Darnell stepped off the escalator and looked around. To his left was a wide, circular lobby with clusters of leather-looking chairs and a bar in glossy black marble; to the right was two folding tables draped with a burgundy tablecloth. The first bore paper sheet signs reading A-H and I-M, the second owned N-S and T-Z. Darnell got into the queue for the first.
When he didn’t move for a minute he looked up to notice a kerfuffle behind the table: they couldn’t find the paid registration for an elderly man. The clerk conferred with the man beside her, and then they called over a manager who needed everything explained to him until they realized that the attendee had shown up for the wrong convention. “You want Profits to Plowshares, downstairs, sir,” explained the manager in soothing tones. The man demanded to know what the hell convention this one was. “This is Modern Office Online Marketing Associated Workers, sir. I’m sure it would be of no interest to you.”
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