. Dealing with the public, all that sort of thing.”
“He’d probably do that very well.”
“You could afford to lose him?”
“Oh, yes, I think so.”
“I wish,” said Mr Heywood petulantly, “that I knew him better. It’s terrible having so little contact with the office people.”
“I could send him in to see you.”
“Good Lord, no! I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ll wait and see him tonight at Mrs Stevanson’s.”
“When do you think you’ll change him over?”
“Oh, I don’t know. If I think he has the suitable, ah, temperament, we might change him this week.”
“I know he’ll be really tickled to hear this.”
“I expect so.”
“How is Mrs Heywood?” asked Murphy politely.
“She’s fine, thank you,” said Mr Heywood blankly. Trouble, decided Murphy. The third Mrs Heywood seemed to be following the previous Mrs Heywoods.
“Well...” said Murphy and he mumbled words to himself as he walked toward the door. Mr Heywood stared vacantly at him as he left.
Mr Murphy felt well when he was in motion. Walking with great dignity from office to office, conscious of the eyes of others upon him, was good for him. Aware of being a symbol of success he forgot his pains and some of his worries.
As he went into the Statistical office he could feel the atmosphere change. The clerks and typists became busy.
Mr Murphy went to his desk. “Any calls?” he asked.
Caroline shook her head. When she shook, her breasts quivered slightly. Mr Murphy noticed this and his stomach constricted with pain. Emotion was bad for him, according to the doctors. He looked away and tried to think of something else.
“No, there weren’t any calls. Some memorandums came in from the other sections but that was all.”
“Any letters?” He thought of his family.
“Yes.” Caroline sounded surprised. “Right there on your desk. Right where I always put them.”
“Oh, yes.” Mr Murphy sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of neat businesslike envelopes. He had no desire to open them.
Caroline typed rhythmically at her desk.
“Say, Caroline....”
She stopped and looked at him.
“Tell Holton to step over here, will you?”
“Sure, Mr Murphy.” She got up and went through the gate and out into the office. He watched her legs as she walked determinedly to the other end of the room. He was almost pleased to feel the pain come flooding into his stomach. That would teach his stomach, he thought viciously.
The gate creaked and Robert Holton stood before him.
“You want to see me, sir?”
“Yes, yes, Holton. Sit down here. Over here on my left.”
Robert Holton sat down and looked expectant. Mr Murphy wondered for a moment why he had asked to see Holton. Then he remembered what Mr Heywood had said.
“How’s everything coming, Holton?”
“Just fine, Mr Murphy.”
“Well, that’s good. Things have been going pretty well here. But I suppose you find things pretty dull after the army?”
“No, no. I like this sort of work. I had enough moving around.”
“I should think so. Well, that’s what most of us want, I guess,” said Mr Murphy. “We want to settle down. A lot of people say they don’t like routine but I think everybody does. It’s an important thing.”
“Yes, sir. I think it is.”
“There is,” said Mr Murphy, shutting his eyes for a moment to give the illusion of pondering, “there is security in working for a big house like Heywood and Golden.” He opened his eyes and looked directly at Holton. “Don’t you feel that’s true?”
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Yes, it’s true.” Mr Murphy sighed and thought about going out to the country for a rest. A place that would have neither telephones nor mosquitoes. Most places had one or the other.
He looked at Robert Holton and wondered what he was thinking. He seemed a likeable young man. He was quiet and reserved and didn’t seem too aggressive. In fact that was probably a fault that Mr Murphy had not thought of. Holton was not a go-getter. He might lack initiative. That was why he was quiet and reserved. Or, as Mr Murphy finally thought, that might be a reason for his reserve.
“Tell me, Holton,” said Murphy, “have you had any ideas about, ah, your place here? I mean, what you would like to do. Naturally you wouldn’t be interested in staying here, in this department. With your education....” He permitted his voice to fade.
“No, I haven’t had any ideas; in fact, I haven’t thought too much about it. You see this is all pretty different from what it was like where I was in the army. I don’t suppose I’m quite used to the idea ... well, you know....”
