The doors to the Vice Chancellor's private conference room swung open and in walked a breathless supplicant, a male assistant, hands palms-up and gingerly holding before him, as if transporting the Queen's most precious jewel encrusted crown, a doughnut pillow, which was hurriedly, precisely, delicately aligned onto the vacant chair at the head of the table. He scurried back to the door taking the Vice Chancellor's arm, half stepping, assuring sure footedness, lovingly stabilizing, softly, very softly, both appearing as though plying a course barefoot over rotted eggshells, some with septic yolks intact. Gas faces.