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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2683be4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66648 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66648) diff --git a/old/66648-0.txt b/old/66648-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index df63354..0000000 --- a/old/66648-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3059 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Newshound, by Milton Lesser - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Newshound - -Author: Milton Lesser - -Release Date: November 2, 2021 [eBook #66648] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEWSHOUND *** - - - - - - NEWSHOUND - - By Milton Lesser - - The Fourth Estate was highly specialized - in the 22nd Century; for example, a good newsman - predicted coming events--and made them happen.... - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy - July 1955 - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - -Darius McLeod leaned back comfortably and watched the mayor sweat. - -His Honor popped a phenobarb tablet between his lips, tossing his head -and gulping the pill down without water. His moist, nervous hands left -their wet imprint on the desk top when he reached into his breast -pocket and withdrew a clipping from the morning's _New York World_. - -"You people elected me, McLeod," he said. "Now get me out of this mess." - -"We merely supported your candidacy, Your Honor," McLeod said easily. -"But let's see what you got there." - -"It amounts to the same thing," the mayor pleaded. "For God's sake, -give me a break." - -McLeod shrugged and unfolded the _World_ clipping on his desk. -"Naturally, the _World_ will oppose your administration," he began. -"Otherwise they'll never be able to live down the _Star-Times'_ scoop -on your election." - -"That's precisely what I was saying. The way I understand it, you -people will have to support your man. The _Star-Times_ can't abandon me -to the wolves, not now." - -"I'm only a reporter," McLeod explained. "We report events, not make -them." - -"That's it. That's what I mean. The attitude. You're treating me like a -child." - -"You're acting like one." - -"All I want is what's fair. Whatever you think is fair." - -"Then let me read this thing." The column clipped from the _World_ bore -the cut-line COMING EVENTS. McLeod had always liked the _Star-Times'_ -LOOKING FORWARD better, although he had to admit that the _World's_ cut -of a swami rubbing his crystal ball had a certain fundamental appeal -for the masses. House-written, the _World_ column appeared under the -by-line of Nostradamus. - -McLeod scanned the printed lines quickly. There was a prediction on -the outcome of the World Series. It had better turn out incorrect, -thought McLeod: the _Star-Times_ had spent a small fortune building -up the opposing team. There was something about the dangers of forest -fires and an indirect reference to the possibility of a conflagration -next week in the Adirondack Game Preserve. (The _Star-Times_ would be -alerting its fire-fighting unit to prevent such a possibility, McLeod -knew.) There was a talk of an impending war between Yugoslavia and -France at a time when relations between the two countries were never -more harmonious. McLeod wondered how the _World_ would ever swing it. -He read the last two items aloud. - -"'We think it's high time the mayor of New York be exposed for his -corrupt political dealings. We wouldn't be surprised if the mayor were -forced to resign his office in January.... What ace reporter of what -rival New York daily is going to meet with a fatal accident next week? -Remember, you read it here first!'" - -"January," said the mayor as Darius McLeod folded the column and lit a -cigaret. "That's next month." - -"They could be talking about me." - -"Eh? If I'm forced to resign, you'll be scooped." - -"Yeah, scooped," McLeod mused. "We're their chief rival. I'm the big -Huck-a-muck over here. Those dirty sons--they can get me out of the way -and scoop us at the same time. Listen, Your Honor, check back with me -later. I've got to see the City Editor." - -"But I'm not politically corrupt--" - -"We'll decide. We'll let you know," Darius McLeod shouted, already -running from his glass-walled office and through the clattering din of -the City Room, disturbing the milling knot of scribes and gunmen going -over last minute instructions from the Crime Editor, shouldering by -the line of trim, pretty co-respondents receiving their briefs from -the Society Editor, almost knocking down the Medical Editor who was -either on the point of finding a cure for the _World's_ latest plague -or dreaming up one of his own, McLeod didn't remember which. - - * * * * * - -McLeod found Overman, the City Editor, perched on a corner of his desk -and barking orders into a microphone. "What do you mean, he won't jump? -We said he'd jump. Coax him. Push him if you can get away with it, I -don't care. Don't make it obvious." Overman cocked his gaunt head to -one side, listening to the receiver imbedded in his ear. He looked like -a walking ad for hyper-thyroid treatment, with bulging eyes, hollow -cheeks and fidgety limbs. He couldn't sit still and he didn't try. -"All right, we'll hold up the story. And you're the guy who asked for -a raise." Overman dropped the microphone hose back into its cubby and -looked up. "Sometimes I wonder what the hell they think a reporter -draws his salary for. What do you want, Darius?" - -"The _World's_ gunning for me, chief." - -"I already saw it." - -"Then don't just sit there." - -"What do you want me to do, hold your hand? Of course the _World's_ -gunning for you. Great story for them, and they also kill off our star -reporter in the process. _If_ they get away with it." - -"Damn it!" McLeod exploded. "This is the twenty-second century. If the -_World_ says I'm going to meet with a fatal accident, then my life's in -danger." McLeod winced at his own words. In a matter of minutes he had -been reduced to the mayor's level and he didn't like it. - -"Counter-prognostication has already taken steps, Darius. Don't go off -the deep end on me. It happens like this every time. Even a top-flight -reporter sheds his own sophistication when the story's about himself." - -"How do you expect me to take it?" - -"Just relax, that's all." - -"Maybe you want me to write my own obituary." - -"Don't try so hard to be funny. Excuse me." Overman cocked his head -again and listened, then pulled out his microphone and barked: "All -right, all right. Don't cry. We can't get them all. I'm not saying it -was your fault. Report back in." - -"What's the matter?" McLeod wanted to know. - -"Harry Crippens is the matter. Remember Congressman Horner? That story -yesterday?" - -McLeod recalled it vaguely. Something about Horner committing suicide -unexpectedly. - -"Well, he didn't jump. The _World's_ Security Forces rescued him and -got a scoop. Another wrongo for us, Darius. That's the second story -Crippens bungled this month." - -"Maybe it wasn't Cripp's fault, chief." Crippens was a plump, owl-faced -man with big, watery eyes swimming behind concave glasses. McLeod had -always liked him. He was the grimmest, saddest, cryingest, most logical -drunk McLeod had ever met. Wonderful drinking partner. - -"I didn't say it was. Just thinking, though." - -"If psychology flubbed a dub on Horner, you can't blame Cripp." - -"Not what I mean. The _World's_ prediction is vague, see? Who's a star -reporter? How do you single the man out? Any big by-line guy will do, -right?" - -"I guess so." - -"Crippens gets his share of by-lines, Darius." - -"Hey, wait a minute--" - -"Why spend the time protecting you next week if we don't have to? It's -expensive and not a sure thing. We'd hate to lose you, Darius." - -"Thank you." - -"But Crippens is bungling. He ought to meet the _World's_ requirements. -We do the job for them the first of next week. They get their story and -we keep our number one man, alive. How does it sound?" - -"Rotten," McLeod said. "I'm not going to sit by and let Cripp take that -kind of rap for me. What kind of louse do you think I am, anyway?" - -"Let it simmer, Darius. There's no hurry. I suppose His Honor has been -around to use your crying towel?" - -McLeod nodded. "That's right." - -"I thought he would. It was your series of articles that got him -elected in the first place. You saved my life, now support me. One of -those deals. It was obvious the _World_ would try to show corruption -after their own candidate lost." - -"Is the _Star-Times_ going to protect Mayor Spurgess' record?" - - * * * * * - -Overman jerked his head from side to side, the stretched, translucent -lids blinking over popping eyes. "It's always easier to prove -corruption than disprove it, you know that. We'd be backing the wrong -animal, Darius. I've got it figured, though." - -"How do you mean?" - -"They won't have much of a story if something violent happens to the -mayor between now and next month. I don't want to see it in LOOKING -FORWARD, though. Just make it happen and get the scoop. See? We can't -let the mayor resign. This is the surest way." - -"Anything particular in mind?" - -"It's your assignment, Darius. Whatever you do is all right with me." - -"That poor guy treated me like his father-image before. Well--" - -"You're not weakening, are you, Darius? There's no time for emotion in -this business, none at all. You've got to go out and get a story before -some other outfit changes it on you. Or you've got to make _their_ -stories fail to happen. And whatever you do, you've got to keep the TV -outfits guessing. If news starts happening according to Hoyle, we're -all through. Us and the _World_ and all the other newspapers wouldn't -stand a chance, not with TV right on the spot. Keep TV guessing. -Confused. Never sure. Give some crumbs to the _World_, even, if you -have to. - -"So there's no time for thalamic responses, Darius. Do I make myself -clear?" - -McLeod bristled. "You never had to give me that kind of lecture. You -think