On this floor, the paneling had been swapped for grey cinder blocks which lined corridors as crabbed as a rat’s maze. I walked through the grey catacombs and past the door marked “Special Investigations Section.” Inside was a large open room jammed with metal desks and secretaries and bordered by offices. The section was packed; two happy faces peered out of each office. I glanced over my shoulder at the schoolroom-type clock. 9:15. I was late again. I went to the office marked “Christopher Kenyon Paget, Trial Attorney,” walked across my grey tile government rug to my armchair of specially molded indestructible grey plastic, and sat at my antique grey metal desk.

My secretary peered in gingerly, as if testing the atmosphere with her forehead.

“Good morning, Chris.”

“Good morning, yourself.” But I smiled. I liked Debbie-and she could type. Among the ECC secretaries, that was a rare combination. She smiled back and stood in the doorway.

“How have you been?”

“Peachy. As a matter of fact, I was just surveying my kingdom. How’s the coffee this morning?”

“What’s this thing you have about the coffee?”

“If I’d ever tasted Woolite stirred with a cow chip, I imagine I’d know.” The corners of her mouth cracked upwards, then broke into a smile. She was dark and pretty and had a prettier smile. I liked to see it.

“You’re in a good mood.”

“I spent last night thinking about what McGuire did to the Hartex case. I shouldn’t let myself do that.”

She shook her head in exaggerated disapproval. “Misplaced idealism. Have you ever thought about chucking it all and joining the Reverend Moon?”

“That fat little maharishi is more my type. Anyhow, I’m probably too large a spiritual problem for any one religion.” She smiled again. “Speaking of which,” I added, “if you have to perform an exorcism on that coffee, do it.”