Westervelt strolled out into the rest room proper, thankful that the lock on the anteroom door had not chosen that moment to stick. He stretched and yawned comfortably. Then he caught sight of his tousled, air-blown hair in a mirror. He fished in his pocket for coins and bought another hard paper comb and a small vial of hair dressing from dispensers mounted on the wall. He took his time spraying the vaguely perfumed mist over his dark hair and combing it neatly. That task attended to, he stole a few seconds to study the reflection of his face. It was rather more square about the jaw than Smith's, he thought, but he had to admit that the nose was prominent enough to challenge the chief's. No one had thought to equip the washroom with adjustable mirrors, so he gave up twisting his neck in an effort to see his profile. "Well, that's a lot better!" he said, with considerable satisfaction. "Now if I can hook another coffee out of the locker, it will be like starting a new day. Gosh, I hope it's a better one, too!" He walked lightly along the corridor to the main office, exaggerating the slight resilience of the floor to a definite bounce in his step. Outside the office, he met Beryl coming out. He felt himself come down on his heels immediately. Beryl eyed him enigmatically, glanced over his shoulder to check that he was alone, and swung away toward the opposite wing. Westervelt hurried after her. "Look, Beryl!" he called. "I wanted to say ... that is ... about before--" Beryl turned the corner and kept walking. "Wait just a second!" said Westervelt. He tried to get beside her to speak to something besides the back of her blonde head, but she was a tall girl and had a long stride. He hesitated to take her by the elbow. Beryl stopped at the door to the library. "Please take note, Willie," she said coldly, "that the light is on inside and I am all alone." _At least she spoke_, thought Westervelt. "I have come down here for a little peace and quiet," she informed him. "I hope you didn't intend to learn how to read at this hour of the night." "Aw, come on!" protested Westervelt. "It was an accident. Could I help it?" "Being the way you are, I suppose not," admitted Beryl judiciously. "Why don't you go elsewhere and be an accident again?" "I'm trying to say I'm sorry," said Westervelt, feeling a flush spreading over his features. "I don't know why I have to apologize, anyway. It wasn't _me_ in there, filing away in the dark!" Beryl looked down her nose at him as if he were a Mizarian asking where he could have his chlorine tank refilled. "Is that the story you're telling around?" she demanded icily. "I'm not telling--" Westervelt realized he was beginning to yell, and lowered his voice. "I'm not telling any story around. Nobody knows anything about it except you and I and Pete. Bob couldn't have seen anything."