Pylos was a man who could recognize his own defects. He could not, however, dwell on them. Tracing the Ashmole-Brown débâcle back to its origins, he swiftly recalled that he had been new to the Organization at the time, and that Ashmole-Brown had been virtually unknown to him. Soon he was reproaching himself for nothing more than having relied too heavily on the judgment of others. And these others were quickly fused into a single figure.

Miss Graine, seeing Ashmole-Brown’s book on Pylos’s desk, had experienced a feeling of dread. It was not simply the existence of the book; it was the fact of Pylos’s having left it there, in flagrant violation of their mutual security pact. The sensation that her power was passing communicated itself, mysteriously, from Miss Graine to her colleagues. Exhibiting a new sense of impunity, several people drew her attention to articles on Ashmole-Brown, ingenuously asking if she remembered him. One morning she found a magazine on her desk, opened to a large heading: “Are You an Ashmole-Brown Enthusiast?”

The Ashmole-Brown development was in fact causing unrest throughout DALTO. The sooner his candle of understanding guttered out, the better it would be all round, and especially for Pylos. But Ashmole-Brown’s success gave no sign of flagging. The fact that no official recognition had been forthcoming for this exceptional case was encouraging a sense of injustice in all—where a juster system would have imposed proportionate expectations. The staff, though naturally enjoying the discomfiture of authority, felt that the joke was somehow on them. Some token acknowledgment of their dissatisfaction was called for.

It happened that Miss Graine, passing by the Organization bar one day on her way back from lunch, glimpsed Mr. Pylos in earnest conversation with one of his friends—another Greek, named Apostolides, who had recently become head of the section dealing with staff assignments abroad. Now there were a hundred official matters that Pylos might have earnestly discussed with Apostolides, and there was no reason why Miss Graine should have been alarmed by the sight of the two together. Nevertheless it is true that all the way back to her office she was haunted by a quotation that she could neither place nor complete: “When Greek meets Greek,” she repeated to herself, and wondered what came next. If she had ever known, she could not remember. But she felt sure it was nothing good.

When Sadie Graine was assigned to Central America, she appealed the decision. She contested it on the grounds that she did not speak the language—a not unreasonable objection but one which had not operated on behalf of those still laboring in localities like Kabul. Her objection was overridden and her assignment confirmed for a period of two years, with possibility of extension.