Now they were walking along a wide corridor that sloped downward, as it reached the Committee Room, like an undersea tunnel. Officials carrying papers came toward them and passed on purposefully, like salmon headed upstream. There was a multiplicity of doors, and a notice board that listed meetings. Another board displayed glossy photographs for the use of the press—the Spanish delegate enjoying a joke with the Custodian of Refugees, the Soviet representative opening the Children’s Art Exhibit. When he reached a pair of handsome doors, Jaspersen grasped one of the inlaid handles that had been the gift of Finland and stood aside to let the Chief enter the chamber.

The ceiling of the Committee Room was earth-colored, the carpet blue: it was as if the skies had fallen. The room was formed like a theater, with a high public gallery. The action, so to speak, took place in the pit, where a more or less circular arrangement was created by an arc of tables—at which sat the representatives of various nations, all labeled, like plants in a public garden, with the exotic names of their countries. A certain bloc of seats was reserved for senior officials from the Organization itself, and it was in this section, in a leather chair, that Jaspersen seated himself, directly behind his Chief. The discussion had already begun, and Jaspersen, laying the folder of papers carefully on his knees, clipped over his ear the small electric interpreting device attached to the chair, his face assuming as he did so the grave and attentive expression of everyone else in the room.

Ismet concluded his draft memorandum with the word “implementation” and gave it to Leslie for typing. He then got up from his desk and stood at the window. Resting his fingertips on the inner sill, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, a face was looking back at him from the glass.

This reflection gestured, mouthed, nodded, and, pushing up the window, climbed into the room. “Gave me a turn, standing there like that,” it said reproachfully, helping Ismet to pick up the papers circulated by the rush of air. “Wasn’t expecting it.”

“Why should they clean the windows on a day like this?” Ismet asked.

The man clapped the last memorandum down on the desk with an irreverent hand. He shrugged his shoulder before readjusting the harness over it. “Orders from above.” He jerked his head skyward. “The way I see it—there’s more chiefs than Indians round here.”

Ismet said reasonably, “But that is the way you see it, isn’t it? I mean, you only see the offices that have windows. The offices of the chiefs, so to speak.”