“Oh don’t I know.” Glendenning nodded. “Per se.”

“I wasted half an hour this morning trying to tell a staff member from Social and Anthropological Questions what she could easily have found out from reading the Staff Regulations. That Miss Delbanco who used to be in Conservation of Rural Communities and is now in Urban Welfare. A Subsidiary C, if you please, and wants a promotion to Specialized Two.”

Glendenning laughed. “Talk about the Distant Prospect of Eton College.”

Bekkus succumbed to smiles. “Well, I can’t help laughing. But it isn’t funny.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her, ‘My dear girl, read the Staff Regulations.’ Of course it’s that old business of being in a post that’s over-graded. Claims she’s been doing the work for X number of years, why can’t she have the grade. Exactly the opposite, obviously—the post was upgraded for reasons of geographical distribution, and only rates a Subsidiary C. If everyone got the grade of the post they were in, we’d have a nice situation, I must say. In any case, the Director-General’s circular specifically specified that assignment to a Specialized post does not imply entitlement to the grade. Why don’t they read what’s put in front of them?”

“How did she react?”

“Oh—she’s a conflicted little individual. When I notified her of non-entitlement she said—in a voice that was supposed to create some effect or other—that it was about what she’d expected.” Bekkus smiled again. “You can imagine how far that got her. Precisely nowhere. I said—with a smile, you know—‘You know, Miss Delbanco, that you can always leave the Organization.’”

“How old is she?”

“Around forty. Maybe a bit more.”

“Well of course. There you are.”

Bekkus uncrossed his legs. “Oh, it’s all in the day’s work, I suppose. We’re here to do a job and this is how it gets done. But the time it utilizes is unbelievable. Unbelievable.” He took his document back off the desk. “Ah well, back to the salt mines. You think this should go under Mohammad, eh?”

“I do.”

“And just forget the Mecca-nized part?”

“And the Scek.”

“Thanks for your help, Clifford. I appreciate it.”

Glendenning raised his hand in farewell, and completed the gesture by taking a paper from the top of his tray. “Anytime.”

“Have a good day.”

The paper that Glendenning had taken up was a letter to the Organization from a private person. Like most such letters, it was addressed to the Director-General of the Organization by name. It was written by hand on lined paper, and asked for assistance in augmenting the education of the writer, a resident of a village on the upper reaches of the Limpopo River. Below the carefully formed signature, there appeared the word “Help!”