e was a frightful jam at Fortieth Street, and
another one just below Madison Square."

"Yes, it gets worse every year. Pardon my obsession, but nine times out
of ten--ninety-nine out of a hundred--it's the fault of some fool doing
something stupid. Speaking about doing stupid things, though--I did one.
Forgot to take that gun out of my overcoat pocket, and didn't notice
that I had it till I was on the subway, coming in. Have a big flashlight
in the other pocket, but that doesn't matter. What I'm worried about is
that somebody'll find out I have a gun and raise a howl about my coming
armed to a mediation hearing."

The hearing was to be held in one of the big conference rooms on the
forty-second floor. Melroy was careful to remove his overcoat and lay it
on a table in the corner, and then help Doris off with hers and lay it
on top of his own. There were three men in the room when they arrived:
Kenneth Leighton, the Atomic Power Authority man, fiftyish, acquiring a
waistline bulge and losing his hair: a Mr. Lyons, tall and slender, with
white hair; and a Mr. Quillen, considerably younger, with plastic-rimmed
glasses. The latter two were the Federal mediators. All three had been
lounging in arm-chairs, talking about the new plays on Broadway. They
all rose when Melroy and Doris Rives came over to join them.

"We mustn't discuss business until the others get here," Leighton
warned. "It's bad enough that all three of us got here ahead of them;
they'll be sure to think we're trying to take an unfair advantage of
them. I suppose neither of you have had time to see any of the new
plays."

Fortunately, Doris and Melroy had gone to the theater after dinner, the
evening-before-last; they were able to join the conversation. Young Mr.
Quillen wanted Doris Rives' opinion, as a psychologist, of the mental
processes of the heroine of the play they had seen; as nearly as she
could determine, Doris replied, the heroine in question had exhibited
nothing even loosely describable as mental processes of any sort. They
were still on the subject when the two labor negotiators, Mr. Cronnin
and Mr. Fields, arrived. Cronnin was in his sixties, with the
nearsighted squint and compressed look of concentration of an old-time
precision machinist; Fields was much younger, and sported a Phi Beta
Kappa key.

Lyons, who seemed to be the senior mediator, thereupon called the
meeting to order and they took their places at the table.

*