Stark white and clean as a surgery, Uz Leimme’s office was like an ice cave all year. A small white box of a building, with two nearly wall-sized windows in the front, square door in the middle that swings back silently on big hinges. His secretary, absent when I came, would sit behind a high marble-topped counter. Bright sunlight from the windows was reflected and re-reflected all throughout the open office, and I could see Leimme back there in the rearmost recesses. His desk was steel with a marble top, and there were chrome and marble counters and frigid glass-fronted cabinets on the walls. Some had files in them and some had bright steel implements, most of which looked medical but some were clerical—staplers and hole punchers.

When he saw me, Leimme crossed to the sink and, humming, began soaping his hands wildly, flipping gobs of foam in all directions. He then undulated forward up to his desk, his gait deformed by a wooden right leg. He was a large, round-headed man, with white hair parted on the left. Like most administrators, and this was always attributed to chance, he was a white person from the valleys on the other side of the mountains. His shirt and satin cravat, his long waistcoat and longer jacket were white, his trousers were black and white checked, his leg was white wood. He dropped with one loud crack into his seat and waved me forward with a rather inane grin.

I sat stupidly before his desk and concisely explained my problem, laying out my paperwork with ostentatious care in the desolation in front of him.

“I have just received this draft notice.” I placed my finger straight up and down on it, on the desk. “Even though I submitted a valid application for exemption as a student at the College of Narrators, well in advance of the application deadline.”

Uz Leimme’s expression hadn’t changed. “So?” he grinned at me.

“So there’s been a mistake.”

“And?”

“And I’d like you to fix it.”

“Don’t be an ass!” he said unctuously.

“Who’s an ass?” I cried. “I applied for an exemption and I got a draft notice. Now is this application in order and on time or isn’t it?”

He looked at me, and the light was very bright all around. He didn’t answer. I might not even be there anymore, from his point of view.

“This is idiotic,” I said helplessly. “I have to matriculate!”