The next morning we met in the lobby at eight o'clock, and as we went into breakfast Lori handed me a brown envelope.  

      "Your résumé," she declared.  "I typed it out last night.  Hope you approve."

      I was impressed.  "Already?  I was planning we'd concoct it together this morning.  How did you know what to put?"

      "You think I'm dumb, or sump'm?  Read it!  You pursued a healthy career in various food companies across the States.  Based on what's there, my friend, you could walk into a job with the C.I.A."

      I opened the envelope.  "Oh, no!  You really did put Abraham Lincoln?"

      "You want them to know you're Richard Downing, the new owner?  Don't worry - this'll do just fine for Slaggs.  And with a name like Lincoln, they might even decide to make you President."

      I quietly read the résumé - what we in England would call a C.V. or Curriculum Vitae.  According to Lori's inventive mind, I'd been an accounts clerk, promoted too quickly for my own good; I had then become personal assistant to the commercial vice-president of Quinks Drinks in Maryland, but got dismissed after a serious disagreement over alleged ethical misconduct.  More recently I had apparently worked as a cost accountant with John's fictitious Domino Flavors, until their devastating fire destroyed not only my job, but all my papers.

      I slipped the document into my briefcase, and thanked Lori for her efforts.  She then laid a warning hand over mine.

      "Sorry to refer to your Personal Problem," she said, "but might I suggest you work on that voice of yours?  When you get there, try to sound a tad more Yankee and less like the Master-of-the-Fox-Hunt.  Switch off that cute British accent for a while, if you can.  Remember - we don't speak English here, we speak American, and that means we don't take summer holidays, we go on vacation.  Our cars run on gas, not petrol; and if you make a mistake with your pencil,  don't ask too loudly for a rubber!  Just greet everyone with a simple Hya-doon, and if anyone says it to you, don't tell him you're frightfully-well-thanks-awfully!"

      I was beginning to feel worried, but she laughed.  "Kidding!  Relax, Abraham.  No-one could possibly suspect you - you look far too innocent.  Just stroll around as if you own the place, and everything'll be fine."

      Throughout breakfast Lori continued to supply me with dubious advice.  Then she announced she had some secretarial work to finish for John, which she proposed doing in her room.  We agreed to meet for lunch at twelve-thirty.

      I approached the entrance to Slaggs International Sauces, and stood outside for a moment gazing at the sign, ashamed to admit that this crumbling mockery might represent the essence of my worldly fortunes.  Yet amid my valid reasons for anonymity, there lurked a rebellious feeling of superiority, knowing of the power I nurtured in my grasp, and the authority I would soon be free to exercise.  I would use it naturally with discretion, but would have no mercy on anyone hell-bent on destroying my company.

      Mingling with other arrivals, I strolled nonchalantly through the main gate and entered the office block.  The odour in the lobby wasn't as offensive as in the factory, but still it had a distinctive aroma - an elusive bouquet of stale milk, damp clay, and something vaguely medical.

      Sitting at the reception desk was a morose-looking girl with spiky yellow hair, trying to retrieve strands of exploded bubblegum from the mouthpiece of her telephone.

      "Yup?" she enquired as I stood over her.  In the face of such a challenge I couldn't resist a moment's frivolity.

      "Hi, there!" I breezed.  "Tell me - does the name Abraham Lincoln mean anything to you?"

      She stared back in silence, grazing lazily on her reclaimed gum.

      "I'm told you have a personnel manager," I went on.  "A Mr. Fowler?  I'd like to see him if possible.  Can you fix that, please?"

      "Simon, you mean?  Dunno if he came in yet," she munched, as if this should have been enough to send away.

      "Do you recommend waiting for him," I asked, "or should I return in the fall?"

      "Stick around if you like!  Don't know when he's due in though,"

      "Dare I enquire whether he has a secretary who might feel disposed to offer me a little hospitality?"

      It was silly of me, but I was fast warming to the idea of exercising my powers over this wretched child at the earliest opportunity.

