He passed through the hall and into the cramped front office. Nobody was there; the office and its barren reception room were empty. The front door of the building was standing wide open, as usual. Cartwright picked up a heap of letters, sat down on the sagging couch and spread them out on the table, after pushing aside a dog-eared copy of John Preston's third book, Flame Disc.
He opened a letter and removed a five-dollar bill and a long note in a shaky handwriting. There were a few more microscopic contributions. Adding them up, he found the Society had received thirty dollars. Bills added up to over five hundred dollars. He folded the money and crossed to the counter to snap on the ancient ipvic.
"What's the exact time?" he asked the mechanical clerk.
"Nine fifty-two, sir or madam."
Cartwright set his pocket watch and wandered about the office. He stood for a moment in the narrow doorway; the sunlight was cold and pleasant, and it made him sleepy. He yawned and relaxed against the door jamb.
"They're getting restless," Rita O'Neill said behind him. "Stop putting it off."
"I'm waiting because I have to," he answered, without turning round.
"You're not afraid of them, are you?"
"I'm afraid, but not of them." Cartwright turned back into the office. He moved down the narrow hall and Rita O'Neill hurried after him, into the gloomy inner passage that ran parallel to the ordinary corridor.
"Any more funds come in today?" she asked.
"Thirty dollars."
"Don't turn up your nose at that. It'll buy us another crate of protine."
Cartwright passed on to Doctor Flood, sitting on a stool in the shadows beyond the turn of the corridor. The air was musty and dark; cobwebs and rubbish littered the passage. Somewhere in the rat-scratched depths creaky ventilation equipment wheezed laboriously. Beyond the sealed doorway at the end of the corridor came a crack of light and the low murmur of voices.