She put the phone down. She had expected to be called to work at once and was disappointed. It was considerate of this Grilli, who was in charge of the new mission, to give her a day’s grace, but she was anxious to take up her duties. She thought she would rest before unpacking and walking out to look at the town.

“Grilli. Downstairs.”

“I’ll be right down.” She sat up, replaced the receiver, tried to think where she was. It was after eight. She sprang off the bed, pulled on her dress, combed her hair, alarming herself by muttering “My God” as she fumbled with buttons and looked for her shoes.

When she came out of the elevator there was no one to be seen. The concierge directed her to one of the lounges. It was a large room beside the bar, decorated with graceful murals of the seasons, and the one person in it was paring his nails beneath the harvest. Miss Kingslake realized that, because of the name, she had been expecting a slight brittle figure, whereas the man who glanced in her direction, put away his nail file, and made a minimal effort to rise was a big man, a fat man, too young a man to be completely bald. His Sicilian ancestry—from which he had inherited the knowledge of the Italian language that had brought him, too, on this mission—was not apparent.

She shook hands and sat down with an apology for keeping him waiting. “It must be the journey.” She smiled. “I was in a deep sleep.”

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.”