      "Do you work alone?" I persisted.  "Do you have companions?  A colleague, perhaps, who might know how to use the internal phone?  Then we might establish whether Mr. Fowler is on the premises or not.  Spread it around, would you, that I have an appointment with him at nine o'clock."

      "Nine?  Why don't you say so?"

      "I hadn't appreciated the necessity of being so explicit," I declared with an inner smile as she reached for the phone.

      "Cheryl," she squawked, "is Fowl-pest with you?  There's a guy down here - Abraham something - got an appointment at nine, he says."

      She reassessed me with a cold stare, chewing defiance like a cement mixer as she listened to Cheryl's advice.  Then she took the phone away from her ear, and revealed: "Someone's coming down."

      "How gratifying," I bowed.

      As I sat in the lobby waiting for Someone to appear, I studied this creature's contribution to my firm's profitability.  She continued chatting to her friend, repeatedly stabbing at her desktop with a pencil.  Was she trying to emphasise some point, engrave her name, or conduct an experiment in self-hypnosis?  I would have questioned her further, but her attention never returned my way.  I had become invisible.

      I heard footsteps, and a man appeared.  "Mr. Abrahams?"

      "Lincoln," I corrected him, shaking the hand he thrust forward like a morning newspaper.  "And you are ...?"

      "Doing good.  Come on up."

      His office was so untidy, it made Brian Smith's premises in Ashford seem immaculate.  Everywhere was littered with manuals and memos, cigarette packets and coffee cups, computer printouts and pens.  Along the windowsill stood rows of files arranged in tiers like some insecure dam holding back a reservoir.

      "Take a seat - make yourself at home," he drawled, transferring his in-tray from a chair to the floor beside him.  "What's the name again?"

      "Lincoln," I confirmed quietly, taking a seat and waiting for some reaction as I handed him my papers.  "Abraham."

      The man hunted around for a pad on which to make notes, then settled down with his pen poised.  The first pen didn't write well, and he tried a few more before he was satisfied.

      "And you're applying for what?  The job in accounts - is that it?"

      I hadn't expected this.  I had considered my résumé as merely a passport, a licence to be on the premises.  But, if there was a job ready and waiting, why not?  Perhaps my three uncles' restless spirits were at work, and planned it that way.

      "That's right!" I nodded.

      "Experience?"

      "Mostly clerical," I waffled.  "Accountancy, stock control, that sort of thing - I do have some experience in computing too but I worked mainly in accounts until last month when tragedy struck."

      "Tragedy?  Oh, yes ... this ...yes!  Bad business!"

      He began writing and had to change pens again.  Why didn't he discard the ones that didn't work, instead of returning them to his collection?  Did he imagine they'd improve after a week's convalescence?

      "What are your interests?"  He read the question straight off a form without looking up.

      "My interests are manifold," I said, and smiled as he wrote the word down.

      "You get on well with others, Mr. Abraham?"

      "All people deserve respect and interest," I declared, enjoying the charade.  "Some folks I'm more than happy to befriend.  Others I'd be content never to see again, but all people interest me.  The world is a big zoo, I maintain, where admission is not only free but unavoidable."

      "Yes.  Well, we're looking for an accounts clerk, Mr. Abraham."

      I smiled pleasantly.  "Tell me a little about the financial status of the company."

      His face showed concern.  "What do you need to know exactly?"

      "Anything.  For a start, I want to know what it's like to work here.  How big is your accounts department?  Do you keep product costing systems, budgetary control, that sort of thing?  Is Slaggs a profitable company - what are your growth prospects, turnover, share capital?  How many weeks' vacation do I get?"

      "Ah, well I can satisfy your curiosity there, Mr. Abraham.  We give all our newcomers two weeks on full pay."

      "Nice!" I agreed.  "But I'd like to hear more about the company's accounting methods.  I see from your stack of printouts that you use computing facilities."

      "Oh, that?  Well, we certainly have a computer, but it's not yet operational."

      "So, what kind is it?"

