CITADEL

_He was looking for a privacy his strange personality needed.
And--never quite seemed to achieve it. All his efforts were,
somehow--great triumphs of the race, and great failures for him!_


I.

The aging man was sweating profusely, and he darted sidelong glances at
the windowless walls of the outer office. By turns, he sat stiffly in a
corner chair or paced uneasily, his head swiveling constantly.

His hand was clammy when Mead shook it.

"Hello, Mr. Mead," he said in a husky, hesitant voice, his eyes never
quite still, never long on Mead's face, but darting hither and yon, his
glance rebounding at every turn from the walls, the floor, the ceiling,
the closed outer door.

Christopher Mead, Assistant Undersecretary for External Affairs,
returned the handshake, smiling. "Please come into my office," he said
quickly. "It's much more spacious."