In a lifetime spent in first preparing for United Planets employment and then in working for the organization, Ronny Bronston had never been in the Octagon Building. He’d seen photographs, Tri-Di broadcasts and he’d heard several thousand jokes on various levels from pun to obscenity about getting around in the building, but he’d never been there. For that matter, he’d never been in Greater Washington before, other than a long ago tourist trip. Population Statistics, his department, had its main offices in New Copenhagen. His card was evidently all that he needed for entry. At the sixth gate he dismissed his car and let it shoot back into the traffic mess. He went up to one of the guard-guides and presented the card. The guide inspected it. “Section G of the Bureau of Investigation,” he muttered. “Every day, something new. I never heard of it.” “It’s probably some outfit in charge of cleaning the heads on space liners.” Ronny said unhappily. He’d never heard of it either. “Well, it’s no problem,” the guard-guide said. He summoned a three-wheel, fed the co-ordinates into it from Ronny’s card, handed the card back and flipped an easy salute. “You’ll soon know.” The scooter slid into the Octagon’s hall traffic and proceeded up one corridor, down another, twice taking to ascending ramps. Ronny had read somewhere the total miles of corridors in the Octagon. He hadn’t believed the figures at the time. Now he believed them. He must have traversed several miles before they got to the Department of Justice alone. It was another quarter mile to the Bureau of Investigation. The scooter eventually came to a halt, waited long enough for Ronny to dismount and then hurried back into the traffic. He entered the office. A neatly uniformed reception girl with a harassed and cynical eye looked up from her desk. “Ronald Bronston?” she said. “That’s right.” “Where’ve you been?” She had a snappy cuteness. “The commissioner has been awaiting you. Go through that door and to your left.” Ronny went through that door and to the left. There was another door, inconspicuously lettered _Ross Metaxa, Commissioner, Section G_. Ronny knocked and the door opened. Ross Metaxa was going through a wad of papers. He looked up; a man in the middle years, sour of expression, moist of eye as though he either drank too much or slept too little. “Sit down,” he said. “You’re Ronald Bronston, eh? What do they call you, Ronny? It says here you’ve got a sense of humor. That’s one of the first requirements in this lunatic department.” Ronny sat down and tried to form some opinions of the other by his appearance. He was reminded of nothing so much as the stereotype city editor you saw in the historical romance Tri-Ds. All that was needed was for Metaxa to start banging on buttons and yelling something about tearing down the front page, whatever that meant.