The Metroplex Hall’s a striking building—thirty floors sheathed in dark green glass—but at the moment I’m in no mood to appreciate it. I climb the stairs, pass the statue of Chief Seattle, and walk into the lobby. At the reception desk, the functionaries confirm I’m authorized to be here and give me a pass keyed to my destination—including a circuit that will beep warningly if I stray off course. A minute later I’m on the way up to the twenty-ninth floor. Other people are in the elevator with me, but for some reason they seem to stay as far away from me as they can, leaving an invisible wall of empty space around me. Fragged if I know why, but it fits with the way I’m feeling—detached, empty, not part of any of this, just going through the motions. The elevator disgorges me on the right floor, and I stroll into a plush waiting room.