“I think I do. You would like to work in another department perhaps?”
Robert Holton looked at him. Mr Murphy could not tell what he was thinking for his face was relaxed and calm. “Well,” said Holton, “I don’t know. I don’t want to be out of my depth. I’d like to make more money. I like the idea of buying and selling stocks. I like that idea very much. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I came here.”
“Of course, there’s a lot of work to knowing about stocks and bonds. You realize all the work that’s involved.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps a place will be found for you in that department. It’s hard to say, though. With your, ah, background it shouldn’t be too hard. That is, if you have the stuff.”
“I hope so.”
“Good.” Mr Murphy watched Caroline typing. “I understand,” said Mr Murphy finally in a changed voice, “that you’re going out tonight.”
Robert Holton looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“Mr Heywood said you and he were going to the same party.”
Holton smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Mrs Stevanson’s giving a cocktail party. I guess that’s what he means.”
“It won’t hurt to be nice to him there,” said Mr Murphy with a laugh.
“No, I don’t suppose so.”
Mr Murphy looked at Holton and wondered what would become of him. If he had more initiative he might be a wealthy man because of his background (the important thing was background), but he would probably not go very far. He might not even go as far as Mr Murphy had and Mr Murphy had been a success without background. Robert Holton didn’t look as though he cared to be a success.
“Well, don’t let your night life interfere with business,” said Mr Murphy lightly.
“No,” said Holton rising, “I won’t.”
With a nod Mr Murphy dismissed him.
Mr Murphy watched Caroline absently as she typed. Her hair was rather long. It must be a nuisance to help her into a coat, he thought suddenly. That was something he hated to do. Whenever he helped a woman into a coat there was, first, a certain struggle to get her arms into the sleeves. Some women were better than others at this. And then, second, there was the problem of hair. If the woman had long hair it was inevitably caught inside the coat. This meant that her first motion was usually to free her hair and that involved a wild freeing and flinging of the hair which for anyone still posted behind her meant running a risk of becoming entangled. Mr Murphy wondered about these problems as he looked at Caroline’s long dark hair.
He had started to work on his letters (the ones in the business envelopes) when Richard Kuppelton appeared.
“Yes?”
“I’ve got the first part of that report here, the one on aircraft,” said Kuppelton.
“Yes?” Mr Murphy made himself sound cold and official.
“Well, I wondered if you cared to look at them ... what I’ve done so far, I mean.”
Mr Murphy looked at him for a moment without speaking. When Mr Murphy had first come to work for Heywood and Golden his then immediate boss had impressed him greatly by just looking at him for several seconds at a time without speaking. Mr Murphy had adopted the mannerism and over the years had improved it until now he could be very frightening. He was that way now.
“You want me to do it for you?” he asked finally.
“No ... no, sir, I didn’t mean that. I just thought you would like to see what I got done.” Kuppelton was uncomfortable and Mr Murphy decided that he had done enough.
“Why, I’d be glad to look at it,” he said.
Kuppelton brightened. “Thank you. I only wanted you to see the form I was using here. That was all. I’m making my conclusions in a slightly different way from usual and I thought....”
“Yes, I’ll take a look at it.”
Kuppelton put a pile of papers down on Mr Murphy’s desk.
Mr Murphy nodded at him and Kuppelton left quickly. Mr Murphy felt much better after exercising his power. Poor Kuppelton was a good man in an office but he would never go very far because he didn’t have assurance. He would be promoted after the first of the year if Holton were moved out. That would make Kuppelton happy, which was a good thing. It wasn’t bad, thought Mr Murphy, to have contented people about you in a discontented world. He relaxed in his chair and then the pains started again.
This time the ache was about an inch below his belt and slightly toward the left (his appendix was on the right and, besides, his appendix was in good shape). The pain began to move toward the center. Quickly he pressed his fingers into the pain.
His heart beat rapidly and sweat formed on his face. If the pain didn’t go away by the count of ten he would get up and take the special medicine his doctor had given him.
Frightened, Mr Murphy counted and the pain, not subject to this magic, did not go away.