Charlene Bloom took almost a quarter of an hour to make her way along the length of the main hangar. More than reluctance to attend the impending meeting slowed her steps. Fifty experiments went on in the building, most of them under her administrative control.

In one dim-lit vault a score of domestic cats prowled, sleepless and deranged. A delicate operation had removed part of the reticular formation, the section of the hindbrain that controls sleep. She scanned the records. They had been continuously awake now for eleven hundred and eighty hours — a month and a half. The monitors were at last showing evidence of neurological malfunction. She could reasonably call it feline madness in her monthly report.

Most of the animals now showed no interest in food or sex. A handful had become feral, attacking anything that came near them. But they were all still alive. That was progress. Their last experiment had failed after less than half the time.

Each section of the building held temperature-controlled enclosures. In the next area she came to the rooms where the hibernating rodents and marsupials were housed. She walked slowly past each walled cage, her attention divided between the animals and thoughts of the coming meeting.

Marmots and ground squirrels here, next to the mutated jerboas. Who was running this one? Aston Naugle, if she had it right. Not as organized as Wolfgang Gibbs, and not as hardworking — but at least he didn’t make the shivers run up and down her spine. She was taller than Wolfgang. And his senior by three grades. But there was something about those tawny eyes… like one of the animals. He wasn’t afraid of the bears, or the big cats — or his superior. A sudden disquieting thought came to her. That look. He would ask her out one evening, she was sure of it. And then?

Suddenly conscious that time was passing, she began to hurry along the next corridor. Her shoes were crippling, but it wouldn’t do to be late. These damned shoes — why could she never get any that fitted right, the way other people did? Mustn’t be late. In the labs since JN had been made Director, unpunctuality was a cardinal sin (“When you delay the start of a meeting, you steal everyone’s time to pay for your own lack of efficiency.…”).