“Mildred,” he said. “It’s summer. Oatmeal is not a good hot-weather food.”

“Of course it is.” She happily stirred. “Good for your high blood pressure.”

Dufus jumped and fussed at Packer, dancing around his feet, trying to climb him, grabbing cuffs in snaggly teeth. Packer never touched his wife’s puppy if he could help it and had refused any input into its development beyond naming it, over objections from Mildred, who had made it a condition of their marriage that she would never be without one of these ugly little dogs from her childhood. Dufus did not see very well. From his perspective, Packer was a very big and unfriendly tree, a utility pole, some other edifice, maybe a fence. Whenever Packer came within scent, Dufus was airborne and in grass and squatting and relieving other basic functions that meant nothing to Dufus. He untied both of Packer’s shoelaces.

Packer made his way across the newsroom as if he saw no color in the world, only gray. He was tucking in his shirt, heading to the men’s room, feeling like he had to go and knowing nothing would happen again and reminded that next Wednesday at two P.M., he had an appointment with his urologist.

• • •

Brazil was running down the escalator, deciding to take matters into his own hands. He pushed through several sets of doors, finally entering the rarified air-conditioned space where Brenda Bond ruled the world from an ergonomically correct green fabric chair with rollers. Her feet were on an adjustable footrest, her valuable hands poised over a contoured keyboard designed to prevent carpal tunnel syndrome.

Bond was surrounded by IBM and Hewlett Packard mainframes, multiplexors, modems, cabinets containing huge tape reels, decoders, and a satellite feed from the Associated Press. It was her cockpit, and he had come. She could not believe that Brazil was standing before her, had sought her out, and wanted to be with her and no one but her this very second in time and space. Her face got hot as she looked him up and down. God almighty, was he built, and he knew it, and was already showing his contempt for her.

“I think someone’s getting into my basket and going through my files,” Brazil announced.

“Impossible,” Bond, the genius, arrogantly told him. “Unless you’ve given out your password.”

“I want it changed,” he demanded.

She was studying his uniform trousers and the way they fit him, particularly in the area of his zipper, appropriating and full of her superiority. Brazil made a big point of looking where she was looking, as if there must be something on his pants.

“What? I spill something?” he said, walking off.

It was not that his trousers were too tight, nor were they provocative in any way. Brazil never wore anything for the purpose of drawing attention to himself or impressing others. For one thing, shopping had never been an option. The entirety of his wardrobe could be accommodated by two dresser drawers and about twenty coat hangers. Mostly, he had uniforms, and tennis clothes supplied by the tennis team and by Wilson, which had put him on a free list when he was in high school and consistently ranked in the top five juniors in the state. Brazil’s uniform trousers were, in truth, baggy if anything. Yet people like Brenda Bond still stared. So did Axel.