building across the street.

"Yes; I want to see him, too." Cardon poured from the bottle in front
of him, accepted the thanks of the house, and, when the bartender
brought the fifteen-dollars-odd change from the dozen drinks, he
pushed it back.

He drank slowly, looking around the room, then set down his empty
glass and went back, past two doors which bore pictured half-doors
revealing, respectively, masculine-trousered and feminine-stockinged
ankles, and opened the unmarked office door beyond. The bartender, he
knew, had pushed the signal button; the door was unlocked, and,
inside, O'Reilly--baptismal name Luigi Orelli--was waiting.

"Chief wants to see you, right away," the saloon keeper said.

The brewer nodded. "All right. Keep me covered; don't know how long
I'll be." He crossed the room and opened a corner-cupboard, stepping
inside.

The corner cupboard, which was an elevator, took him to a tunnel below
the street. Across the street, he entered another elevator, set the
indicator for the tenth floor, and ascended. As the car rose, he could
feel the personality of Frank Cardon, Illiterate brewer, drop from
him, as though he were an actor returning from the stage to his
dressing room.

The room into which he emerged was almost that. There was a long
table, at which two white-smocked Literates drank coffee and went over
some papers; a third Literate sprawled in a deep chair, resting; at a