Wachs can’t be disturbed now. You’ll have to go through the door to your left and down to the conference room.”
“And this is Miss Epstein, from the
Times,”
I continued. I was sure that a mention of the
Times
would bring her around.
“If you’ll both go down to the conference room, Professor Wachs will be right along.” Her brow furrowed momentarily, and she looked suspiciously at Anne. “I believe we already have you down for an appointment” — she peered at a book on her desk — “at two o’clock. And we have
you
down too, for—”
“Actually,” I said, “I was hoping we could get a few words privately with Professor Wachs now, before the press conference — in a preliminary sort of way…” My voice trailed off. I had been gazing at the press kit as if it were some entirely baffling artifact which had unexpectedly come into my possession, and now I turned it over and examined the back. It was a glossy white and red folder which — just like the one in my briefcase — would contain Xerox copies of a press release, an uninformative fact sheet, and a curriculum vitae of Bernard Wachs, Ph.D. Staring at it studiously but still not opening it, I twisted the folder slowly around so that it was upside down and squinted at it, as if hoping that from this new angle its significance might be revealed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you’ll both have to go to the conference room with everyone else.” I remained where I was, studying the folder intently. “The door to your left,” she said severely.
I carefully opened the folder and peered inside. My brow furrowed as I studied the top sheet, which, being upside down, was indecipherable. I pulled it out, carefully turned it around, and returned it to the folder. The woman watched me in a state of mounting agony until she could no longer contain herself. “You’ve got it upside down.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.
I looked up at her and blinked. “Got what upside down?”
“The folder.”
“Oh, the folder,” I said, looking down at it in amazement. “You’re quite right. I do.” I turned it back around and looked at it. “I think it’s possible that he would want to see us…”
“He’s far too busy now.”
“Yes, of course he is. All the same he might want to see us. I don’t know, I think he
would
want to see us probably…” I opened the folder again carefully and furrowed my brow in puzzlement when I encountered the top sheet, which I had reversed before. “You know, I’m not sure this
was
upside down.”
Her eves widened with outrage and contempt. She made an abortive movement with her right hand as if to snatch the press kit from me, but thought better of it. I began pulling the sheets from the folder one at a time and, after careful consideration, reinserting them in what she clearly felt to be the wrong order or the wrong orientation. The whole process seemed to upset her quite a lot.
“Do you think he might still be in his office?” I asked.
Her eyes darted momentarily to a closed door in the wall to my right.
“You’ll have to go in with everyone else now.”
She was almost shouting.
“Yes, of course.” I carefully put the press kit back on top of the pile on her desk, where she regarded it as if it were a live explosive. “The door to my left, you said?” I pointed to the door on my right.
“No… yes… no!”
I walked distractedly over to the door on my right and pushed it open.
“You can’t go in there!”
I found myself looking into an enormous, carpeted, corner office. The furnishings were undistinguished, but through the many windows there were wonderfully pleasant views of the lawn, the trees, and the fields beyond. In the center of the room was a large desk, in front of which stood a short, plump, rodentlike man. His suit had evidently been purchased thirty pounds earlier, and his belt creased deeply into a large paunch. He seemed startled to see us in the doorway, but then, in
“And this is Miss Epstein, from the
Times,”
I continued. I was sure that a mention of the
Times
would bring her around.
“If you’ll both go down to the conference room, Professor Wachs will be right along.” Her brow furrowed momentarily, and she looked suspiciously at Anne. “I believe we already have you down for an appointment” — she peered at a book on her desk — “at two o’clock. And we have
you
down too, for—”
“Actually,” I said, “I was hoping we could get a few words privately with Professor Wachs now, before the press conference — in a preliminary sort of way…” My voice trailed off. I had been gazing at the press kit as if it were some entirely baffling artifact which had unexpectedly come into my possession, and now I turned it over and examined the back. It was a glossy white and red folder which — just like the one in my briefcase — would contain Xerox copies of a press release, an uninformative fact sheet, and a curriculum vitae of Bernard Wachs, Ph.D. Staring at it studiously but still not opening it, I twisted the folder slowly around so that it was upside down and squinted at it, as if hoping that from this new angle its significance might be revealed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but you’ll both have to go to the conference room with everyone else.” I remained where I was, studying the folder intently. “The door to your left,” she said severely.
I carefully opened the folder and peered inside. My brow furrowed as I studied the top sheet, which, being upside down, was indecipherable. I pulled it out, carefully turned it around, and returned it to the folder. The woman watched me in a state of mounting agony until she could no longer contain herself. “You’ve got it upside down.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.
I looked up at her and blinked. “Got what upside down?”
“The folder.”
“Oh, the folder,” I said, looking down at it in amazement. “You’re quite right. I do.” I turned it back around and looked at it. “I think it’s possible that he would want to see us…”
“He’s far too busy now.”
“Yes, of course he is. All the same he might want to see us. I don’t know, I think he
would
want to see us probably…” I opened the folder again carefully and furrowed my brow in puzzlement when I encountered the top sheet, which I had reversed before. “You know, I’m not sure this
was
upside down.”
Her eves widened with outrage and contempt. She made an abortive movement with her right hand as if to snatch the press kit from me, but thought better of it. I began pulling the sheets from the folder one at a time and, after careful consideration, reinserting them in what she clearly felt to be the wrong order or the wrong orientation. The whole process seemed to upset her quite a lot.
“Do you think he might still be in his office?” I asked.
Her eyes darted momentarily to a closed door in the wall to my right.
“You’ll have to go in with everyone else now.”
She was almost shouting.
“Yes, of course.” I carefully put the press kit back on top of the pile on her desk, where she regarded it as if it were a live explosive. “The door to my left, you said?” I pointed to the door on my right.
“No… yes… no!”
I walked distractedly over to the door on my right and pushed it open.
“You can’t go in there!”
I found myself looking into an enormous, carpeted, corner office. The furnishings were undistinguished, but through the many windows there were wonderfully pleasant views of the lawn, the trees, and the fields beyond. In the center of the room was a large desk, in front of which stood a short, plump, rodentlike man. His suit had evidently been purchased thirty pounds earlier, and his belt creased deeply into a large paunch. He seemed startled to see us in the doorway, but then, in
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