In the Mediterranean town from which Pastore came, the streets were lined with small palaces whose every balcony invited the delivery of an oration (not that those balconies and their orators had proved entirely free from disadvantages); whose great doorways and windows offered glimpses of supreme moments in artistic creation; whose interiors gave onto courtyards adorned with fountains, with flowers, with curving stairs—

“You look as if you’re delivering an oration.”

Pastore turned round. “I was wondering whatever became of the cortile.”

Jaspersen frowned. “The courtyard? I suppose it interfered with clean lines.”

Pastore looked gloomy. “This clean-up campaign.” He put his hand to his breast. “Western Man—”

How tiresome sometimes, thought Jaspersen, was Western Man with all his myths of Western Man. He interrupted. “I’m going down to the Committee. Will you keep an eye on things here? Luba’s disappeared.”

“I fear she can be traced.” Pastore waved his hand. “Yes, yes, I’ll be here.”

Jaspersen was thin and straight with long legs, and he walked quickly even when going only as far as the elevators. Besides, he preferred to make his way as rapidly as possible through his section’s depressing inner corridor—airless, windowless, and painted gray—where a dozen typists leaned woolen elbows on stained desks. Had there been some solution for these unfortunate conditions, Jaspersen, a humane man, would have proposed it. But he knew that nothing could be done—the designers of the building having judged such functional disadvantages to be small concessions made to outward harmony.

(The Organization had been founded at the end of a colossal world war—a moment when the spirit of international cooperation was naturally at its height. Scarcely had the Founding Constitution been signed by the participating nations when a commission of the world’s foremost architects was formed to draw up plans for a building that would house this noble expression of human solidarity. The commission, in turn, had hardly sat to its task before certain fissures began to appear in the fabric of its deliberations: Dutchman contended with Swede, and Swede with Turk; Burmese fended off Brazilian, and Spaniard [through an interpreter] disparaged Swiss. The first to resign, a Frenchman who described his colleagues as being at loggers-heads, subsequently became a recluse. The second, an elderly Belgian, was taken on a world cruise by his spinster niece and ultimately regained his health. The eventual design, endorsed by a group of three, was remarkable for its extensive use of conflicting primary forms, and was fittingly hailed throughout the world as a true example of international cooperation.)

This being the case, Jaspersen hastened down the corridor to the elevators and pushed the Down button.

In the elevator he found Nagashima, a Step Three in the Mediation Unit of Jaspersen’s section. Bowing courteously, Nagashima returned Jaspersen’s greeting; his perseverance with each syllable of Jaspersen’s name made it sound like a phonetic exercise.