hey send their regrets."

"Regrets?" Sextus said icily. "Did you explain who called this meeting,
young lady?"

Her voice dropped the synthetic sweetness and became a throaty rasp.
"Look, Buster, we're short-handed enough without you should call
meetings at eleven A. M. Plug the hole in your head. It's suckin' air."
He broke the connection. The place was busy, he'd grant, but this was
rank insubordination. His whole staff! Everyone seemed keyed to the
_boingg!_ point.

He decided to mull it over breakfast. The spacious, well-appointed
coffee-shop served his juice gelid and his coffee hot, his egg tender
and his toast crisp. The bit of tension vanished as he ate with relish.
He signed the check with his tight, little introverted signature.

Now for a quick inspection tour to see just how rough things really
were. He told the boy on the service elevator, "To the bottom." His
stomach writhed as the cage plummeted four floors below the street
level. The kitchens, laundry, warehouse, baggage-room, switchboard room,
ice-plant and personnel spaces sprawled through an acre of underground
levels. They boiled with sweating men and dishevelled women engaged in
the intricate business of housing, feeding, clothing, liquoring and
catering to a small city under one roof. Then he remembered how small
the quarters were upstairs.

How could they _house_ enough guests to justify all this?

Returning to his office he called the employment bureau. "Mr. Crowson?
Forsyte here! I'm at the hotel."

"Oh dear, what's wrong now?"

"You didn't tell me to whom I should report. This, ah, is my first
experience with employment agencies. Usually there is a board of
directors."

"Is that all?" Crowson sighed audibly. "You are in full charge, I assure
you. Our little interview was quite satisfactory. I have certified you
to your bookkeeping department, and you may draw upon your salary after
a week. Anything else?"

"Where may I reach the owner or the chairman in an emergency?"

"The owner is a Dr. Bradford who is in Hanford, Washington. Top secret
government work. He may not be contacted until he returns. Sorry, that's
all I can tell you. Getting on all right, Mr. Forsyte?" he asked with
obvious reluctance.

Sextus cut off. Two lights on the intercom were blinking at him. One
call was from the kitchen. The first chef had just heaved a cleaver at
the steward, and the head salad girl was in hysterics.

Sextus said he'd be right down. The