I'm a cub or something? Don't worry about Mayor Spurgess, we'll -fix him up." - -"Splendid. But there's something else. Crippens." - -"I told you how I felt about that. I don't want any part of it. Talk -about your Judas's--" - -"Crippens or you, Darius. The _World's_ gunning. You know it." - -"I can't tell you what to do. But I'll warn Cripp, that's all." - -"That would make your own assignment rather difficult." - -"What assignment are you talking about?" - -"Crippens. The way I figure it, you have a lot at stake there. We'll -let you handle Crippens." - -"You're crazy!" - -"You are if you refuse. We won't give you a single Security man for -protection. Remember what they said in COMING EVENTS. Your one chance -is to get Crippens before they get you and then let the _World_ scoop -us. I would suggest the first thing next Monday morning, but then, it's -your baby." - -"First Mayor Spurgess and now Crippens. Are you trying to make me a -hatchetman?" - -"A reporter, Darius. You've always been a good one." - -"But Crippens is my friend." - -"I wish we had another way out. Crippens has his place on the -_Star-Times_, but we thought too much of him. We don't want to lose -you, Darius. You can take that as an objective compliment and sleep -easy. Your job's secure." - -"Thank you very much." - -"Don't be bitter. A man in the newspaper business is top-dog these -days, see? I don't have to tell you. We're not passive receptors. -We control things. We make things happen. We play God, but we've got -competition. You've got to take the good with the bad, that's all. See -what I mean?" All the while they had spoken, Overman had not moved from -where he had perched his small frame on his desk, but his nervous legs -had walked miles, his scrawny, sleeve-rolled arms had waved, flapped -and gesticulated, his wide, bulging eyes had darted about the frenzied -confusion of the great room where news was created and missed nothing. -It was Overman's passion, McLeod knew, his alpha through omega. He -suddenly wished it were that simple for himself. Less than half an hour -ago, it would have been. - -"We'll have our obituary people compose something tender for Crippens," -Overman said. "Keep me informed, Darius." - -"I haven't told you I'd do it." - -"Whose obit would you rather see them write?" - -"You could protect me instead." - -But Overman jerked his head side to side again. "It's the same as -politics. Much simpler to make news than to prevent it. The one sure -way to protect you, provided you don't foul things up with Crippens." - -"Well, I don't--" - -"One of you makes the obituary page next week. The _World's_ already -seen to that. Take your choice, Darius." - -"Yeah ... sure." - -"And don't forget about Mayor Spurgess. You've got a busy time ahead of -you. Good luck." - -Walking back toward his own office, McLeod saw that the flow of -co-respondents had slowed to a trickle. He swore softly. The last -girl in line was Tracy Kent, a tawny-haired divorce specialist -with an admirable record. McLeod liked Tracy, but it was strictly -brother-sister stuff. - -Tracy was going to marry Harry Crippens. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -"Hey, Darius. A girl gets hungry for lunch around this time every day." - -McLeod smiled. "Won't Cripp be along soon?" - -"Search me." Tracy rubbed her stomach under the smooth, tautly drawn -fabric of her dress. "When this piece of machinery starts to gurgle, I -eat." - -"Well, I was going to head over to the Press Club in a few minutes -anyway. Don't you have to get yourself caught with someone today?" - -"Later on. Tonight. Now I'm hungry." - -Tracy Kent was long and almost lean with hips angular rather than -rounded and the clean lines of her long-striding legs accentuated -by the tight sheath of skirt as she walked with McLeod toward the -elevator. She was all woman unless you happened to look at her a -certain way, when you caught a glimpse of something coltish, almost -like Peter Pan, in the way she carried herself or smiled at you. She -did not look like a vamp, thought McLeod, which helped explain why she -was such a successful co-respondent. - -"One of these days I'm going to stop feeling like a brother toward -you," McLeod promised as they climbed into his copter on the roof. - -"You're flattering but tardy, Mr. McLeod. I'm going to marry the guy." - -"Crippens?" - -"Don't look at me that way. He's your friend, too." Tracy grinned as -the rotors flashed above them, then pouted. "Darius, do we have to go -to the Press Club for lunch?" - -"Mixing business with pleasure, I guess. Got to see some people. Why, -does someone bother you over there?" - -"That Weaver Wainwright, always staring at me like he wants to sit -down at his thinkwriter and let the world know what it's like with a -co-respodent. Me." - -"Wainwright's one of the men I want to see." - -"The _Star-Times'_ hot-shot reporter hob-nobbing with that riff-raff -from the _World_?" - -"You named it," Darius McLeod said as their copter rose up from the -roof of the _Star-Times_ building and retreated from the checkerboard -pattern of other copters resting on their landing squares. "Why the -sour face?" - -"Because I read COMING EVENTS, Darius. Do you think Wainwright's been -assigned the job?" - -"It's a damned good guess. He just got back from overseas. He's been -sopping up spirits like a blotter over at the club and making nasty -noises while waiting for a new job. This is probably his baby." - -"Why, Darius?" - -"Because he's their number one boy." - -"No. I mean, why you?" - -McLeod shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason? It's good copy for -them. The _Star-Times_ loses a guy who's been around, too. That's the -newspaper business, Tracy. Don't look for any reason." - -"Don't be so calm about it. What's Overman going to do?" - -McLeod considered the question as he brought the copter down expertly -through the lanes of local traffic here at the edge of the city. Off -in the distance, rank on rank of hemispherical suburban homes marched -off, in orderly rows, to the eastern horizon. The Press Club, almost -directly below them now, had snipped half a dozen square miles from -the patterned picture. It was castle, game preserve and sylvan retreat -not for one monarch, but for hundreds. Newshounds, newshens, gunmen. -Flashing letters swam up at them from the green woodland, blinking on -and off garishly--THE FOURTH ESTATE. - -If he told her Overman had failed to offer any protection, she'd -realize another alternative had been selected. It would be better if -he lied. "What's Overman going to do?" he repeated her question. "The -usual. I'll be protected. Don't worry about me." - -"But if Wainwright's all they say, he's like a bloodhound. Be careful, -Darius." - -"Hell, I said don't worry. I have till next week, anyway." - -"This is Friday." - -"Yeah, Friday." Their copter alighted with hardly a quiver. Uniformed -lackies were already polishing the chrome and glass by the time McLeod -helped Tracy to the ground. She came down lithely, long hair whipping -about her face and brushing against McLeod's cheek. A girl scantily -clad as an American Indian led them across the landing field and along -a path through the gnarled oaks which made the Fourth Estate resemble -more a chunk of Scotland than Long Island. But while they couldn't see -the acres of neon tubing from the ground, their pulsing glow spoiled -the effect. - - * * * * * - -The clubhouse itself was an architectural nightmare of quarry-stone, -turrets, battlements--and great, soft-hued thermo-glass walls. Music -stirred the air faintly with rhythm as they crossed the drawbridge -(which actually worked, McLeod knew) and entered the lobby. The pretty -little squaw disappeared and was replaced at once by the weaponcheck -girl, dressed in top hat and tails, but not much else. - -She smiled professionally at Tracy, then frisked her expertly, finding -the trick pocket in her skirt and removing the tiny but deadly -parabeam from her leg holster. Tracy grinned back like a yawning cat. -"I'd have given it to you." - -"I'm sorry, m'am. They all say that." The weaponcheck girl turned to -McLeod. "It's the law around here, you know that. Good afternoon, Mr. -McLeod." - -The hands darted with quick, practiced precision over him after he -nodded. He felt the sleeve-holster slip out by way of his armpit, was -given a numbered check for both weapons as the girl hip-wagged away and -suspended their weapons from hooks in her arsenal. They were then led -to a table near the bandstand, where they ordered cocktails. - -"It's an awful lot of fuss just to eat lunch," Tracy said. "Every time -that weapon hen paws me like that, I want to scratch her big, wide eyes -out. Darius, I'm still afraid for you. Is Wainwright here?" - -"I haven't looked, but don't worry. I have till next week, anyway." - -"They could kidnap you and hold you somewhere till they're ready to -kill you." - -McLeod tried to hide his momentary confusion by making a production of -lighting his cigaret and smiling at someone he hardly knew at a nearby -table. Tracy certainly had a good point--which he hadn't considered -until now. - -Tracy glanced about uneasily in the dim light. "Did Overman think of -that? I don't see any Security men around." - -McLeod exhaled a long plume of smoke and watched it get sucked into -the unseen currents of the climatizer. "They don't let themselves get -seen," he said easily. "They wouldn't be good Security men if they did, -would they?" - -"But what are _you_ going to do, Darius? Can't you take some kind of -positive action? It's not like you, just sitting around and waiting." - -McLeod wanted to change the subject, for Tracy had a way of ferreting -out the truth even if she suspected nothing. He'd always thought she -was wasting her time as a co-respondent and often told her so, but -she'd always countered by striking a bump-and-grind pose and saying she -had all the equipment. "Have you heard about Cripp?" he asked her now. - -"Only that he was going out on an assignment. Suicide I think." - -"Unfortunately, the