      He was now becoming more evasive, almost cross.

      "Look, I'm not sure, exactly.  IBM, I expect.  They give them all fancy numbers these days.  I don't believe in the damned things anyway.  They annoy the pants off me."

      "I have had considerable experience with computing," I emphasised, hoping my résumé stated nothing to the contrary.  "And I haven't yet come across a computer that won't offer some kind of service after a few months, unless, of course, the development's in inept hands."

      "Well, we've had ours nearly a year," he retorted to prove me wrong, "and no-one's gotten any sense out of it yet."

      "I wonder why not."

      He gave me an indignant stare.  "I expect, because it doesn't work, that's why!  I told you - I don't trust them.  If I'd had my way, we wouldn't have it on the premises."

      "But who's monitoring development work?" I persisted.  "What are you expecting it to do, and when?"

      His patience was waning fast.  "Look, I really couldn't say, Mr. Abrahams.  Do you have any other questions?"

      "Plenty, but I guess they can wait.  May I make a suggestion before you show me out?  If you think I'm unsuitable for your accounts office, how about me offering me a job on the computing side?"

      He sighed heavily.  "Look, we really do have vacancies in that area, okay?"

      "But the point you made with admirable clarity is that, despite your present staffing levels, you're not getting any results.  I repeat, I'm quite prepared to help get your system up and running."

      He stood as if to end the interview.  "And I repeat, Mr. Abrahams, we already have a team working on that."

      "And that's satisfactory, is it?"

      "Well, not yet, but it will be one day, I'm sure.  However..."

      He broke off as though a passing thought had suddenly disturbed his concentration.  He studied my face with an intensely cold stare as if to examine my soul and assess my personal integrity.  It felt most unnerving, so I tried to neutralise it with a benign smile that could have won first prize in a Stan Laurel contest.

      "How about salary?" I grinned.

      "What?  Oh, I'm not sure about that.  That's for the guys in personnel to haggle over."

      Odd, I thought!  Wasn't he the personnel manager?

      "Well, luckily I have all morning, so I'll just stick around until someone makes me an offer - unless you think I'm totally unsuitable."

      "We give everyone a chance to prove his worth.  When can you start?"

      "I'd still like to know what you think I'm worth."

      "How about three thousand a month?" he hedged as though the figure were open for bidding.

      "For that," I agreed, "I'm willing to give it a try and see how we get on."

      Even if I could have afforded my own wages, I'd be gone long before my first pay cheque rolled in.  The man thrust out his hand in a gesture of finality.

      "Well, if you've no further questions ..."

      "As it happens, I still have plenty, but we seem to have run out of answers."

      "Such as?"

      "Well, you weren't able to comment on the company's profitability, but perhaps I'll know more when I meet the chief accountant."

      "I am Head of Finance, Mr. Abrahams.  My name is Dan Armitage."

      "How very curious!" I remarked jovially.  "For the past ten minutes I've been addressing Mr. Fowler, the personnel manager, whose name happens to be on your door!"

      "No kidding?  He promised he wouldn't be in till they'd finished decorating his office."

      "I am available to start right away," I added hopefully.

      "Oh, you can't start yet!"  Dan Armitage was most definite about this.  "We won't be adding any new names to the payroll till August.  The wages office only work in whole months."

      I hid my briefcase discreetly under a stack of his papers, and made for the door.

      "Never mind," I said, "I'm sure I'll find ways of amusing myself.  Have a nice July."

      It was still only half past nine, three hours before I was due to meet Lori for lunch, but I already had plenty of ideas to pursue.  I had abandoned the briefcase merely as an excuse for a second visit.  Now I looked like any other employee, so I walked briskly around the building as if on some errand, and entered a ground floor office where I found a wild party going on.

      "Care for a bit of Pat's cake?" asked a girl, her mouth full as she handed me a paper plate and a squishy piece of cream sponge.

      "Well," I confessed.  "I did partake of a fairly modest breakfast."

      "Oh, I love the way you English talk!" she said.  "Go on, there's mountains of it."

