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Show 82 Twenty-five John Robeck has not managed to come to his office for almost two weeks and when he finally does arrive, he sees the door of his office open, a large stack of flat, new cardboard cartons propped against it, smartly strapped with a steel band. There are two men inside his office, wearing the blue workshirts of the institute's services staff; he can see them moving about inside. Now one of them appears at the door, takes a small pair of wire clippers from his back pocket, cuts the band that straps the flattened boxes together. He looks briefly at Robeck; then the other man joins him, and they begin to knock together the cartons. It is clear that they have done this often; they are quick and efficient. Robeck moves into the room. "What's going on?" he asks, in a surprisingly small, old voice. "Some old geezer's moving over to the emeritus wing," says one of the movers, but he sees instantly that Robeck is the geezer to whom he refers. "I'm sorry, sir. Are they yours, sir, the books? Would you like them packed in any particular order?" "No," says Robeck, as he wanders slowly out of the room. Down the hall, he reaches Liller's desk; Liller is not there, and Robeck picks up the phone. He dials the extension of the vice-president he has known for years. "I'm sorry, sir, he isn't in." Robeck feels some of his old spleen coming back, he feels the color in his face increase, and a straightness in his spine. "Find him. I want to |