guy had a change of heart. They had to tear up the -obit." - -"Was it Cripp's fault?" - -"I doubt it. Suicide and murder are two different things. Psychology -fouled up, that's all." - -"But Overman must have been furious, anyway. Poor Cripp." - -"Overman'll get over it. Cripp's a good man." - -Tracy shook her head slowly. "Thanks for saying it, but Cripp isn't cut -out for the newspaper racket and you know it. A couple more flubs and -Overman will begin to think Cripp belongs to the Anti-Newspaper League -or something." - -"Very funny," McLeod told her. "I can just see it now: Cripp a -subversive." - -"Shh!" said Tracy, raising a finger to her lips. "We shouldn't even -talk about things like that. Mentioning the Anti-Newspaper League in -here is like eating beefsteak in Delhi." - -A figure approached their table and sat down at the empty chair without -receiving an invitation. "Did I hear something about the Anti-Newspaper -League?" the man demanded, chuckling softly. He was tall and gaunt but -well-tanned, the whites of his eyes very bright against the skin of his -face. He had a long, sad nose which drooped mournfully almost to his -upper lip, mitigating the effect of his smile. - -He was Weaver Wainwright, ace reporter of the _World_. - - * * * * * - -"We're just a couple of subversives, Mr. Wainwright," Tracy said. - -"So that's why the _Star-Times_ is filling its pages with wrongos these -days. How do you do, McLeod?" - -"Never felt better. Ought to live to be a hundred, at least. Can we get -you something?" - -"As a matter of fact, I've just had lunch. Brandy might help my -sluggish liver, though." - -"Brandy it is," said McLeod, and gave the new order to their waiter -when he arrived with a pair of Gibsons. "According to what I read -in the papers, the _World's_ thinking of starting a Tong War with -us." McLeod hid his impulse to smile by making a conventional toast -to Tracy. He wondered how much his unexpected candor had unnerved -Wainwright and decided to study the reporter's reaction carefully. - -But Wainwright merely grinned, making the upper lip all but disappear -and the nose become more prominent. "At least you read a good -newspaper," he said. "I don't think it's fair for you to say we had -war in mind, McLeod. Nothing of the sort. Our Prognostication division -merely indicated that a certain well-known opposition newsman was going -to meet with an unfortunate accident next week. While prognostication -is pretty reliable--especially coming from a good newspaper--it's -hardly the last word. Ah, here's my brandy." And he began to sip and -stare over the rim of his glass at Tracy. - -"Nice stay in Europe?" McLeod wanted to know. Under the circumstances, -Wainwright's composure had been admirable. - -"Fair. But then, you read the papers." - -"You mean that business about Yugoslavia and France?" - -"That's right. Your man--What's his name, Kitrick?--thought there would -be peace. He's wrong, you know. All you have to do is touch a spark to -the right fuse in the Balkans, I always said. Kitrick was trying to put -the fire out by spitting." - -"Wayne Kitrick didn't think there was any fire to put out," Tracy told -the _World_ reporter. "As of now, there isn't." - -"Give it some time," Wainwright promised. "You see, the President of -Yugoslavia was indiscreet in his youth, most indiscreet. With elections -approaching there, he had the alternative of--well, you know what a -newspaper can do to a man of position who's been indiscreet. Drink to -it?" - -They did. In spite of everything, McLeod had to admire Wainwright. -In the old days, nations went to war for economic reasons, over -diametrically opposed political philosophies, because of religion. -Today, a sharp reporter dug deep to unearth closeted skeletons and -moral potsherds and literally blackmailed a chief of state into war. -Wainwright was sharp, all right. History might one day write up the -whole series of twenty-second century wars as Blackmail Wars, but -meanwhile the U. N. could only gnash its collective teeth while -Wainwright picked up a fattened paycheck. - -"I'll bet you're proud of yourself," Tracy said. - -"I don't see why not. Kitrick will be reamed, my dear." - -"And so will a few million innocent people." - -"Perhaps you weren't fooling when you mentioned the Anti-Newspaper -League. But of course, you're pulling my leg." - -"I'm a co-respondent," Tracy said coldly. "I don't have to turn -cartwheels over your end of the newspaper game." - -"Tracy," McLeod said. This was one facet of the girl's character he'd -never seen before. He could almost see the gears meshing into place -inside Wainwright's skull. He didn't mind talk which bordered on the -subversive, as long as it came from Tracy, who was quite outspoken -about a lot of things, but Wainwright might have other ideas. - -But Wainwright said, blandly, "From a moral standpoint you carve out -your pound of flesh every now and then too, my dear. Or don't you think -framing innocent men in compromising circumstances is immoral?" - -"You wouldn't understand the difference," Tracy said. - -"It is a difference of degree, not kind." - - * * * * * - -Tracy bit her lips and did not reply. It was like a revelation to -McLeod. He suddenly wondered if Cripp knew how maladjusted his fiancee -was. - -Abruptly, Wainwright changed the subject. "Are you well insured, -McLeod?" - -"I never could figure out who to name as beneficiary." - -"That's a shame." - -"If you've planned anything now, I thought you'd like to know -_Star-Times_ Security Forces are all around us," McLeod bluffed. - -"You underestimate me, sir. Prognostication comes up with the raw -facts, which I sift for story material. I merely wait for things to -happen. However, in case you have any inclinations to put the shoe on -the other foot, I'm sure you realize _World_ Security men often lunch -at the Fourth Estate." - -That, McLeod suspected, was no bluff. Tracy was still nibbling on her -lip but managed to cast a worried look in his direction. They ordered -and ate in silence while Wainwright swirled and sipped another brandy. - -"Have you heard about poor Mayor Spurgess?" Wainwright asked as McLeod -cooled his coffee with cream. - -McLeod scalded his lips. The _World_ reporter was playing cat-and-mouse -with him, taunting him overtly. Perhaps Wainwright figured he could -kill two birds with one stone, getting McLeod while McLeod tried to -protect the mayor's record. He hoped Wainwright had not thought of -Overman's alternative. - -"You're a busy man," McLeod finally said. - -"I detest inactivity. I assume since you wrote Mayor Spurgess into -office, you are going to protect his name. Miss Kent, could you excuse -yourself for a moment?" - -Tracy waited until McLeod nodded, then stood up and mumbled something -about going to powder her nose. McLeod lit a cigaret and waited. - -"Now we can talk," Wainwright said. "Recognize the spirit in which -this is said, McLeod: you're a fine reporter." - -"Thanks." - -"But you're as good as dead. We've written your obituary." - -Strangely, the announcement brought no fear. Although it had only been -a couple of hours, McLeod felt as if he'd been living with the idea for -years. "You haven't printed it yet." - -"In time. But we don't have to print it. Naturally, it's news, McLeod. -You have a well-known name. But there are others equally well-known. -More well-known. We can come up with a wrongo occasionally. Basically, -we want to kill you because you're too valuable to the _Star-Times_." - -"Your motive doesn't interest me. And I have some news for you: I'm a -long way from dead." - -"Don't be melodramatic, McLeod. We'll get you. A routine -assassination-accident doesn't often become a wrongo, you know that. We -have decided to make an offer to you." - -Now McLeod's skin did begin to crawl. Statistically, the -assassination-accident case was more fool-proof than any other. Gunmen -commanded good salaries and did their work expertly. Ninety-five per -cent accuracy could be expected. "I'm listening." - -"Join the _World_." - -"Come again?" - -"I'm sure you heard me. Quit the _Star-Times_ and join us. We'll match -your salary, we won't kill you--" - -"But the _Star-Times will_!" - -"You'd be valuable to us, aside from your abilities as a reporter. No -doubt, they've included you in any long-range plans they might have. -We'll have them piling up wrongos from now till doomsday." - -"Which is exactly why they'll have me killed if I become a turncoat." - -"We'll offer you full protection." - -"I'm already getting full protection--from the _Star-Times_," McLeod -lied. It was almost a tempting offer, although its virtues were purely -negative. The _Star-Times_ had refused to offer him protection because -Overman thought it would be simpler and more certain to serve up a -substitute reporter for the kill. If McLeod accepted Wainwright's -offer, at least he'd be able to sleep easy regarding Crippens. But if -the _World's_ real purpose was to remove McLeod from the _Star-Times'_ -staff, one way or the other, they might risk an all-out Tong War and -still gun for him. - -Besides, no turncoat newspaperman had ever survived six months. -McLeod knew it and was sure Wainwright knew it and guessed the _World_ -reporter was promising him all he could under the circumstances--a -temporary reprieve. - -"I know what you're thinking," Wainwright told him. "The _Star-Times_ -will get you if you turn on them. If necessary, they'll drop everything -else until you're dead." - -"Well, yes. That's just what I was thinking." - -"I don't envy your position," Wainwright admitted. "You believe I'm -offering you a few months more of life at best. But you're mistaken, -McLeod. _It will appear as if we have killed you._ We can do it, -working together. But I offer you life. The accident will all but -destroy you, although means of identification will remain. Don't you -see what I'm driving at? We can substitute some derelict for you, then -change your appearance and employ you on the _World_. The _Star-Times_ -will never know the difference." - - * * * * * - -It