minute between the labor pains," he said. "How do we get hold of Lona Bohrfeldt"?"
"She went off duty. Did you call here?"
Part of the woman's system had shifted to listening toward the corridor to her left. Lona Bohrfeldt might have gone off duty. But she was still in the building.
"My wife is hysterical," he said. "She doesn't want to come in here. She's sitting out in the car."
The woman stood up. With an authority that, in forty years, had never met a case of hysteria it couldn't neutralize. She walked out the front door. He closed it behind her, and locked it. She turned around and stared at him through the glass.
The desk was empty, but in the first drawer he opened were the telephone lists. He found Lona Bohrfeldt's number and dialed it. She answered the phone immediately.
"Reception desk," he said. "There's a young man standing here with an insured package. He looks trustworthy. I'll let him in."
He hung up. Beneath the number was her home address; the postal district was Raadvad. He copied it onto his lottery ticket. The woman outside watched his movements. He waved to her reassuringly. The important thing is to keep our hearts open. To the outward expression of our Unconscious, which we must separate ourselves from temporarily.
* * *
The corridor had oak doors with plaques giving names and titles, marble floors, and acoustics that made it sound as if the visitor were tap dancing and had come at an inconvenient time. It all made one question whether there's been nothing but progress since the Savior was born in a stable. At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors; he walked in and locked them behind him.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred women are afraid of strange men who come in and lock the door behind them. The woman behind the desk was number one hundred. There was not so much as a whisper of concern in her system. He could have unzipped his trousers and exposed himself, and she would not have taken her feet off the desk.
"I work with children," he said. "I have a little ten-year-old student who has talked about you."
She had everything. She couldn't be forty yet. She had the age, the self-confidence, the education, the title, the money, the business, and even though she was wearing loose black wool clothing and was mostly hidden behind the desk, he sensed that with her build she could stroll down a catwalk modeling swimsuits whenever she pleased. And would do it, if she could charge for it.
The only sign of the price we must all pay was two long furrows that had etched themselves along each side of her mouth ten years ago.
"This is a busy workplace," she said. "People usually call first. Or write."
"Her name is KlaraMaria. From the children's home. From Rabia Institute. She's been kidnapped. We don't know by whom. She got a message out. The message was your name. And a drawing of this place."
She took her feet off the desk.
"The name may ring a bell," she said. "Will you repeat it?"
It didn't ring a bell. It rang a fire alarm. He did not reply.
"I think there was a preliminary study for a survey. At the institute. For the Research Council. It was years ago. Perhaps a girl with that name was part of the empirical data. She must have remembered that for some reason or other. There was very little personal contact."
"What survey?"
"It's a long time ago."
"Is it available for one to read?"
Normally she wouldn't have answered, but the shock had made her more open.
"It was never finished."
"Even so."
"It's a stack of pages in rough draft."
He seated himself on the desk. If he had been wearing a dress he would have hiked it up. So she could have seen some of his thigh.
"I'm rolling in money," he said. "Unmarried. Unrestrained. How about inviting me home? For a cup of tea. And sixty pages from the drawer?"
The two furrows turned black. She pushed the swivel chair away from the desk. So he could see her entire figure.
"You're speaking to a woman who is eight months pregnant!"
She had
"She went off duty. Did you call here?"
Part of the woman's system had shifted to listening toward the corridor to her left. Lona Bohrfeldt might have gone off duty. But she was still in the building.
"My wife is hysterical," he said. "She doesn't want to come in here. She's sitting out in the car."
The woman stood up. With an authority that, in forty years, had never met a case of hysteria it couldn't neutralize. She walked out the front door. He closed it behind her, and locked it. She turned around and stared at him through the glass.
The desk was empty, but in the first drawer he opened were the telephone lists. He found Lona Bohrfeldt's number and dialed it. She answered the phone immediately.
"Reception desk," he said. "There's a young man standing here with an insured package. He looks trustworthy. I'll let him in."
He hung up. Beneath the number was her home address; the postal district was Raadvad. He copied it onto his lottery ticket. The woman outside watched his movements. He waved to her reassuringly. The important thing is to keep our hearts open. To the outward expression of our Unconscious, which we must separate ourselves from temporarily.
* * *
The corridor had oak doors with plaques giving names and titles, marble floors, and acoustics that made it sound as if the visitor were tap dancing and had come at an inconvenient time. It all made one question whether there's been nothing but progress since the Savior was born in a stable. At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors; he walked in and locked them behind him.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred women are afraid of strange men who come in and lock the door behind them. The woman behind the desk was number one hundred. There was not so much as a whisper of concern in her system. He could have unzipped his trousers and exposed himself, and she would not have taken her feet off the desk.
"I work with children," he said. "I have a little ten-year-old student who has talked about you."
She had everything. She couldn't be forty yet. She had the age, the self-confidence, the education, the title, the money, the business, and even though she was wearing loose black wool clothing and was mostly hidden behind the desk, he sensed that with her build she could stroll down a catwalk modeling swimsuits whenever she pleased. And would do it, if she could charge for it.
The only sign of the price we must all pay was two long furrows that had etched themselves along each side of her mouth ten years ago.
"This is a busy workplace," she said. "People usually call first. Or write."
"Her name is KlaraMaria. From the children's home. From Rabia Institute. She's been kidnapped. We don't know by whom. She got a message out. The message was your name. And a drawing of this place."
She took her feet off the desk.
"The name may ring a bell," she said. "Will you repeat it?"
It didn't ring a bell. It rang a fire alarm. He did not reply.
"I think there was a preliminary study for a survey. At the institute. For the Research Council. It was years ago. Perhaps a girl with that name was part of the empirical data. She must have remembered that for some reason or other. There was very little personal contact."
"What survey?"
"It's a long time ago."
"Is it available for one to read?"
Normally she wouldn't have answered, but the shock had made her more open.
"It was never finished."
"Even so."
"It's a stack of pages in rough draft."
He seated himself on the desk. If he had been wearing a dress he would have hiked it up. So she could have seen some of his thigh.
"I'm rolling in money," he said. "Unmarried. Unrestrained. How about inviting me home? For a cup of tea. And sixty pages from the drawer?"
The two furrows turned black. She pushed the swivel chair away from the desk. So he could see her entire figure.
"You're speaking to a woman who is eight months pregnant!"
She had
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