He glanced at her a second time, looked away. His hands quivered with the suppressed need to fidget. He said, “You haven’t come here to sleep.” When Miss Kingslake said nothing he went on, “I’ve been here three weeks. The first week I didn’t sleep at all. No time. Kept going on coffee and cigarettes. Just as well you weren’t here then, if you need so much sleep.”

“I was assigned here only yesterday.”

“And if you don’t work out, you’re going back just as fast.”

The waiter came up. Grilli ordered fruit juice, Miss Kingslake a sherry. The drinks were put down, with a big dish of peanuts, and Miss Kingslake asked, “When may I come to the office?”

“Tomorrow, Sunday. A car will pick you up here at seven a.m. I’ll be in it.” The flat of his hand smashed down among the peanuts, a massive displacement that scattered them as far as Miss Kingslake’s lap. He brought his fist back to his mouth and eventually continued. “Give Noreen a day off. If nothing else. Noreen’s been here from the beginning. Work! You ought to see that girl work. A truck horse. You know Noreen at Headquarters?”

“Perhaps by sight.”

“She’s in our department there—Logistics. Not one of your fancy do-nothing departments. She’s been in most of these emergencies—Suez, Lebanon, Cyprus, now here. If I had to go on another mission like this, I’d say Give me Noreen.” Another peanut spun into Clelia Kingslake’s lap. “Rather than any six others.”

“Can you give me an idea of what I’m to do?”

“We all pull our weight here. I don’t know what you do at Headquarters and I don’t care. Here you’ll do anything that comes to hand. Cables, letters, typing, accounts—”

“I can do any of those things.”

“You’ll do all of them. You’ll be in with the Cap.”

“The Cap.”

“Captain Moyers. He’s been seconded from Near East Peace Preservation. Assigned to us as Military Observer, but he’s turned his hand to everything during the crisis. A Canadian like yourself. But a great guy.” The eyes were wandering again, contentiously raking the walls, lingering suspiciously on Primavera. “A rough diamond, but a great guy. He’ll be here any minute. He went out to the airfield to meet Mr. Rees.”

Miss Kingslake pondered. Rees was head of the Logistics Department at Headquarters. “He’s here?”

“Three-day tour of inspection. Oh, all the big brass have been through here this month—the Director-General himself came through, you know, on his way to the trouble spots. Mr. Rees was too busy to come before.”

He pronounced it as if it were all one word, Mysteries. Miss Kingslake, her own gaze wandering, noted that the murals were by Afro. “I don’t want to keep you.” She allowed herself to add, “I’m sure you need your sleep.”

Grilli was leaning forward, his hands splayed over the chair arms. All at once he changed color. He hoisted himself up, vast and padded—it was as if the armchair had come to its feet—and shot out between the glass doors into the lobby.