      The wretched cake was so fragile, the only way to eat it was to claw at it like an animal.  As soon as she'd gone, I set it aside, and sauntered around the office, trying to determine who might supposedly be in charge of these morning revellers, and wondering why no-one seem at all bothered by the presence of a complete stranger.

      Then I noticed an inner office door with a make-shift name-plate bearing the word "David" written with blue marker pen onto a strip of brown paper, and stuck over a conventional brass plate still showing the name of Slagg.

      "You looking for David?"

      The voice came from a genial, middle-aged man who was seriously overweight.

      "Nah, I was forgetting," I said with confident authority.  "He's gone off with Quinn.  I was just admiring his ingenious name-plate."

      "Yeah, that was Percy's office, up until the disaster."

      "And now young David has assumed the mantle of his great ancestor."

      "Ancestor?" he exploded.  "Hell, no!"

      "Oh?  Funny, I'd always assumed - being of the same name - you know ..."

      I allowed my words to trail off, hoping he'd provide more information, but we were interrupted by the reappearance of the wretched girl with her ridiculous cake.

      "Come on, Sam, have some more," she said, tipping another messy piece into my companion's hands before he could refuse.  "Is that your champagne over there?"

      "I'm not sure which is whose any more," he fumbled.

      "Come on then, grab yourself another glass," she insisted.  I tried to resume our conversation, but Sam had spotted a line of Conga dancers heading his way, and he quickly took refuge behind a door marked: "Sam Driberg, Office Manager".

      The dancers sang: "Them bones, them bones, them - dry bones!" as a dozen girls pursued Sam into his office, emerging seconds later with the inept office manager propelled before them, the words having undergone a subtle metamorphosis: "Sam Berg, Sam Berg, Sam - Driberg!"  This clearly riled the hapless victim of their merry-making, and as the line receded I was conscious of a strong similarity between Sam's voluminous grey trousers and the rear view of a circus elephant.

      "It's lucky Sam's such an obliging chap," I remarked to a lad who was bemusing himself with several glasses of champagne accumulated on his filing cabinet.  "Is it his birthday, or what?"

      "No idea!  But Sam's okay," he slurped.  "It's that other little creep we can't stand!  Sam's is totally harmless, but that David?  I wouldn't trust him a yard with a ten-inch pole - or something like that!"

      "Young David, eh!  Quite a bright lad, though, like his Dad.  I often used to wonder which of the three Slagg brothers was he related to."

      "Anybody's guess!  Personally," he said, lurching towards me with dreamy eyes.  "Persolanlry, I'd say he's working his way up.  He'll have Sam's job next, you'll see."

      I wondered what Sam's true role was.  Office manager?  Hardly!  I already had a fair measure of the man's worth from the flagrant indiscipline he seemed willing to condone.  I tried to pursue my enquiries with the Champagne Charlie who stood propped up insecurely beside me.

      "Sam's greatest skill," he mumbled, "is that he doesn't actually do anything - just wanders around from office to office, enquiring amiabolory how things are progressing and if anyone has any problems.  It's called Management by Walking About!  And when everyone assures him everything's just fine, Sam's easily sassified - he's a very satisfied man.  He goes to lots of meetings, but I'm damned if anyone knows what he actually does except collect bits of paper and copies of minutes and so on.  Then he needs some girl to come along and file them all away for him!  Cosy life, don't you think?"

      I asked what the party was in aid of.

      "Nothing special," I was told.  "They found some cake and champagne left over from a praisentention ... that business the little creeper was involved in yesterday, in the hotel next door.  We felt it was dumb to let it all go bad - that would've been an intoralble ...  intoralilible ...  a dreadful waste of money and we wouldn't want that, agreed?  Little David shouldn't leave such things in his office if he doesn't want people to take advantage of his gerenosity ... his kind nature."

      The lad hiccupped stale alcohol at me, gave a sleepy grin, and closed his eyes like a sick chicken.

