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the sky had miraculously vanished, leaving a crystalline, shocking field of blue. Brank turned his face briefly up to the sun before entering the employees’ entrance and flashing his badge to Johnson, who sat with his chair tilted back against the wall and his feet up on his little desk. The picture on Brank’s badge was that of a lion, the edges neatly trimmed to fit perfectly in the plastic rectangle. Johnson had either never noticed, or if he had, never said anything. Brank walked through the light green corridors, that special, vomitaceous green found only in industrial plants and old hospitals, and made his way toward the Microwave area. His movement was steady but unhurried. He had a peculiar, unreasonable sense of well-being; he felt that an exceptionally good day was coming up. He pondered briefly why he always ended up coming in late, almost; it seemed, independently of when he started out. Almost as if he adjusted his speed to ensure it. But that was impossible, of course. He couldn’t control traffic, or weather, or any of a hundred other variables. But… he was always twenty minutes late.
    He detoured through the Accounting area. Mavis sat in her typing chair, tiny skirt clinging to her thighs, her tight, rounded behind balancing on the seat like the nation’s most perfectly inflated tire. Tonight, Brank thought. Just you wait. He caught a whiff of orangey perfume as he went by, and inhaled it deeply.
    He entered the Microwave area, passed Steinberg’s cubicle, and hung up his coat on the rack. Steinberg pretended not to see him. Brank walked slowly to his desk and sat down.
    â€œMorning, Stan,” he yelled. The best defense, he knew, was a strong offense.
    He noticed a form in his In box from Incoming Inspection. They had rejected back to the vendor a special, desperately needed heat-conductive epoxy he’d ordered. The supplier had sent a half ounce more than Brank requested and the rejection was for “Overweight.” It was signed by Karl Holtzmann and Erich Boltzmann, Incoming Inspection foremen. The time before, they had rejected the epoxy because it came in a jar instead of a tube.
    Brank saw that Klein was in today, an unusual occurrence. Klein, a plump, balding technician who claimed obscure blood diseases, was often out for weeks at a time, returning with a full rundown of who was hiring and firing in the aerospace industry, plus an exact count of the number of days left till vacation.
    â€œOne ninety-three,” he said to Brank as he passed by. “Jesus, my platelets are killing me, I just hope I can hold out.”
    Brank watched him waddle away, and when he turned back, Steinberg was standing over him.
    â€œI spoke to Ardway,” said Steinberg in his characteristic clogged monotone. “He said they were going to cut your salary by ten percent until you came in on time for four weeks in a row. I didn’t bring it up. He did. I didn’t mention it. He also said we have to pass that tougher temperature test at the Air Force inspection. It’s just a design goal, not a spec, but we have to make it. I didn’t insist on it. He did. That’s what he said.”
    Brank looked at him without speaking.
    â€œWe’re all guilty,” said Steinberg. “I come in late too. I know. The guilt lies upon us all.”
    He retreated back to his cubicle. The offense-defense theory hadn’t worked, thought Brank. Jesus, that ten percent cut would hurt. No more weekly movies, maybe skip a haircut or two. He’d better not tell Joan. And now also this business with the temperature test; how could he make it without the epoxy?
    Funny how only two minutes before he’d had the distinct impression it would be a good day. It was his first error.

A GREAT AND SACRED TRUST
    They’d pitched a huge tent in the parking lot that day a year and a half ago, the day of the announcement, and the maintenance boys had worked the entire morning