“Why Achilles, don’t you remember? When you first joined the Organization, they gave you an impossible secretary—some nasty old thing, you told me—and you sent her away and asked for a different one. Now, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. All I’m saying is—she couldn’t have been much worse than this one.”

Pylos lit a cigarette. He looked so concerned that his wife concluded he must be thinking of something else. Eventually he said, however, “I suppose it does come to much the same thing.”

The following morning, Choudhury had an early appointment to see Pylos. The two men sat down together, freshly shaven and smelling faintly of cologne, in Pylos’s office. The morning light was particularly brilliant, and Pylos was taken aback to notice a change in Choudhury. Choudhury was looking seedy. His eyes were circled, his cheeks sunken, his black hair coarsely threaded with white. Pylos realized that, although he saw Choudhury almost daily, he had not really looked at him for some time. Ah well, he told himself, we’re all getting on, I suppose, and there’s nothing we can do about it. “How are you getting on, Yussuf?” he inquired pleasantly. “And what can I do for you?”

“Mr. Pylos,” said Choudhury, leaning forward in his chair and putting his hand earnestly on the edge of the desk, “you may remember that I once spoke to you about my promotion.”

Pylos responded, “Of course”—not because he remembered at all, but because it really was a matter of course: it seemed to Pylos that scarcely a day passed without some member of his staff raising the question of their promotion, and there was no reason why Choudhury should have been an exception. Like most department heads at the Organization he had come to regard these petitioners as neurotic nuisances—and in fact by the time they reached Pylos they were often acting pretty queerly. In each case he received the applicant with a sense of long-suffering, even of martyrdom.

“I know you have a lot on your mind,” Choudhury went on, “and I haven’t bothered you again until now. I kept hoping that something would develop. But I wonder—it’s been so long—can you tell me how my case stands?”

Pylos saw that he would have to deal more or less frankly with Choudhury. The Director-General was at that moment discouraging promotions—due to a severe financial crisis—and the prospects of advancement for someone like Choudhury were distant indeed. Pylos leaned his elbows on the desk and brought the tips of his fingers together. He looked hard at Choudhury, and it struck him again how worn Choudhury was looking. Taking his cue from Choudhury’s appearance, he spoke.