      "So," I asked, "with all the important people away today, who's in charge of play-school?"

      "Haven't a clue, my friend, but who cares?  Who's counting?"  

      With a dismissive wave of his arm, he stumbled off to the men's room, and I followed him before the party sucked me deeper into its vortex.

      The men's washroom was a strange place with cubicles that did little to conceal any occupant's identity.  Even a short Peeping Tom could have peered over the top without effort, whilst the view beneath the doors was barbaric.  Each door stopped fifteen inches above floor level, leaving a pair of shoes and lowered trousers clearly visible.  I prayed that Nature would spare me the indignity of needing these facilities.

      I washed the remains of cake from my hands, and continued my tour.  With many buildings to explore, I wondered how far I would get before someone challenged my right to be on the premises.  The best ploy, I felt, was to walk across the site with a clear sense of purpose, as though on my way to an important meeting.

      I found a building marked "Receiving and Despatch", a pleasantly cool warehouse stacked full of packing cases labelled "Tomato Ketchup", "Spicy Sauce", "Seafood Cocktail Sauce" - all quite normal, except that I didn't see anyone actually doing any receiving or despatching.

      If goods were ready to be despatched, why weren't they being sent out?   Where was the long line of lorries waiting to transport my products away to the Wild West, where unsuspecting Americans could drape them over their Morrisburgers in the hope of improving the flavour?  And what did that damned aroma remind me of?

      I noticed an inner office and peered through a small window, where I saw a girl laboriously typing what appeared to be Despatch Notes.  I wondered why the paperwork was still being done manually, when any simple desk-top computer could have tackled the job easily.

      The girl finished her typing, separated the various copies, and was about to file them away when she spotted me.

      "Hi," I called cheerfully.  "Has Sam Driberg been in here recently?"

      The reply was a simple "No."  She made no attempt to ask who I was or what I wanted, nor did she seem prepared to stop and chat, so I moved on, and found another building where bottles of sauce were being packed by hand into cardboard crates.  A pile of cases lay folded flat on the floor, many yards away from the man who was using them.

      I stood and watched.  After filling each case, he sealed it with a staple gun, stopped for a cigarette, then wandered down to fetch the next.  He nodded sociably.  "Hi, hiya doin'?"

      As Lori had predicted, the utterance was purely mechanical.  He then resumed his task  without once glancing back in my direction.

      Another building, less shabby than the rest, contained many offices but few people, and I became increasingly puzzled.  I counted forty cars in the parking lot but so far I'd seen only half that number of employees.   Even if each came in his own vehicle, twenty were still unaccounted for.  I decided to visit every building on the site and systematically count the heads.  If questioned, I would be looking for the enigmatic David Slagg.

      In one empty office, I saw a supply of stationery, so I selected a plain folder, put several sheets of blank paper inside it, and resumed my guise of an executive on his way to a meeting.

      I walked down corridor after corridor, peering into every office, but saw only four people, none of whom was making any visible contribution to the company's success.  One was practising his golf swing, another lad on the phone was trying to resolve a serious marital tiff, and two girls stood chatting by a coffee machine.  The only premises I didn't investigate were the ladies' toilets, which could hardly have contained twenty missing girls!   On the ground floor I met two men discussing baseball, and a third with his nose deep in the National Enquirer.  And then at last I came across a rare phenomenon - a young girl, sitting alone at a computer terminal, not only working but looking quite stressed.

      I was about to award her a gold star for dedication when I realised she'd just landed an imaginary spaceship on the moon with insufficient fuel for her return journey.  I tapped her on the shoulder.

      "Sorry to disturb you," I said, "but where is everyone?"

      "Dunno," she said.  "Expect they're all in the meeting."

      "Ah, yes," I improvised, "that's where I'm supposed to be too, but Sam forgot to tell me  where it was."

      "The conference room, I guess.  Other building, top of the stairs."

      "In that case I don't think I'll bother," I said.  "It's too hot.  I don't even know what the meeting's about, though I keep hearing plenty of rumours."

