Pull a sheet of paper from a pad on the desk and sketch the office with two tables—one for writing and another for the telephone and working files. "These are small dining tables with hardwood tops. I'll pick my own chair."

"All this comes out, even the trash can?" asks Louise.

"All except the filing cabinets," I tell her. "Trash can's too small. Stupid ideas leave this room only as trash."

"Shit," she says and picks up the telephone.

Hear people talking and turn to see seven people walking out of the far corner office. They spot me but they're involved in post-meeting chatter.

A little guy, five feet and change wearing a white shirt and tie, pops through the door across the hall. "What the hell?" he says. "Furniture not good enough for you?"

"No," I say. We gather around my sketch.

"Why hardwood?" he asks. "Why not folding tables?"

"Not stable," I tell him, "and the tops are not smooth and hard enough."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah and let me know where I can look at chairs," I add. "Got one of those tall trash cans?"

"That I have," he says. "What's this goddamn thing?" he asks, pointing at the drawing.

"Big light with a fluorescent bulb and a reticulating arm like you see on drafting tables. You may have one in storage."

"I do," he says, "and maple tables too, out at the Galeti Way warehouse. Wanna check `em out?"

"Sure," I say, "Let's go."

"Uh, what about a typewriter?" asks Louise.

"I'll hand drafts to a typist."

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