William J. Haynes graduated summa cum laude from a Most Prestigious Ivy League School, nearly carrying a 4.0 grade point average.  The three classes in which he did not receive "A" marks he easily explained away: the instructors were flawed.
    Soon after graduation he received a phone call.  A woman with a husky yet feminine voice identified herself a secretary for a personnel manager.
    "We've noticed your resume on file at the placement office at school.  We'd like to invite you to join our organization, the Braeghen Foundation.  Have you heard of us?"
    "Of course," William lied.  "Can you give me that address again?"

      Later that day William pored through all of the registers and directories at the library to find some information on the Braeghen Foundation.  He was ready to give up, and resigned himself to meeting the Foundation members "cold" as it were, not knowing anything about them, when he found an obscure reference to "the think tank called the Braeghen Foundation."

    That night William allowed himself some pleasant tingles of anticipation and self-congratulation.  They had noticed him, picking his resume out from among thousands!  And now, he was starting out at a Think Tank!  He would rub shoulders with the William Buckleys and Herbert Kahns of his generation.  Oh, there would be some sort of apprenticeship, of course, during which he would do some of the more drudgerous research and drafting of position papers, but soon he would be recognized.  One day someone might offhandedly ask him his own personal opinion, maybe as a courtesy, maybe as a means of illustrating a point.  Then he would answer with such clarity and brilliance, they would soon all know that he was a mind with which to reckon!
    Thus William drifted to sleep.

    The headquarters of the Braeghen foundation were marked by a simple brass plaque on the front of the building.  The reception area was quiet and cool, with a middle-aged woman as receptionist and a well-groomed young man in uniform as security guard.
    William crossed the sparkling tile of the reception area.  His suit was gray broadcloth pin-striped with chalk-blue lines.  His tie was a splash of cobalt blue; his shirt white with a narrow button-down collar.  He carried a slender briefcase of genuine Spanish leather tanned and dyed a tasteful maroonish-brown.  His shave was crisp, his hair precisely trimmed, his

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