Hotel

"It may not be easy," Peter said. "I'll try to be objective."

"You will. Others won't. All the same, it's the way the war will go.

There's just one good thing."

"Yes?"

"Once in a while there'll be truces." Royce picked up the tray with the pitcher and the empty glasses. "I guess this was one."

Now it was night.

Within the hotel, the cycle of another innkeeping day had run its course.

This had differed from most, but beneath unprecedented events, routines had continued. Reservations, reception, administration, housekeeping, engineering, garage, treasury, kitchens ... all had combined in a single, simple function. To welcome the traveler, sustain him, provide him with rest, and speed him on.

Soon, the cycle would begin again.

Wearily, Peter McDermott prepared to leave. He switched off the office lights and, from the executive suite, walked the length of the main mezzanine. Near the stairway to the lobby he saw himself in a mirror. For the first time, he realized that the suit he was wearing was rumpled and soiled. It became that way, he reflected, under the elevator debris where Billyboi died.

As best he could, he smoothed the jacket with his hand. A slight rustling made him reach into a pocket where his fingers encountered a folded paper.

Taking it out, he remembered. It was the note which Christine had given him as he left the meeting this morning - the meeting where he had staked his career on a principle, and won.

He had forgotten the note until now. He opened it curiously. It read: It will be a fine hotel because it will be like the man who is to run it.

At the bottom - in smaller lettering, Christine had written: P.S. I love you.

Smiling, the length of his stride increasing, he went downstairs to the lobby of his hotel.