WILL
AND WAY
381
and rapidly snapped a number of close-ups of her astonished
companion.
"These can be developed by morning," said the girl. " I'll send
you copies,
if
you want 'em."
"But what for?" cried Miss Flatface, realizing that her con–
spiracy was not even getting off the ground.
"They're for my album." Noting Miss Flatface's uncompre–
hending stare, she added, "You know, my collection."
"Your collection?"
"For 1046y, Marriage
&
the Family," replied the girl. "A
research project for my junior year. Four points."
Although mystified, Miss Flatface now grasped enough to con–
firm her suspicion that this place was not the haven of spontaneous
misrule it might appear. How else explain this girl, a crisp secretarial
type, who probably took dictation at some phenomenal speed? Miss
Flatface felt like an old frump.
The girl bared her large white teeth in a smile, then glided
down the corridor.
"Wait," called Miss Flatface. "I
would
like a picture. I mean,
so I can see what I look like in
it."
"Why not," said the girl. "Tomorrow morning. And I won't
use your name. Everyone is anonymous, you know. It makes the
project more scientific."
Scientific! There's an idea! Why hadn't she thought of that
before? Every large institution requires great machines, and this
one couldn't be different. All she had to do was to get control of
that machinery. That's what a revolution is. Not simply to use force,
but to seize the means of power. Miss Flatface hastened to the
boiler room. The floor was flooded , piles of moldy soaked books
were precariously balanced on top of orange crates, and the stench
of urine was almost unbearable. But the only machinery she found
was a row of television screens, each carrying a different image,
topped by a single screen which repeated one or another image from
the row. Below the screens was a great prickly table studded with
switches and buttons and dials and levers; and before that table,
manipulating the panel and sporting a set of earphones, sat a bulky
figure wearing a white plastic hood.