      The girl looked gloomy.  "Something to do with the new organisation, I guess.  But they don't bother telling US things like that, do they?"

      "No," I said, "the rotten lot!  Tell me - how do you plan on returning to earth without fuel?"

      "It's all right," she explained.  "It's only a game!"

      I expressed my relief, and asked whether her terminal was linked to the main computer?

      "Well, of course.  Though it's not working yet.  We have these games for training, you see, ready for the day when the new system's installed."

      "You're better off here than we are in accounts," I said.  "How long have you had the moon landing?"

      "They showed it me the day I joined.  We originally used these screens for entering sales data, but that stopped as soon as the new bosses took over."

      "Which new bosses?"

      "Marco Lanski, for instance.  He took over Head of Production from old J.W."

      "I suppose he's at this meeting too?"

      "I guess they all are.  All the big-shots."

      On my way back, I decided not to eavesdrop outside the conference room.  I'd get all the necessary details later on the office grapevine.  Instead I had other plans, and went in search of the computer room.  Whichever building it was in, it almost certain had to be on the ground floor.

      I found Sam Driberg's department deserted.  Was everyone recuperating in various rest rooms or attending this all-important meeting?  Either way the absence of personnel presented a useful opportunity.  A sign saying "Access to Authorised Personnel Only" invited me down a dark corridor where I came across a door marked "Computer Room."  It wasn't locked.

      This area was also deserted, but the operator's console was switched on, displaying a variety of technical commands and responses.  Beside it was another terminal, showing information headed "Product Stock Status."

      It was most unlikely I'd be able to type in a valid product code, but I couldn't resist touching the ENTER button.  Immediately, data appeared as if by magic, though disappointingly, it betrayed little about the company's business interests.  The product on display was MOUSE-DROPPINGS, priced at three thousand dollars an ounce.

      Had I stumbled upon that elusive ingredient that gave Slaggs Sauce its unique after-taste?  Or was this merely test data for the long-awaited new system?  I hit the ENTER button again.

      This time I was shown various suppliers of mouse-droppings, including Woolworths, Saddam Hussein and Bambi.  I was just debating what would happen if such sensitive information fell into the hands of Slaggs' competitors, when the door behind me opened and a lad appeared.  He was well-endowed with a head of shiny black hair, had brown sparkling eyes, and his skin tones betrayed part-Asian ancestry.

      "Hi!" I waved casually, hoping he'd take me for a maintenance engineer.  He eyed me with disapproval as though I were a stray dog found squatting on some priceless piece of furniture in the White House.  I took out my wallet and flashed my London Underground season ticket.

      "Where is everyone?" I began crossly.  "I can't hang around all day.  I just had another urgent call to fix a problem in the hotel next door.  It's all go, today!  Wasn't it here that you had new disk drives fitted recently?  It all seems okay now, so it's probably just the interface - you know how it is - one addressing problem and the whole unit looks like it's  gone down."

      My barrage of improvised jargon apparently served as an authentic badge of authority.  It's amazing how easily one can establish instant rapport between kindred souls who share a common language not understood by infidels.

      "You're not suggesting we need a replacement already?" the lad queried.  "They'd never agree to that upstairs.  Anyway, I'd know if anything were wrong.  It all seems fine to me."

      "You know something?  Me too.  I totally agree, so - false alarm!  All's well that ends well.  Better than a new H.D.A. - a damned sight less costly and a lot less hassle."

      He still looked puzzled but seemed to accept my judgement, and took his place at the operator's console.  I watched for several minutes while he showed me various applications, and it struck me that here was a rare individual who not only knew what he was doing, but enjoyed doing it.  At last I'd found an employee with a clear sense of purpose.  And like most computer enthusiasts, he probably knew more about the company's current state of affairs than anyone else on site.

      I decided I'd follow up on this new acquaintance later, and maybe even take him into my confidence.  Meanwhile, a clock on the wall told me it was twenty past twelve - nearly time for my lunch appointment with Lori.

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