"Good morning," he said. "Nice day, isn't it?" The driver nodded sullenly. _Very good_, Mr. Westing thought. _You're doing splendidly._ At work he was tired and drawn out. He had trouble concentrating. The Department Manager commented on it. "You're not acting like a Company man, Henry." "I'm a little tired. I had a hard night." "What was she like?" "Dismal." Everything was dismal. The jingles ran through his head endlessly. So did the slogans and the words from the sound truck. He was beginning to doubt himself. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he _did_ need to belong. * * * * * That night the sound truck was still there. It circled the block, advertising the Organization and denouncing Henry Westing. There were signs on all the houses too. _We Belong to the Organization_, the signs said. There was a sign on every door except his. He went upstairs and made dinner. Then he sat by the window and tried to think. Down below he could hear the sound truck. They're getting to you, he thought. A little more and they'll have you whipped. You'd better do something. He picked up the phone and dialed. "Yes?" a voice answered. "This is Henry Westing." "Ahh, Mr. Westing. I thought you'd be calling soon." "You may send your representative over to my apartment this evening. Tell him to bring everything." "Application forms?" "Everything. Whatever you use to close the deal." "He'll be there at eight." "I'll be waiting." At eight o'clock the young man rang his bell. He was burdened down with equipment. "Come in," Mr. Westing said. "Thank you." "What's all that you're carrying?" "Educational material. Mind if I set it up?" "Go right ahead." He poured himself a brandy and soda and watched. The young man seemed nervous and strained as he set up a hemispherical device which seemed to be a projector. Mr. Westing glanced at a leatherette folder the young man had put aside while he worked. The folder bore a neatly labelled title: _Prospects_. His heart skipped a beat. He made sure the young man was absorbed in his work. Then he carefully leafed through the book. "This Marline Harris looks like an interesting case. What's she like?" "Did I leave that there? I'm sorry, I can't let you look at it." "Sorry. I didn't know." The young man took the folder and went back to work. "Do you have a girl?" Mr. Westing asked. "Too busy." "Oh." He sipped his drink. "That Harris girl certainly has been holding out, hasn't she?" "She's a tough one. I've been to see her six times. It's funny, too, because she's so lonely." "Really?" "She's too independent. Men don't like her. And she's pretty nice-looking, too. It's a shame she can't act like a woman." "Yes, I guess it is." "There," the young man said. "Now if you'll just sit down there." "Care for a drink?" "I don't drink." "Not even to be sociable?" "Sociable? Perhaps I should at that."