Blinking beneath the glare of the twin rows of four-globe fluorescent lights which spanned the length of the corridor ceiling, he glanced at the black-vinyl chairs which stood in pairs along the walls.   Between each pair of chairs stood either a gravel lined box for smokers, or else a small, glass-topped table, holding half a dozen magazines.   But Jones did not smoke and was much too nervous to read.

Jones wondered why Uhd had called for him.   He had hoped to hear from Gordon Koch that the promotion was his.   For fifteen years Jones had been passed over for less experienced, but more highly educated juniors, each time a big promotion came along.   But this time it would be different.   He knew that he was in with a big chance, because Gordon Koch, the Assistant Vice President, had virtually told him that the job was his for the asking.

But Lawrence Uhd would never call Jones in to tell him that.   Uhd was the bringer of sad tidings, the grim reaper.   He left the giving of good news to Koch, deriving a sick pleasure from bestowing bad news personally.

‘Perhaps it’s to tell me that I’ve been passed over again?’ thought Jones.   But no even that, bad news as it would be, was too insignificant.   Uhd would leave that to Koch.

‘No, it has to be something else,’ thought Jones.

Then he realised: ‘Of course, the typewriter!’   Why hadn’t it struck him before?

It was a brand new $450 lift-off correction, electronic typewriter.   The office had been in an uproar since the machine had gone missing a fortnight earlier.   The building had been virtually turned upside down in the search for the typewriter.   But all to no avail.   No one could explain what had happened to it.   No one that is, except Jones.

Jones knew where it was, of course, because Jones had stolen it!   He had felt the urge two weeks ago, when working late by himself, and had slipped the machine into his bag and had taken it home.

For two weeks Jones had lived on the edge of panic, wondering when he would finally be caught.