was a daring plan. It was just the sort of thing which made the -newspaper business in general--and Weaver Wainwright in particular--so -omnipotent these days. McLeod did not try to hide his interest. The -plan had more than negative virtues, after all. - -"How do I know I can trust you?" McLeod asked. - -"I'm afraid you don't. But let it simmer. What it boils down to is -this: you're going to have to take a calculated risk either way, -McLeod. No doubt, you've devised some scheme to give us a fat wrongo -instead of your corpse. It may or may not work. Statistics say it will -not. On the other hand, I promise you life. My plan not only could -work, it _should_ work. The risk there is that I may not be telling the -truth. You'll have to decide ... here comes Miss Kent." - -"The girl with the crooked face," said Tracy, sitting down. "Unless you -tell me it's straight." - -"As an arrow," said McLeod, hardly hearing his own words. The more he -thought of Wainwright's plan, the better he liked it. If Wainwright -were telling the truth, he'd be able to get both Cripp and himself off -the hook at the same time. "I'll think about it," he told the _World_ -reporter, who was smiling and getting up to leave. - -"Call me," Wainwright said, and was gone. - -"What did he want?" Tracy asked. - -"The usual," McLeod told her, realizing a near-truth was often the best -lie. "That I join up with the _World_ and get protected." - -"You wouldn't last a month and you know it. So why did you tell him -you'd think about it?" - -"To let him think I was playing both ends against dead center, I guess. -I don't know. I just want to come out of this thing alive, Tracy." - -"I was thinking. There must be something we could dig up about Weaver -Wainwright, something we could hold over his head so he'd rather be -guilty of a wrongo than see it revealed." - -"I doubt it. Anyway, you don't blackmail newspapermen." - -"You don't kill them, either. Darius, did you ever stop to think -how--how awfully evil this whole setup is? I don't mean just about -you and how the _World_ wants to make a story out of killing off the -opposition. I mean everything. I mean Weaver Wainwright starting a -war in Europe so his paper can get the inside story on it. I mean -the President of Yugoslavia being blackmailed by a garden variety -newspaperman. I mean Cripp getting chewed out because he went to cover -a suicide and the man didn't jump. We ought to celebrate, don't you -see? A human life was saved. I mean me getting myself caught with -important men so their wives sue for divorce and we get the story. -I mean disease that doesn't have to happen and medical cures held -back until one paper or another can scoop them. I mean scientific -discoveries which aren't made because research scientists and -development engineers are on newspaper payrolls and perform their basic -research and experiments, then wait for the newspaper stories to be -released at an editor's leisure. I mean ... oh, what's the use? You're -laughing at me." - -McLeod was trying not to smile but meeting with little success. "I just -never heard you talk like that before, that's all. Tracy, you're like a -little girl in a lot of ways--idealistic, romantic, building castles on -air and not accepting the real world, but--" - -"Real!" Tracy cried. "It's phony from the word go. We're making it--to -suit headlines." - -"Stop shouting," McLeod said in alarm. "People are staring at you." - -"I don't care about them." - -"Well, I do. Before you know it, they'll be investigating you for -Anti-Newspaper tendencies. What's the matter with you?" - -"My God! Don't sound so gosh-awful righteous, Darius. You treat this -newspaper business like a religion." - -"Maybe I like being top-dog." - -"So now you're going to get yourself killed. A sacrifice to the -Headline God." - -"Stop it," McLeod said. "I won't get killed if I can help it." - -"And if Wainwright can help it too, is that the idea?" - -"What are you talking about?" - -"Sometimes I ... I hate you, Darius McLeod. That's what I'm talking -about. They're going to kill someone else and change your face and let -you work for the _World_." Tracy stood up and patted her lips with a -napkin. - -McLeod climbed to his feet too. "How did you know about that?" - -"Don't bother getting up. I can find my way back alone, thank you." - -McLeod sat down, staring at her. - -"Maybe it's because I'm a spy. Maybe I work for the _World_." Tracy -pivoted and stalked away, her heels click-clacking defiantly on the -marble floor. McLeod gaped after her until she disappeared. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -McLeod made an appointment to see Jack Lantrel, the Gunman Chief of -the _Star-Times_, Saturday morning. He spent the remainder of Friday -pondering and drinking a little too much. The combination yielded -a hangover, but not even tentative conclusions. While Tracy Kent -had become an unexpected enigma, he couldn't spend too much time on -it. Wainwright's proposal nagged at all his thoughts, but he kept -telling himself he couldn't trust the _World_ reporter. And for the -first time he found he didn't like the feeling of power inherent in -a newspaperman's position. Having the power of life and death over -nameless, faceless people was one thing, but playing the role of the -Greek hag who snipped the thread of life with a pair of indifferent -scissors for Crippens was quite another. - -Lantrel met McLeod in the Gunman's office, greeted him and said, -"Dragging me down on Saturday, this better be important." Jack Lantrel -was a harried-looking little man. You always expected a great, bosomy -wife to come charging in to henpeck him, although, like McLeod, Lantrel -was a bachelor. He straightened the thinkwriter and the other items of -office equipment on his desk with mechanical efficiency. He was an old -fuddy-duddy, thought McLeod, but he had signed the death warrants for -hundreds of people. - -"It's a job," said McLeod. - -"Well, that's what I draw my check for. But we work on a rigid -schedule, Darius." - -"Then call it a priority job. Mayor Spurgess." - -Lantrel looked up from where he'd been drumming his fingers idly on the -desk. "Motive is none of my business," he admitted. "But did you say -you want to have Mayor Spurgess gunned?" - -McLeod sighed. "Yeah." - -"I'm glad my particular job is comparatively simple. You just elected -the guy." - -"And now we want him killed. Overman would sleep easier and so would I -if you did it by tomorrow night." - -Lantrel grunted something, prodded the intercom button on his desk and -demanded in his high-pitched voice, "Will you please get me the habit -file on Mayor Spurgess?" He turned to McLeod. "Sunday night, eh? That -doesn't give us much time." - -McLeod shrugged and watched a secretary bring in a bulging plastic file -envelope which Lantrel flipped through expertly. "Here we are. Subject -generally dines late Sunday night, reviews his Monday morning schedule, -smokes a pipe and plays with the TV set until he's convinced there's -nothing to interest him, then ... oh! here we are ... takes a walk -around twenty-two hundred hours, alone, without his wife." - -"Sounds simple," McLeod said. - -"An assassination-accident," Lantrel informed him with surprising -enthusiasm, "is never simple. Despite the statistical expectancy -of success, there are too many random factors you have to contend -with. If the weather's bad, perhaps subject won't take his evening -constitutional. Perhaps subject's wife will break the pattern with some -company for dinner. Subject might conceivably take a friend along with -him. You see what I'm driving at?" - -McLeod nodded. "All I want to know is this: can you do the job Sunday -night?" - -Lantrel scanned the file again. "Subject leaves his house at twenty-two -hundred, returns by twenty-two forty-five. That gives us forty-five -minutes. Probably, Darius." - -"Good enough." - - * * * * * - -Lantrel slid a gunman form into his thinkwriter, hunched himself down -in his chair and watched the machine type. Presently the sheet of paper -slipped out the other side of the squat machine and McLeod read: - -DATE: 14 Dec 2103 - -NAME: Darius John McLeod - -ASSIGNMENT (CURRENT): City Desk - -JOB NO.: 03-4-12 - -CLASSIFICATION: Top Priority - -SUBJECT: Peter Winston Spurgess, Mayor, New York City - -DATE OF EXECUTION (APPROX): 15 Dec 2103 - -METHOD: Vehicular, or other, accident - -CODE: 4-12-DJM - -APPROVED: - - /s/Jack Lantrel - JACK LANTREL - GUNMAN EDITOR - -THE UNDERSIGNED HEREBY CERTIFIES THAT JOB NO. 03-4-12, HEREAFTER -REFERRED TO AS 4-12-DJM, HAS BEEN ORDERED IN COMPLIANCE WITH THE -EXISTING REGULATIONS GOVERNING ASSASSINATION-ACCIDENTS, AND THAT -4-12-DJM HAS BEEN APPROVED, ORALLY OR IN WRITING, BY THE City Editor. -THE UNDERSIGNED IS COGNIZANT OF THE FACT THAT ANY FRAUD OR DECEIT IN -THIS APPLICATION, WHETHER FOR PERSONAL GAIN OR OTHERWISE, IS PUNISHABLE -BY SUMMARY REVOCATION OF HIS (HER) NEWSPAPER LICENSE. - - DARIUS JOHN MCLEOD - -It suddenly was no simple matter for McLeod to scrawl his name at the -bottom of the sheet. He was aware of Lantrel, a puzzled expression -on his face, watching him. It seemed entirely routine to affix his -signature, but quite suddenly he was aware of the machinery that would -put into operation. Gunmen would be selected for the job, would study -Mayor Spurgess' habit file, would agree with Lantrel on the _modus -operandi_. Within thirty-six hours, Mayor Spurgess would be dead. - -Darius McLeod executioner? - -Hardly. He was merely carrying out an assignment. Newspapers were -active agents in the modern world. If it had not been his assignment, -it would have been someone else's. You could hardly consider it -murder. Murder was punishable today as it had always been--by capital -punishment or a long prison term. A newspaperman was above reproach--or -imprisonment. - -McLeod saw the parallel that he had first seen in Overman's office -yesterday. He was both executioner and victim. Even now as he was -signing the application for Mayor Spurgess' death, perhaps Weaver -Wainwright was signing one