The 39th Floor

At two to three every Friday, several men and women, most of them in their early thirties, walk confidently into the vast, sunlit room, sure of their prize. At three, on the dot, a petite woman carries in two platters of freshly baked cookies - white chocolate or raisin - and rings a large golden bell. The remaining colleagues - those who still need the Pavlovian reminder after months of practice - hurry in and congregate around the long, wooden table.