I need a cigarette.

Nicotine must have a special business card for the nervous system. Use me and you will feel better, the card probably says. The soon-to-be-father chain-smoking in the waiting room of a hospital is a clich�, but how does a clich� become a clich�? Me, whenever there's a crisis I feel like smoking. Well, I'm not going to give in right now. I have more other things to do. Plus, I can't smoke in here. End of discussion.

Maybe if I smoke in the bathroom?

Forget it, I think. No time. That's it. A sense of urgency will placate the addiction. Good.

I leave my cubicle, walking fast. I get to the elevator, and it seems to be working. I press the button. My target now is the sixth floor, the former grounds of ITSRG.

The Information Technology Services Research Group was where I worked until last year. We were in charge of anything that didn't fit anywhere else and that could involve computers. The group had no managers, since every person then sent in to manage us ended up running away Monty Python-style screaming in panic, flailing their arms about. It was like herding cats, they said. We were out of control, they said. We were having too much fun, they said. Some of us turned up for work in bizarre outfits. Once, Jordan arrived wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a colorful miniskirt and a parasol with the face of Mickey Mouse. She left that parasol over her cubicle for about two weeks. Nobody commented, we knew she wouldn't explain. If she was planning something, she wouldn't even tell me. But we all wondered about it. I pretended nothing strange was happening. Time passed. We got complacent, and eventually we started ignoring it. Then one day she shut down the power and activated the sprinklers for the whole floor for about two minutes. Imagine the consequences.

We were an anarchic element within the company. And in the end, since nobody knew what to do with us, they simply shut us down.

I accepted my new assignment in a moment of despair. It was hopeless. I accepted my fate. No more anarchy. Each person from ITSRG was relocated to a different group. We were not supposed to talk to each other, and for the most part we didn't. Still, most of our files and backups remained in the sixth floor. Nobody was sure of what to do with them then, and I'm hoping that is still the case. If nobody knows what to do with it, don't touch it. When in doubt, don't act. Good doggy.

The reason I'm going there is, Sally mentioned ITSRG in an email. Sally, or whoever was using her account. I vaguely remember a project that had something to do with strategic plans for the entire company. Nothing specific. Who was handling that? Pete?

Ding, Dong.

The elevator is here.