which read, SUBJECT: Darius John McLeod, -reporter, New York _Star-Times_. The _World_ Gunman Editor might now be -studying _his_ habit file, weighing the various factors to determine -what situation seemed most promising as a vessel for his "accidental" -death. Did the editor know that McLeod often spent weekends racing -across country or down to South America in his jet? It was there in -his habit file in all probability. Did he know that McLeod visited -the _Star-Times_ space station once every fortnight because he was -being groomed to cover the _Star-Times_ dash to the moon, if ever they -got the jump on the _World_ space station and could leave Earth's -gravitational field without the near certainty of being tracked and -shot down by a _World_ rocket? Did he know the thousand one little -habits which, combined in various predictable patterns, made up -McLeod's life? Unfortunately, the answer had to be in the affirmative. -It left McLeod feeling a little sick. - -"What's the matter, Darius? Is something wrong?" - -"Huh? No. Nothing." McLeod signed the application. "There you are." - -"Fine," said Lantrel, placing the application in his out basket. "Call -me at home tomorrow afternoon, Darius. I'll give you the details so you -can cover the assignment. You know the number?" - -McLeod said that he did and left. He wondered if Weaver Wainwright -would make a similar call. The worst part of it was that he didn't know -when. - - * * * * * - -When he reached his bachelor apartment in the East Seventies, the door -recorder told him that two visitors, one male and one female, were -waiting for him. McLeod felt the comforting bulk of his parabeam -in its arm holster and loosened it there. If they had entered his -apartment it was because their fingerprint patterns had been included -in the locking mechanism, but he couldn't take any chances. He opened -the door and sighed his relief. - -"Morning, Darius," Harry Crippens greeted him cheerfully, bouncing up -from a web-chair and extending his hand. "Shake hands with a reporter -who just got a big, fat, unexpected raise." - -McLeod lit a cigaret and said, "I'm very glad to hear that, Cripp. Did -Overman tell you?" - -"Nope. First I knew of it, I read it in the paper. Take a look." - -As McLeod took this morning's _Star-Times_ from Crippens, Tracy entered -the living room from the kitchen. "Coffee in a minute, Cripp," she -said. "Oh, Darius. We're making ourselves to home, as the expression -goes. Did you see that crazy thing in the paper?" - -"I'm about to," said McLeod. - -"Crazy!" Crippens cried in mock horror. "I get a raise right before we -get married and she says crazy." - -"Well, it doesn't make sense." - -McLeod turned to the Internal Affairs page of the _Star-Times_. With -the newspaper profession supplanting Hollywood fifty-odd years ago as -the world's most glamorous, articles on internal affairs had evolved -from small islands of type in a sea of advertisements to a place of -importance with their own daily page and special editor. - -"Three column head," Crippens said proudly. "Liberal quotes from the -King himself. Maestro Overman." - -"That's what I mean," Tracy repeated. "Crazy. Only yesterday, he was -chewing you out." - -The article said that a new star was on the _Star-Times_ horizon, -and went on to discuss all the successful assignments Crippens had -handled. There was no mention of his wrongos which, McLeod knew, were -considerable. A two-column cut of Crippens at his thinkwriter was -included and the caption rendered a thumb-nail biography. The article -concluded by mentioning a raise in salary which gave Crippens more than -Tracy and almost what McLeod earned. - -"That's great," McLeod said, finding it difficult to maintain his -enthusiasm. Damn Overman, he didn't miss a trick. Fattening the calf -for slaughter. - -"Now the girl's got to marry me," Crippens declared. "I earn more -money than she does." He was flip, building effusively in the best -newspaperman fashion. He was not the serious, intent Crippens McLeod -had always known, although, on closer examination, McLeod realized that -the owlish eyes looked quite sober. - -"Quit your kidding," McLeod told him. "Harry Crippens would probably -celebrate by discussing his next assignment, or making a study of the -moral factors involved. What's the matter?" - -"Not a thing," Crippens assured him easily. "Here, have a drink. It's -your whisky." - -"In the morning?" asked Tracy. - -"This is a celebration, girl. There you go." And Crippens sloshed -liquor into three glasses. His hands were shaking. - -"I said what's the matter?" McLeod ignored the drink. - -Crippens didn't. "Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing." - -"Go ahead and talk to him," Tracy said. - -"Don't mind her, Darius. Have another?" Crippens poured for himself. - -"Darn it, Cripp. Even if it means making me feel better?" - -"Darius wouldn't do a thing like that, that's all." - -"Like what?" McLeod wanted to know. - -"I have to hand it to you," Tracy told him. "I thought you'd do your -best to change the subject." - -"Like nothing," Crippens said. "I mean it, don't mind her. She had some -silly idea.... I don't even want to talk about it." - -"Darius," Tracy asked abruptly, "what have you decided to do about -Weaver Wainwright?" - -"Please," said Crippens. - -"I haven't made up my mind yet. I'm not going to let him kill me if I -can help it." - -"Do tell. Does Cripp fit into the picture at all?" - -McLeod hoped he could substitute evasion for outright lying. "Why don't -you ask Overman?" - -"Because I'm asking you." - -He didn't think Tracy would ask Overman. He didn't think Overman would -tell her the truth if she did. He saw she was waiting for an answer and -said, "If the answer to that question were yes, you wouldn't expect me -to tell you. If it were no, I ought to consider it an insult, coming -from friends." - -"We never stood on ceremonies before, Darius." - -"Tracy, for gosh sakes!" Crippens pleaded. "Darius is my friend." - -"I'm still waiting for an answer." - -McLeod walked to the door and opened it. Crippens opened his mouth to -speak, but changed his mind. He glared at Tracy. - -"Get out of here," McLeod said. He was behaving like a child he -realized. But more than anything else, he needed time to think. - -Tracy went through the doorway, staring straight ahead. McLeod wished -she would look at him, or holler, or slap him. She said, "All right, -Darius. If that's the way you want to play it." - -McLeod heard them arguing in low tones as he shut the door behind them. - -Just what do you do, he thought, when your whole world starts to blow -up all around you? You don't kick over the remaining traces. You try to -re-establish the familiar, comforting pattern in some small way. - -McLeod called the mayor's residence and got through to Spurgess at -once. The flabby, thick-jowled face looked sickly white, like putty. - -"McLeod, thank God. I thought you'd forgotten." - -"Not on your life. I just wanted to tell you everything's going to be -fine. You won't have to resign your office for political corruption. -We'll see to that." - -"Oh, thank you," said Mayor Spurgess. "Thank you very much." - -"Sure," said McLeod, and cut the connection. Give or take a couple, -Mayor Spurgess had about thirty-six hours to live. - -And McLeod? - - * * * * * - -Snow was falling in thick, slow flakes which melted on contact with -the ground when McLeod went outside after lunch. Since neither the -_Star-Times_ nor the _World_ was depending on the cold virus or -influenza for medical headlines this season, it was comparatively safe -venturing out in this weather. - -This, McLeod thought, seeing it for the first time in a strange, -new light, was the city. Gray-white sky, overflowing snowflakes. -Slidewalks, covered for the winter, conducting crowds of bovinely -unaware people from place to place. Steel and glass and stone, soaring -skyward, disappearing in the feathery white snow which, up above, was -not feathery at all but a solid gray pall. - -Did the cud-munching people know the truth about newspapers? McLeod -doubted it. The old name had remained--newspapers--but the function had -changed. We give them each day their daily cud. We don't report. We -motivate. You didn't find it anyplace. It wasn't written. It happened -and it was accepted. Maybe they did know. It might make a good book, if -people ever went back to reading books again. Not yellow journalism, -but ROY G. BIV journalism, for all the colors in the rainbow. Concepts -had changed. How? After the Third World War? The Fourth? People wanted -to believe what they read. Each individual existence was precarious, -cliff-edged, ready to fall or scramble back to safety. People believed. -Almost, it was as if they had forgotten their Western Christian -heritage, in which they moved through time from past to future, active -agents in a static environment. Now they embodied the old Greek idea. -People didn't flow. Time did. They stood backwards in the river of -time, with the future flowing up, unseen, behind them, becoming the -present, flowing on and becoming the past which lay, decipherable, -before their eyes. Only newspapermen had eyes in the back of their -heads. - -Look out, cancer's coming. I read it in the _World_. (The _World_ -Medical Corps sows the seed, and the incidence of cancer increases.) -Good newspaper, the _World_. Always lets you know what's coming. I see -where the _Star-Times_ says the cancer rate is dropping. Hope they're -right. (Newspaper Medical Corps battle mightily, offstage, and the -_Star-Times_ wins. Temporarily, no more cancer.) What do you know, the -_Star-Times_ was right. - -_Star-Times_ says we ought to have a spaceship on the moon soon. -Thrilling, isn't it (_Star-Times_ astronauts prepare to launch a -two-stage rocket from their space station, but _World_ astronauts -intercept it with a guided missile and destroy it.) Well, looks like -the _World_ was right. Space travel soon, but not yet. - -Senator Blundy's daughter was attacked on the campus of that -there college up-state, what's its name? You read about it in the -_Star-Times_? You know, it's not so bad, being small time, I always -say. Things like that only happen to important people. Yes sir, we're -lucky. - -_World_ says it's a Brinks, one of those unsolved robberies. Three -million dollars from the Bank of New York! (But _Star-Times_ detectives -go to work and find--or sometimes frame--the criminal.) Hey, it's not a -Brinks anymore. Maybe I ought to read the _Star-Times_ more often. - -That Weaver Wainwright earns six hundred thousand dollars a year, but -my kid wants to be a politician. Some kids you just can't figure. - -McLeod wandered into a bar and got himself mellowed, then found another -and repeated the process. When he returned to the street and made his -way to the slidewalk, the snow had finally begun to stick. Someone -in the bar had recognized him and asked for an autograph. It hadn't -stirred him at all. Was he maturing or turning sour? - -Returning home as dusk descended on the city and street lights gleamed -on three inches of snow, McLeod learned from his door recorder that he -had one female visitor. That would be Tracy, he thought, and prepared -himself for more unpleasantness. Why couldn't they leave him alone? - -"Come in, Darius. Shut the door." He did both, turned, and saw Tracy -pointing a parabeam at him. His hand fumbled with the trick sleeve of -his jacket, but the storm-coat got in his way. Tracy's parabeam zipped -audibly and McLeod turned to stone. