Nominees for promotion at all levels were considered twice a year by a Promotions and Probations Board, and a printed list of the successful candidates was subsequently circulated throughout the Organization. Since those directly concerned were told in advance of the verdict in their case, the main interest of the list lay in keeping abreast of the fortunes of one’s fellows. It is a rare heart that truly rejoices in a friend’s prosperity, and it must be confessed that the offices and corridors of the Organization were swept, every six months, by gasps of indignation, of disgust and incredulity, at the revelation of the latest promotions—and by correspondingly magnified sighs of solicitude on behalf of those rejected.

Just such gusts as these were sweeping the small gray office of Mr. Bekkus when Swoboda entered it on the morning of the half-yearly list. Mr. Bekkus—as a member of a similar group, the Appointments and Terminations Board—was practically bound to hold his colleagues on this parallel body in low esteem. And his ill-humor was increased, that day, by the fact that he was once more faced with the task of explaining the absence of Swoboda’s name from the Promotions roster.

As Swoboda came into the room, Mr. Bekkus was standing by the window and holding the list to the light as if to verify the evidence of his eyes.

“Claude Willoughby! Claude Willoughby!” he repeated, as if of all Claudes this was the most unsuitable. “Cedric Sandaranayke! After this, anything’s possible. Sit down, Swoboda.” Still standing in the light, Mr. Bekkus turned the page and read on. “Kenneth Eliufoo—that’s geographical of course, though it won’t satisfy the Africans, you can be sure of that. Paquita Vargas—well, we all know how she got here.… And I see old Marcel made it at last.” Reluctantly turning from self-punishment, he placed the list on his desk and sat down. “Er—Swoboda,” he said, looking about his papers as if trying to recall what Swoboda was doing there.