Jaspersen took hold of himself: he did not want to go too far. (To go too far, in the Organization, was to travel no great distance.) “Oh—just an unfortunate phrase or two, perhaps—” They had reached the Up escalator, and the Chief had paused and was frowning. Pulling himself together at last, looking more like himself than he had done all morning, Jaspersen went on hurriedly, “In an otherwise excellent speech.”

The Chief looked pleased, even relieved. Gripping the escalator rail, he stepped on and stayed on. So did Jaspersen, and they surfaced together at the high rise of the elevators, each tightly clasping his resolution.

Arriving back in his office, Jaspersen found his In-tray fuller than ever, his blotter studded with messages. The office was quiet. It was time for lunch—time for Subsidiary and Specialized to converge on cafeteria and dining room; for cronies from Public Relations, from Logistics, from Finance or Personnel to take up their positions on the warm ingle-benches about the Disarmament Bar; time for Jaspersen to send out for his plain yogurt and ripe banana. He sat down at his desk and began to go through the messages. Can you address the Assembly of Non-Accredited Groups next Monday? Human Dignity Section will call back. Please call Mr. Kauer in Forceful Implementation of Peace Treaties. Long-Range Planning has been trying to reach you. This last slip was marked RUSH.

“You all right, Olaf?” Pastore inquired from the doorway.

Jaspersen lifted his head in a manner intended to keep Pastore from entering. “Everything go smoothly up here this morning?”

“Everything was as usual,” Pastore said ambiguously. “Unification is now set for tomorrow.”

“I guessed as much.”

“You all right?” Pastore asked again, hesitantly setting foot on the carpet.

“Well—I was feeling a bit low this morning, as a matter of fact. Feel better now. It was probably the weather.”

“You know what it is.” Pastore nodded. “I’ve been talking to Luba. She has an idea that Tuesdays are some sort of psychological low-point. It’s an interesting theory—you talk to her about it. She thinks Tuesdays are the worst.”

A SENSE OF MISSION

“Carry your bags, Miss?”

It was the first remark addressed to her by those she had come to serve.

“A taxi?”

She nodded, reluctant to begin by speaking English, startled to find her language apparent. She spoke to the porter slowly in Italian, the lingua franca of this island. Someone was to have met her; they hadn’t come. Yes, she would go to the hotel. Which hotel? Well—what hotels were there? A Bristol, a Cecil? A Majestic, perhaps?

The porter smiled. What she wanted was the Hotel of the Roses.