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -"I'll unfreeze your head so you can talk. You realize I ought to kill -you." - -His head tingled and he found that he could open his mouth, blink his -eyes and twitch his nose. He couldn't turn his neck. From the chin down -he was helplessly immobile. He was a disembodied brain with a face. He -wished he were sober. - -"Cripp still doesn't believe me," Tracy said. "He insisted I come back -alone and apologize. So I came back." - -"But not to apologize." - -"To get some information, Darius. I could be wrong. I don't think I am." - -"Out at the Fourth Estate yesterday, you knew what kind of proposition -Wainwright had made me," McLeod said, stalling for time while he tried -to summon a logical defense. His mind was almost a blank. - -"Sometimes I talk too much. Yes, I knew. Never mind how. I'm doing -the questioning, and I want answers. When I read about Cripp in the -Internal Affairs section, I put two and two together. Wainwright's -assignment had been vague, so I guessed you and Overman had decided -some substitution might be in order." - -McLeod was silent. - -"I advise you to talk, Darius. If I killed you now, it would be a bit -ahead of schedule, but I think that would still satisfy Wainwright. -Don't you?" - -"You're bluffing," McLeod said--and hoped. "You couldn't possibly be on -assignment to kill me. So you'd be subject to the same laws which face -the general public for murder." - -"All right. Maybe I won't kill you. But you feel no pain under a -parabeam, Darius. Remember that. I could start burning your hand with -my lighter and work up to your elbow and you wouldn't even know--until -I unfroze you." - -"You wouldn't," McLeod said. "Maybe we don't see eye to eye now, but -we're friends." - -Tracy began nibbling at her lip. Her eyes were big and watery, as if -she'd been fighting back tears. "Sure--I liked you. Maybe I still do. -I don't know. I'm all mixed up. You know me, Darius. I'm liable to do -anything--anything ... when I'm all mixed up like this. I don't want -to hurt you, not if I can help it. I like you, Darius. We've had fun -together. Great times." - -"That's better." McLeod's confidence was returning. He'd be out of -freeze in no time now. "Just unfreeze me, and we can talk about this -like two sensible people." - -"I like you, but I'm in love with Cripp." Tracy removed her lighter -from a pocket of her blouse with trembling fingers. She lit a cigarette -and didn't extinguish the flame. She came closer to McLeod. - -"Cut it out," he said. He felt sweat rolling down his forehead from -his hairline and making his eyes blink. Parabeaming did peculiar, -unpredictable things to the metabolism. The room seemed furnace-hot. - -"Then answer my question." - -There was no sense being maimed, McLeod finally decided. Tracy knew the -truth anyway. She just wanted to hear him say it. But now she brought a -tiny mini-recorder into view from where it had been resting on a table -and flipped the switch to on. - -"What's that for?" - -"Cripp. I want him to know. I want him to be able to protect himself -from you. We're recording now, Darius. Answer this question: do you -and Overman plan to use Cripp as a substitute corpse to satisfy Weaver -Wainwright and the _World_? Is that why Cripp got his raise and all -that unexpected publicity?" - -McLeod licked his lips and tried to look down as Tracy's hand -disappeared from view with the lighter. He saw no smoke but imagined -his flesh beginning to crisp. - -"Answer me. Did you and Overman plan to kill Cripp and give Wainwright -his story that way?" - -McLeod read nothing in her eyes, not even hatred. He said, "Yes. That's -right." - -Tracy shut off the mini-recorder, pocketed her lighter. She reversed -the parabeam and McLeod felt his limbs begin to tingle with minute -sparks of pain. - -"Don't try anything," Tracy said. "I'm still pointing this at you." Her -voice caught. She tried to speak again but sobbed. - -McLeod brought his arm up slowly and examined it. No damage. - -"I--I guess you know I couldn't do it, Darius. I couldn't hurt you. But -I don't want you to hurt Cripp. I want to give Cripp a fair chance. -Have you signed an application for his death yet?" - -"No." - -"Will you?" - -They were friends again. McLeod couldn't sense it. Friends who might -try to hurt each other, of necessity, but friends. "I don't know," he -said. - -"Give him a break, Darius. There must be another way out. I could tell -you things, if I could only trust you...." - -McLeod laughed easily, massaging his forearms. "Better not," he said. -"Better get out of here." - -"Maybe someday." - -"Maybe. Thanks for telling me you couldn't do it. That's good to know." -He shouldn't have said that. He was acting compulsively, striking back -blindly. - -The color left Tracy's face. "That was only because you haven't -actually threatened Cripp yet. Don't rely on it, though." - -She was striking back, too. He staggered to the door and watched her -go. Crippens had himself a good woman there, the lucky s. o. b. Maybe -that was why he hadn't rejected the idea of killing Crippens, McLeod -thought. - - * * * * * - -Sleeping that night, after a dinner which felt like slag inside him, -McLeod dreamed he had just signed an application for his own demise on -the steps of City Hall while bands played and people cheered. Mayor -Spurgess was there with a television camera and kept on pleading for -McLeod not to renege, but Tracy clung to the mayor's arm and tried to -lure him away to a co-respondent rendezvous. Weaver Wainwright and -Overman lurked on the fringe of the crowd, both pointing at McLeod and -laughing. Harry Crippens was the gunman. - -When McLeod awoke, a gray dawn was seeping in through the windows. He -showered and downed some bicarbonate of soda in water, but still felt -like hell. A mantle of snow covered the silent streets outside and more -snow was falling. Even the meteorologist's job wasn't guesswork now, -McLeod thought wryly. Predicting snow, the _Star-Times_ had sowed the -clouds for it. - -It was suddenly very important for Mayor Spurgess not to die. - -Early in the afternoon, McLeod called Jack Lantrel at home, but a -pert-faced girl smiled at him from the screen. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lantrel -is not at home. Is there a message?" - -"It's important that I reach him," McLeod said. - -"Mr. Lantrel is out. He left no number. What is it in reference to?" - -"4-12-DJM," McLeod said, and waited while the receptionist disappeared -from view. - -"You're Mr. McLeod, aren't you?" - -"That's right." - -"You don't have to worry about 4-12-DJM, sir. Everything will be taken -care of." - -"There's been a change of plans. I want the gunmen called off." - -The professional smile was replaced by a frown. "Only Mr. Lantrel can -do that." - -"That's why I want to reach him. I told you it was important." - -"But I don't know when he'll be back. Confidentially, sir, Mr. Lantrel -just hates snow. When he read in the paper it was going to snow, he -said he was leaving town. I'm sorry." - -McLeod asked if she knew where Lantrel usually went. - -"That's hard to say. He likes to forget about business, you see. He's -down south," she added brightly. "Someplace down south. Is there any -message?" - -"Yes," McLeod said. "I'll be home all day. If Mr. Lantrel calls, have -him contact me at once." - -But as the afternoon dragged on, McLeod thought it unlikely that the -Gunman Chief would receive his message. He had reached the unexpected -decision about Mayor Spurgess quite suddenly and now found it almost -beyond analysis. He neither liked the mayor nor disliked him. It was -not the man who must live, but the symbol. - -Symbol? Of what? - -McLeod found the idea mildly ridiculous, almost as if he were drumming -up trade for the Anti-Newspaper League, self-proselytizing. It wasn't -that for the first time in his life, he told himself, he found an -intrinsic evil in the newspaper business. It was simply that the system -had hit home for the first time, unexpectedly. He had set the machinery -in motion for Mayor Spurgess' death; Weaver Wainwright had done the -same for him; Overman had decided the _Star-Times_ could not afford to -lose his services but could manage without Harry Crippens. - -There was no logical connection. If Mayor Spurgess died, -that was that. Flowers and a sad song for the widow. But the -Wainwright-McLeod-Overman-Crippens problem still remained unsolved. Not -to mention Tracy Kent. - -Had he become anti-newspaper? The term almost defied definition. The -Anti-Newspaper League was one thing, formal, organized, purposeful. -But anti-newspaper could mean a lot of things. It could mean slight -deviation, non-conformity, the simple desire to earn your keep in some -other line. Such a desire was never realized, however. There were only -three classes of newspapermen: working reporters, corpses and retired -hounds and hens who lived on newspaper farms in old-folk luxury. A -newspaperman simply knew too much to be allowed to change his line of -work. - -No, there was a fourth type. There was the Anti-Newspaper League. What -was the old word--Quisling? It referred to politics or some other -fields of endeavor, McLeod thought. He wasn't sure what. They were on -newspaper payrolls but tried to gum up the works. - -Logic was getting him nowhere. He belonged to no cut-and-dry category. - -He wanted Mayor Spurgess to live. - -Lantrel failed to call by dinner-time or afterwards. At twenty-hundred -thirty, McLeod zipped on an insulined jumper, checked his parabeam and -went out into the _Star-Times_ snow. