The Totem 1979 by David Morrell Page A

of place was this to build a commune anyhow? he thought. Why not east or maybe on the coast? At least he had some friends there. Well, there had been many communes in those places, but none had ever been like this. Besides, he didn’t choose his assignments. His bosses told him what to do, and he went out and did it. Maybe that was how they got at him for all the drinking that he did. Maybe. Still, he did his job. Or so he told himself at least. He’d have to clean the act up. That was sure. After this job, he would dry out, and he’d show them. Sure. Just as soon as this was over. He slumped so no one could see and had another drink.
    Chapter Eleven.
    The sign said potter’s field gazette. Of course, Dunlap thought. That almost slipped my mind. Gazette, for God sake. What else could it be? At least the building had a little class. It was mostly windows on both stories, shiny metal strips connecting all the panes. And clean at that, he told himself, thinking of the bus depot he had left. There were like-new imitation marble steps that led up to the all-glass door, shiny metal all around it, a shiny handle on the door. Dunlap waited for a truck to pass, then stepped off the curb, and started across the street toward the entrance.
    The door turned out to be electrically controlled, swinging open with a hiss. The reception area was spotless, bright lights in the decorator ceiling, all-white walls, shiny imitation marble on the floor. What was better, the building was air conditioned, sweat already cooling on Dunlap’s forehead. He thought that this might work out, after all.
    He glanced at polished metal counters on his right and left, desks and people typing at them.
    ‘Yes, sir. May I help?”
    Turning, he saw a woman on his left, early twenties, thin-faced, attractive, her hair combed straight back in a pony tail. He smiled and leaned against the counter.
    “Yes, I’m looking for a-” Lord, he couldn’t remember the name. Parsons. That was it. “I’m looking for Mr. Parsons.”
    She stared at his wrinkled sport coat, at the sweat marks underneath its arms. Something shut off in her eyes. ‘Yes, and may I have your name?”
    “Dunlap. Gordon Dunlap. I’m from New York on a story.”
    Then the eyes were bright again. “Of course. He’s been expecting you. Take these stairs. The first door on the right.”
    She pointed toward a flight of stairs beyond the counter, and Dunlap smiled, nodding, walking toward them. She wore a silk blouse, her bra quite clear beneath it, the two top buttons of her blouse spread open. Dunlap thought about that all the time he climbed the stairs. After all the women he was used to seeing with no bra, their nipples almost poking through their tops, this was exotic. He stopped and took out a handkerchief and wiped his face. To the left he saw a corridor of offices, their doors open, people typing, talking on the phone. To the right, he noticed a wooden door, the first wood in here that he’d seen. mr. parsons. editor. Dunlap knocked and entered.
    Another woman, older, sat at a desk and studied him. ‘Yes, sir?” When Dunlap told her, she said, “Of course.” She went out through another door, this one wooden like the first, although the desk and chair and cabinets were metal. He waited. Everything was just as clean and shiny as downstairs. Through the windows, he could see the stores across the street. The woman came back, smiling, saying he should go in. Dunlap nodded, walking through.
    Everything was wood in there, bookshelves, desk and chairs and tables, even the walls. No, not everything. A thick rug occupied a large part of the floor, and two of the chairs were leather. The difference was the same. This was more a study than an office. More than that, a sanctum. People summoned here would be impressed. Whoever summoned them understood the principles of power.
    Parsons. He was smiling, getting up from where he sat behind the desk, coming around to shake hands. “Hello there. We