Twice before she had been assigned to a peace-keeping mission, only to be forestalled at the moment of departure—once by a bloody revolution in the country of her destination, another time because of a slipped disc. Now it had all come to pass. Even a lag in the Reports workload had helped to facilitate her sudden departure: only two days before, she had completed proofreading on appendices for the World Commodity Index.

Environment would always have been secondary to Miss Kingslake’s wish to serve—adverse conditions, in fact, would merely have challenged her to make light of them in her helpful way. Almost guiltily, then, having fastened her skirt, did she cross to the windows and look out on the Anatolian sunrise as she buttoned her blouse. She had no right to expect that the fulfillment of her desires would take place in so much comfort.

She dwelt again, indulgently, on the encounter with her new colleagues. Grilli, a young man, evidently insecure, had been abruptly elevated to a position of unnerving responsibility. When Miss Kingslake’s industry, her goodwill, made themselves apparent to him, his manner would change. And had he not himself described the Captain as a rough diamond? A display of diamantine qualities would soon put the Captain’s opening remarks in perspective. Pazienza, thought Clelia Kingslake to herself, smiling in the glass as she put on the jacket of her best blue suit.

A black Chrysler was waiting in the hotel driveway, and Grilli was in it. Miss Kingslake greeted the Rhodian driver who handed her in, and asked his name.

“Mihalis,” he told her. “Michele, Michel, Mike.”

Grilli said, “The others are late too.”

“You aren’t at this hotel?”

“Managed to find a modern place.” He jerked his head inland. “Brand-new. Air-conditioned. Music piped in.” They sat in silence. He looked steadily at the folds of her skirt, then reached out and took her sleeve between thumb and finger. “Buy this out of your per diem advance?”

Pazienza, Miss Kingslake said to herself. She thought, This man is afraid of women. But she harbored the knowledge unwillingly and had not the faintest idea of what to do with it. The mere realization in itself suggested something unsporting, an abuse of power.

The driver opened the door. Rees appeared, carrying a camera and a brief case. Grilli made an attempt to stand up inside the car.

“Sorry to keep you busy people waiting.” Rees settled himself on the other side of Clelia Kingslake. “I overslept, I’m afraid. The plane journey, change of hours—it’s quite an adjustment.”

“Certainly takes it out of you,” Grilli agreed sympathetically.

“I hardly remember where I was, this time yesterday. Malta, was it, or Herakleion?” Rees smiled benevolently at Miss Kingslake. “How do you do.”

“Cecilia Kingslake,” Grilli said. “She’s the latest arrival. I think you—”