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -Hidden heat-coils melted the snow which managed to drift over the -slidewalks despite their protective canopies, but the streets were -covered with snow now more than a foot deep. McLeod felt it crunch -underfoot as he left the slidewalks and headed for the mayor's house. - -His breath exhaled in quick vapor-puffs against the cold, brittle air. -His feet were heavy in the snow but dry. His were the only set of -footsteps marring the white blanket which covered everything. - -It occurred to him all at once that Mayor Spurgess would likely forego -his evening walk because of the weather. Which necessitated another -type of accident. Lantrel's men were both experienced and imaginative. -You could write a book categorizing all the possibilities.... - -Wind whipped around corners and sprayed McLeod's face with snowflakes. -He heard a voice calling far off in the fuzzy white dimness, but -soon it was gone. Finally, he reached the mayor's house--a red-brick, -white-columned Georgian structure massive and secure on a large corner -lot. He crouched behind a leafless privet hedgerow in the driveway and -waited, peering up occasionally at the cheery yellow squares of light -that were the second story windows. His ear-crono whispered the time to -him: twenty-two hundred hours. - -The tell-tale footsteps he had left in the snow were fast disappearing -as the flakes fell thicker. He slid his parabeam out through the -jumper's trick sleeve and felt the cold knife momentarily into his -bare arm. The feeling of warm security, so paradoxical under the -circumstances, left him. If he foiled Lantrel's gunmen, Overman would -learn of it. If he didn't foil them but tried--which seemed more -likely--Overman would also hear. - -Just what was he doing here, anyway? - -He flexed his stiff muscles and was on the point of standing up when he -saw three figures approaching down the street, vague as ghosts in the -snow. There was still time. He could intercept them and say he had come -to cover the story, something which was expected of him. He wondered -what sort of accident they had planned. - -He jogged toward them through the snow, met them still half a block -from Spurgess' house. Two were young, possibly still in training. They -were tall and looked like soldiers in their slick jumpers. They stared -at him arrogantly. The third was shorter, heavier, of calculating eye. -The expression of the first two faces said: _we're gunmen--whatever -you are, we're better_. The third face said: _we'd as soon kill you as -spit, but we don't kill except for hire or when provoked in the line of -duty_. - -"I'm from the paper," McLeod told them, whispering. "Here to cover the -story." - -The three faces stared back at him through the snow, crystalizing what -he had felt all day but had not been able to explain. Those faces. - -They had nothing against Mayor Spurgess. Perhaps they had never even -seen him. If they didn't like him and had a reason and wanted to kill -him, that wouldn't be so bad. That would be fine. But they were here to -kill him because McLeod had signed the application along with Lantrel. -They wanted to do the job and get back to warmer places and hot -buttered rum or whatever they liked. - -"He come out yet?" the older gunman asked. - -"I don't think he will, not in this weather. What other plans have you -got?" - -"We'll just wait and see. We don't have to make the plans." - -Had they been able to read McLeod's face as readily as he had read -theirs? "I don't understand," he said. "You'll have to think of -something else if he doesn't take his walk, won't you?" - -"You say you were from the paper, guy?" - -"Of course." - -"Well, you're not making sense." - - * * * * * - -McLeod toyed with his parabeam, then watched as matching weapons leaped -into the hands of the two younger gunmen. - -"What paper, guy?" the older one drawled. - -McLeod felt his heart flutter wildly and checked a strong impulse to -laugh. - -One of the young gunmen said, "I thought the big boy himself was -covering this. Wainwright. I know what he looks like." - -"Come on, guy. What paper?" - -McLeod knew the mistake could be fatal. Somehow the _World_ had learned -what the _Star-Times_ had planned for Mayor Spurgess. These men were -_World_ gunmen, come to thwart Lantrel's men. Perhaps they could, but -McLeod might die in the process. - -"Listen," he said desperately. "The other day, Weaver Wainwright made -me a proposition." - -"Who _are_ you?" - -"Darius McLeod. Hold on, damn it! If you freeze me now, you'll be -making a mistake. Wainwright wanted me to work for the _World_. That's -why I'm here, don't you understand? I can tell you exactly what the -_Star-Times_ is going to do." - -"We already know, McLeod. You're skating where the signs say not to, -guy. I guess you know that." - -"Won't Wainwright be here? Ask him." - -"Don't know if he will or not." - -One of the younger gunmen had circled around behind McLeod. The other -one stood facing him, pointing the parabeam at his chest. The older man -seemed to be enjoying himself. - -"I don't want Spurgess killed," McLeod said. "That's the truth. I came -here to prevent it myself." - -"Can you tell me why?" - -"No--yes. Because I want to accept Wainwright's proposition. The -_World_ said I was going to die. Wainwright offered me life." - -"We know that you're going to die." - -McLeod sucked in his breath. This same wholesome trio had probably -received the application for his own death, had probably studied his -habit file. "Not before next week," McLeod said. - -"Now, I don't know. It's a gift horse, guy. They won't hold up our -checks for a couple of hours either way." - -"No, but you'll spend the rest of your life as a gunman if you cross -Wainwright." - -The voice behind McLeod's back seemed bodiless and as cold as the -falling snow. "What's wrong with that?" - -"You wouldn't understand," McLeod said without turning. "He would." -He would win his life the moment he won over the shorter man. His two -companions did not matter. "Look. The Gunman Editor on the _World_ is -near retirement, isn't he? You look like you've been around, but you -won't be considered for the job if Wainwright bears a grudge." - -"He's pretty smooth," the young gunman with the parabeam said. - -"Why do you think I'm here at all?" McLeod insisted. "I didn't know you -were coming. I came to prevent this thing myself." - - * * * * * - -The man behind McLeod muttered a curse and said, "You came here for -the same reason you always go out on an assignment. To get the story." - -But the older man said, "Have you any proof?" - -"Only Wainwright. Ask him when he gets here." - -"_If_ he decides to come," said the man with the parabeam. - -"And if he doesn't?" McLeod demanded. "Are you going to take a chance -and--" - -"It wouldn't be taking a chance at all," the older man told McLeod. "We -could freeze you and box you and ask Wainwright about it later." - -"You fool! I haven't told Wainwright one way or the other yet." - -"Then we could unfreeze you and let him decide. Go ahead, George." - -McLeod could never hope to freeze all three of them before they -froze him. Their actions were cut from the same Kantian categorical -imperative he had expected of himself and all newspapermen--until -today. He felt sorry for himself because it no longer applied, but that -hardly helped. - -"Someone's coming," the voice behind McLeod said. He started to turn -and got three quarters of the way around when the parabeam hit him. - -After that, it was almost like watching a melodrama on television. He -could watch the action unfold. His sympathies might be directed first -one way, then another, but he had no part in the play. He was a statue, -standing upright as the snow drifted down and coated him with white. -His body-heat didn't escape the insulined jumper to melt it and in a -few moments he was an incredibly manlike snowman with a human face. The -last thing he wanted to do was stand there, frozen, and watch. - -He stood and watched. - -Half a dozen figures were clustered close by the white columns at the -front of Mayor Spurgess' house. Then, as if they were puppets and all -their strings had been pulled at once, they darted behind the columns. - -The _World_ gunmen were caught in the open and knew it. Parabeams -hissed as they fell toward the ground and the snow's protection. Only -the shorter, heavier man tried to get up, waddling three or four yards -on his knees before a parabeam caught him too and froze him. - -Two figures detached themselves from the white columns and ran across -the snow toward McLeod, parabeams ready. - -"Hey, he looks familiar." - -"That's Darius McLeod, stupid. Familiar, the man says. They probably -caught him and froze him." - -A beam sucked the sleep from McLeod's limbs and he was soon massaging -his arms together. After two freezes in as many evenings, he'd really -have a parabeam hangover in the morning. - -"What about those three people, Mr. McLeod?" the man who had unfroze -him asked. - -"A natural," the other