`Like this place?' Phelps said.

`Not much.'

`It was the best we could find on short notice,' he said.

A guard with a sign-in book stood in front of the elevators. Graves let Phelps sign first; then he took the pen and wrote his name, his authorization, and the time. He saw that Decker and Venn were already there:

They got into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. `Decker and Venn are already here,' Phelps said.

`I saw.'

Phelps nodded and smiled, as much as he ever smiled. `I keep forgetting about you and your powers of observation.'

`I keep forgetting about you, too,' Graves said.

Phelps ignored the remark. `I've. planned two meetings for today,' he said. `You've got the briefing in an hour - Wilson, Peckham, and a couple of others. But I think you should hear about Sigma Station first.'

`All right,' Graves said. He didn't know what the hell Phelps was talking about, but he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking.

They got off at the third floor and walked past some peeling posters of Milan and Tahiti and through a small typing pool, the desks now deserted, the typewriters neatly covered.

`What is this place?' Graves said.

`Travel agency,' Phelps said. `They went out of business but they had a lot of -'

`Telephone lines.'

`Yes. We took over the floor.'

`How long you planning to stay?' Graves asked. There was an edge to his voice that he didn't bother to conceal. Phelps knew how he felt about the Department.

`Just, through the Convention,' Phelps said, with elaborate innocence. `What did you think?'

`I thought it might be permanent.'

`Good Lord, no. Why would we do a thing like that?'

`I can't imagine,' Graves said.

Past the typing pool they came to a section of private offices. The walls were painted an institutional beige. It reminded Graves of a prison, or a hospital. No wonder the travel agency went out of business, he thought.