The air inside the foyer rotunda smelled like Purell. There was a thrum of activity all around her, and high, well-lit ceilings that trapped echoing laughter and a general din, so that her initial sensation was disorientation, as if she'd stepped inside a shopping mall. This was nothing like the sticky-floored bar of her bathtub reverie, and she was confused to the point of wondering whether she'd misread the address.
She took a few steps forward, more than half-expecting to see a Starbucks. And then an imposing electronic gate was in front of her, completely walling off her path. It was made of opaque smoky glass and had several cutouts for doors, completely flush with the wall save for brass pushplates. As she stared at it, feeling like one of the apes in the opening of Kubrick's 2001, a few impatient people brushed past her from behind. They held a device that looked like a phone up to some sort of reader on the wall, which gave a discreet beep of assent. There was the "ka-chung" of an electronic lock being disengaged, and then they disappeared through the doors.
One of the women tapped her on the shoulder as she passed, and wordlessly directed Penny's attention to a poster on the wall by the gate. The poster read:
"WELCOME TO THE INFERNO. This is a members-only club. We welcome prospective members and all inquiries, but admittance is only permitted with a staff escort. And even then not for the faint of heart. Please press the buzzer for assistance."
Penny turned and fled.
"...Do you really think it's appropriate...?" Andy was asking her, his voice low and urgent.
She tried to pay attention. She'd been distracted all afternoon, and, worse, unable to figure out whether she was disappointed with herself for going back to the club, or disappointed with herself for not going in. Context suggested that the answer Andy was looking for was "no."
"No," Penny said.
"So there *is* something untoward here," Andy said, pacing, suddenly agitated.
Oh dear. This did not seem to be the correct answer. How can any living person's skin be so *gray*, Penny thought, staring at Andy's moving lips as though it would help her focus on his words. Wait...did he just say "appropriate"? Did he see her go into the club? Did he *know*? Penny's lower stomach gave a sickening lurch, and she had to grab the back of her chair to steady herself. But...how?
"Penny dreadful...!" Seamus called out as he came back to his cubicle from somewhere or other, probably one of his many smoke breaks.
Andy closed her office door.
"This is what I'm talking about!" he hissed.
"Oh β Seamus?" Relief unknotted her stomach and put a natural lightness in her laugh. "You think there's something odd going on with *Seamus*?"
"Well β that is β with *you* and... I mean..."
"Shouldn't you be talking to Seamus, then?"
"You're his supervisor."
"And that's *all* I am," Penny agreed pleasantly.
"I never meant that β"
"I think that you did. And it's kind of sweet, in a devious, insulting way," she smiled, "but there's no HR scandal here, Andy. I'll admit, Seamus can be kind of...a handful...and β ok, perhaps the banter gets out of hand sometimes, but β"
"He bullies you."
"What?"
"You do not maintain supervisory control over him, and it shows. It shows in how he talks to you, and it shows in his work β and in yours."
"Iβ oh."
He leaned in over her desk and rapped his knuckles on her blotter with each word. "Sort. It. Out."
There was nothing accidental about her commute home this time. It had been an awful, sweaty, frantic afternoon after Andy left her office, with Penny's determination fierce enough to plow through nearly the entire contents of her towering inbox, but not fierce enough to delegate anything to Seamus. Or even to approach him, actually. Not that she was bullied, dammit, she thought, as she rummaged through her handbag for a slip of ricepaper that she used to blot her forehead and cheeks, in a rare concession that she had a physical appearance that might require occasional tending. Interpersonal relationships were complicated. Not subject to casual inspection by gray interlopers. In fact, if you want to quibble about "what's appropriate"...
Warmed by self-righteousness, Penny strode down Marlowe Avenue, through the Inferno's doors, up the gate, and pressed the buzzer.
Nothing happened. Penny felt her resolve falter. What was she expecting, that someone would spring up through a trap door? She felt a little foolish. A group of three men and two women entered through the cardreader gates, looking at her with curiosity. Her cheeks burned. As her adrenaline from the afternoon abruptly subsided, she could smell her own flopsweat. She turned to leave.
A door in the wall perpendicular to the gate β she hadn't noticed it before β slid open, and a young woman stepped out. Her honey-colored hair was in a long braid wound around her head, and she wore a simple, toga-like dress of amber silk that flattered her slim figure.
"Hello," she said musically, her smile revealing small and dazzlingly white teeth, "I'm Beatrice."
"Gaaaah," Penny said.
"Sorry?"
"Is that *really* your β"