It was not usual in the Organization for a department head to visit the offices of his staff. On taking up his appointment, Pylos had made an inaugural progress through his little domain, attended by Chai and Choudhury, and by his Chief of Missions, Rodriguez-O’Hearn. He had genially shaken hands and asked unexacting questions. He had stopped to chat with a filing clerk here, a secretary there; had spoken Greek with a Greek, and French with a Congolese. The staff had stood around their hastily tidied desks, and all but the most disillusioned had smiled. Pylos had peered into a Chinese typewriter and worked a Fotofax machine. He had admired the magnificent views from windows and refrained from commenting on the gloom of the windowless areas, which were more extensive. Within half an hour he had been safely back in his own room, his duty done. Since then, he had attended a departmental party, and made a token appearance in the staff cafeteria. What more could possibly have been asked?

The Chief Coordinator’s decision to call on Ashmole-Brown was therefore a departure. Even Miss Graine looked startled, although she at once picked up her telephone and confirmed that Ashmole-Brown was in his cubicle at the far end of the corridor. Scattering a trio of gossiping girls, bringing alarmed heads up from drinking fountains as their owners prepared for flight, Pylos strode forth. Ultimately entering a labyrinth of partitions, he was shown into a narrow room by a wide-eyed secretary.

The only person who did not seem surprised was Ashmole-Brown.

Ashmole-Brown went through his usual chair-clearing process and, when Pylos was seated, settled himself back behind his desk. He was a broad, awkwardly jointed man. His sagging tweeds and forward-flopping hair were of the same pepper-and-salt combination; even the round eyes shining out through the round lenses were densely speckled. The cheeks had retained their hectic schoolboy flush. The mouth was large, even generous, and presently said as if it meant it, “Great pleasure to see you here, sir. Great pleasure.”

Pylos commented civilly on the evidence of Ashmole-Brown’s industry, waving his hand toward the voluminous stacks—and in this way bringing one or two loose papers to the floor, where they were allowed to lie. He then said, with a serious leveling of voice, “Mr. Ashmole-Brown, I should like you to tell me something about your work.”

Ashmole-Brown beamed. “Mr. Pylos,” he said, “I have worked—labored, I may say—at this opus of mine for nearly four years, and I marvel, sir, I marvel, that today of all days you should choose to make this inquiry. I marvel.” He paused to do so. “For today—this very morning—I reached a significant point in my journey. There is light, Mr. Pylos—light at the end of the tunnel. The end of my pilgrimage is in sight.”

Pylos expanded with relief. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said. “That is, we all, I am sure—”