“Let me get you another one of those. My point is—in order to handle these chaps, you’ve got to get inside their minds. Talk their language.” He fished a pamphlet out of his pocket. “I brought this for you. It’s the Procedure of Appeal.” He began to hand it across the table, but at that moment the waitress came up with their lunch.

“Codfish cakes?”

“Here,” said Algie, making room. He took the pamphlet from Jaspersen and laid it on the table beside his plate. His second drink arrived, and Jaspersen ordered half a bottle of white wine.

“The Board,” Jaspersen went on, spearing a cube of chicken, “is not the ultimate authority. That Bekkus is just a glorified clerk.”

“Point is,” Algie observed, “he has been glorified.”

“I’ve been thinking about your case,” said Jaspersen, “and I don’t see how you could lose an appeal. I honestly don’t. But get moving on it immediately—you don’t have a moment to waste.”

“What year is this?” inquired Algie, turning the bottle round. “Not at all bad.” When he had demolished the first codfish cake, he said, “It’s good of you, Olaf. But I’m not going to appeal.”

Jaspersen looked less surprised than might have been expected. “Think it over” was all he said.

“No,” Algie said. “Really. Better this way.”

After a pause, Jaspersen went on kindly. “You have, of course, exactly the sort of qualities the Organization can’t cope with. With the Organization it has to be—moderation in all things. I sometimes think we should put up in the main lobby that inscription the Greeks used in their temple: ‘Nothing in Excess.’” Jaspersen was pleased to have hit on this reconciliation of Algie’s virtues with those of the Organization, for Algie was generally a pushover for the Greeks.

Algie finished another codfish cake and drank his wine, but when he replied Jaspersen was startled by the energy in his voice.