"You see nothing wrong in a poor old woman being forced to work? In a boy forced to grind out his youth among package-wrappers? You see nothing wrong in this?" "Well, I ... we all have to work." "Here?" Mrs. Wladek said with astonishment. "Here in America, you believe that? It is not so. My own uncle Bedrich has told me years ago it is not so. Do you dispute the word of my own uncle Bedrich?" "My good woman," said Father Seador, "look around you ... your friends, your neighbors--" "Let us say no more about it," Mrs. Wladek interrupted. "There is a curse upon me and I have called on you to remove this curse." "How do you know this is a curse? Our minds do change, you know, and they do strange things--" "I have been told," Mrs. Wladek said. "You've been told? By whom?" Mrs. Wladek drew herself up in the chair. "By Marya Proderenska, the gypsy fortune teller. She knows that--" "A gypsy? You consulted a fortune teller?" "I did." "Mrs. Wladek, do you know what you are saying ... what you have done? Don't you realize you have committed a sin against--" But he was speaking to empty air. Marie Wladek was gone. * * * * * Gloria looked up at the little clock and sighed briefly. Five o'clock. Another day gone already. It was a shame, in a way, that time passed so quickly. Gloria didn't feel the least bit tired. After all, she had spent the day in helping people, and that was what made life worthwhile. But it was quitting time. Staying late would give her the reputation of an eager beaver, and that would make her unpopular. Not that she cared for popularity for its own sake--certainly not!--but you couldn't do your best work unless the others in your office were willing to help you. Leaving on time was a simple sacrifice to make for them. She pulled open the desk drawer and got her beret. Then, as she was putting it on, she remembered. In the other drawer were the clay models. She opened the drawer and pulled them out. She had barely reduced them to a single amorphous lump when Mr. Fredericksohn passed her desk. "What's that?" he said. "Clay?" "A nephew of mine," Gloria said coolly. "He likes to play with clay. I bought some and I'm taking it home." "Ah," Mr. Fredericksohn said. "Of course. Good night." And he was gone. Gloria put the clay back into the drawer and reached for her beret. Harold Meedy called from across the room: "Going home?" "That's right," she said. "Can I charter a bus and drop you somewhere?" "I'm afraid not," she said. "I've really got to get right home." "Listen," Harold said. He came over to her desk. "I've been trying to get somewhere with you ever since you walked into this office. Now, what's wrong with me? I haven't been able to get to first base. Don't you like me?" "Mr. Meedy," Gloria began, "it's just that ... well, I don't believe in inter-personal relations on that level, not in the office. I'm sorry." He blinked. "You really believe that, don't you?"