She knocked briefly and threw open a door. Bert Crane, dressed in chinos and a worn blue Brooks Brothers shirt, was sitting on a secretary's chair in the center of a large corner office, using a stack of cartons as a desk.

He looked up expectantly. "Phones?"

Sondergard shook her head. "Definitely by Thanksgiving-no, really, the guy said pretty soon. Look who's here."

Crane rose and greeted Karp. "Welcome to Washington. I wish I could have received you in more splendor. The furniture's on order; God knows when it'll get here. We have no phones, and I'm not sure we're being paid."

"Aside from that…," said Sondergard.

Crane grinned. "Yeah, aside from that. This is what's known as hitting the ground running. Look, here's the plan. I have to make some calls, assuming the phone starts working. Bea will get you started on the paperwork to get you on board. Then we're due over at the Rayburn Building for a meeting with the chairman, show him you can walk and talk and don't drool. Then I've got a lunch with some media people, and you're free until, let's say, two; get back here, and we'll talk. You should be able to catch the four o'clock shuttle."

"Sounds good," said Karp.

Bea Sondergard ushered him out and into her own cramped office next door, where, Karp was not surprised to see, all was in order: a desk, several chairs, a brass lamp with a shade, a typing table on which was a Lexitron word processor, and on one wall, several sheets of white chart paper displaying carefully printed lists of things to do, and flowcharts showing the order in which they were to be accomplished. The woman quickly found a manila file and handed it to him. In it were the forms without which the government would not recognize the existence of its servants. On each of the forms there was a little typed note explaining which forms were most important and offering pithy advice on what to put where.