He shaved, dressed, paid Lori her wages, and sent her back to the agency.
Loneliness hit him hard. And fear. He surrendered his room, stored his suit-case, and bought himself a second good luck charm. In a public washroom he buttoned the charm inside his shirt and dropped a coin in the phenol-barb dispenser. The sedative calmed him; he emerged and flagged down a robot taxi.
"Main Directorate building," he told the driver, "and take your time."
"All right, sir or madam," the MacMillan robot answered; MacMillans weren't capable of fine discriminations.
Spring air billowed into the cab as it zipped above the rooftops. Benteley wasn't interested; his eyes were fixed on the growing syndrome of buildings ahead. His written papers had been shot in the night before. He had waited about the right time; they should be appearing on the desk of the first checker in the chain of Directorate officials.
"Here we are, sir or madam." The robot taxi settled down and grappled itself to a halt. Benteley stepped from the open door.
On a main pedestrian artery he paused to light a cigarette. His hands weren't shaking, not really. He shoved his case under his arm as he reached the processing lounge. Perhaps by this time next month he would be under fealty to the Directorate... he touched one of the charms inside his shirt.
"Ted," a voice came, small and urgent. "Wait!"
He halted as Lori threaded her way through the crowd and came to him.
"I have something for you," she said breathlessly. "I knew I'd catch you here."
"What is it?" Benteley demanded. He knew that the Directorate's special Corps was close by; he didn't want his intimate thoughts known by eighty bored telepaths.
Lori reached round his neck and clicked something in place. It was another good luck charm.