one said. "Here's our accident. Assault and -robbery and accidental death. We even have the assailants. Strip these -people of their _World_ identification. I'll be right back--with the -mayor." - - * * * * * - -Newshounds might trick and maim and kill one another, McLeod knew, but -never frame other newspapermen for civil crime. You had to keep the -public happy with all newspaper people. The police, of course, never -investigated very thoroughly these days, since that would be poaching -on newspaper territory. They handled traffic very well, though. - -There was a commotion in front of the mayor's house, where only one -of the gunmen was visible. Presently the door opened. There was loud -talking, much pointing. The gunman's voice was pleading, the mayor's -was indignant. Finally, the mayor ducked inside and McLeod hoped he -would stay there. Soon he emerged, however, dressed in a jumper. He ran -along at the heels of the gunman and neared McLeod just as the other -man had finished removing identification cards from the three still -figures. - -"McLeod, is that you? I knew I could depend on you. You have no idea -how much better I'm able to relax now. No, sir. If you said I don't -have to worry, I don't have to. What's going on out here? He said you -wanted to see me but couldn't move from the spot. Something I can do? -What's wrong with them?" - -There were not three figures in the snow, but four. "Take a look," the -man with Mayor Spurgess said. - -The mayor waited for McLeod to answer him, then shrugged and crouched. -It was exactly as if he were still under the parabeam, McLeod realized. -There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. - -The _Star-Times_ gunmen had sized up the situation too well. The three -men from the _World_ were as good as dead now, which would make it -close to impossible for McLeod to turn on the _Star-Times_ and expect -help from Wainwright, even if that were what he wanted. He had better -play along. It was still a show on television and he could only watch. -But now he knew the outcome. - -The fourth still figure on the snow suddenly erupted into violent -motion. A leg snaked out, an arm--the mayor grunted and fell, staring -mutely at McLeod, surprised, offended and outrageously indignant the -moment before he died. A knife flashed quickly, expertly, gleaming for -a split second before it disappeared through the mayor's jumper. - -The standing gunman twirled his parabeam to full intensity and sprayed -the _World_ men with what was now lethal radiation, halting involuntary -actions such as blinking--and breathing. - -The gunman smiled at McLeod. "Well, you have your story now. We'd -better get out of here while you phone for the police." - -McLeod had his story, all right. He felt sick. He would call the police -and then go write his story about how Mayor Spurgess had chased three -unidentified vandals from his house, only to be stabbed to death while -protecting his family. McLeod who was visiting the mayor on business, -had naturally joined in the chase, in time to overtake and kill the -unidentified vandals but not in time to save His Honor's life. - -The police investigation, if any, would fail to uncover anything. - -"Thanks a lot," McLeod said. - -"Don't mention it." The two gunmen ran to join their companions and -soon disappeared through the snow. - -In tomorrow's _Star-Times_, McLeod would be a hero. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -"Enough snow for you?" Overman asked jovially as McLeod removed his -jumper the next morning in his office at the _Star-Times_. "We're ready -to stop it now because the _World_ weather bureau finally owned up to -its red face. Thirty-two inches." - -McLeod nodded. He'd had trouble reaching the slidewalk through the -drifts and more trouble struggling through the few yards of high-piled -snow to the _Star-Times_ building. - -"Rewrite showed me the story you sent in last night, Darius. Wonderful. -Someone over at the _World_ must be biting his fingernails. They've got -to be ready for split second changes in the newspaper business, though. -If they don't, they're lost." - -"What's that little bit of homely philosophy leading up to?" McLeod -wanted to know. Overman rarely made his point without prefacing it with -some mundane generalization. The more important the point, McLeod knew -from experience, the triter the generalization. - -"We've done a little G-2'ing these last few weeks, Darius." Overman -seemed almost on the point of prancing nervously like an anxious -racehorse at the starting gate. "I couldn't tell you until it was -certain. Harry Crippens is a member of the Anti-Newspaper League." -Overman grinned like a yawning owl. "Close your mouth, Darius. Stop -gaping. It's the truth." - -"But that doesn't make sense, chief." McLeod figured it made very good -sense if Overman said so, but he needed time to collect his thoughts. - -"Dirty doings at the _Star-Times_," preached Overman. "It's -frightening, isn't it? If you can't trust your fellow reporters, just -who in the world can you trust? You see, it's not merely Crippens. -There's an Anti-News cell here. - -"They usually work in pairs, Darius. One to get the information, -another to see that editorial policy is not carried out. Don't ask -me why they do it. Mis-guided anarchistic tendencies, I suppose. The -first member of the pair very often poses as a turncoat with some -other newspaper." - -"I don't get you." - -"It's simple. That way, he can play two papers against each other -and try to make them both wrong. In this case, _she_ can. You see, -Crippens' confederate is our number one co-respondent, Tracy Kent," -Overman finished melodramatically. - -"Tracy! That's incredible." _Don't think_, McLeod told himself. _Don't -think and let it show on your face. Just listen._ - -"At this moment, the _World_ believes Kent is on their payroll. -Kent keeps them informed of what's going on over here and draws two -salaries. Crippens is her executioner. Crippens, for example, sees to -it that Congressman Horner doesn't commit suicide." - - * * * * * - -Tracy had put two and two together with a blithe ease which had left -McLeod wondering. Tracy had seemed to be aware of the alternative -which Weaver Wainwright had offered him at the Fourth Estate. But -Tracy hadn't balked because she was a loyal member of the _Star-Times_ -staff. She should have favored the plan, anyway, since it meant saving -Crippens' life. But she hadn't favored it at all. - -Because she'd held out hope for McLeod? - -"How did you find all that out?" McLeod demanded. - -"We suspected someone. We didn't know who. We planted television -receivers and let them talk. Darius, I think you know my position. -I'm a newspaperman because I think the public is so muddle-headed and -mediocre it can't make its own decisions. Democratic governments try -to make those decisions and fail because the people play too large a -role and mess things up. Totalitarian governments fail because they're -too obvious, especially when the guy next door happens to live in a -democracy. - -"The answer is the obvious evolution of the newspaper to policy-making -journalism. People don't associate us with policy-making any more than -they think short story writers or television script writers develop -schools of psychology. We're both before the fact and after the fact, -but they wouldn't believe that if we ran it in banner headlines. - -"That's what the Anti-Newspaper League is after. They don't want us to -look forward. They don't want us to predict the future and then make it -happen. They make inane pronouncements about the essential dignity of -man and the necessity for him to work out his own destiny. They sneer -at Ortega y Gasset and deify Tom Paine. They shun authoritarianism in -any form and blandly forget that Mr. Average Citizen has always yearned -for his little niche in a totalitarian system because he actually wants -decisions rained down on him like manna. - -"I hate them, Darius. It isn't logical, but I hate them. Between you -and me, I would like to strangle them with my bare hands, slowly, -forgetting I am a civilized man, forgetting even that we can still use -them. But the opportunity is a magnificent one. You could spend all -your life G-2'ing after Anti-News people and come up with nothing but -wrongos. From now on they'll be playing their little game where I can -watch it." - -"What about my obituary?" McLeod demanded. "It's the first of the week. -I thought you said we were going to substitute Crippens for me." - -"I did. I still do. Cripp we will have to sacrifice. But--I apologize -in advance, Darius, because I know you won't like this--our G-2'ing was -thorough. We received in your apartment, too." - -"Don't tell me you can't trust me?" - -"Calm down. That's just it, I can. The cell is spread thin at the -_Star-Times_, so thin that we'll have to watch our step until it's -uncovered. You see, Darius, you are going to take Crippens' place -in it. When Cripp dies Tracy will turn to someone for sympathy. If -it looks like you tried to save Cripp because you believed as he -did--well, I'm sure you see the possibilities." - - * * * * * - -McLeod nodded vaguely. Anti-News. He was playing the game, almost, the -way he felt. But he lacked the name. It was strange how you could amble -cheerfully through life accepting or ignoring certain things until -you woke up one morning and everything looked different. Whoever had -decided leopards don't change their spots was all wet. - -"... sorry if this sounds cloak-and-daggerish," Overman was saying, -"but don't tell anyone. I can trust you. If the conspiracy is as big -as I think, the good people at the _World_, the sensible ones, can -probably trust a man like Weaver Wainwright. The rest must be suspect." - -McLeod grinned. "Why trust me, chief?" he said easily, "I've never been -a bug for ideology either way." - -"That's precisely why. Newspapering is a job with you, but a good one. -You're our highest-paid reporter. You have a reputation to maintain. A -man gets muddle-headed if he starts delving too deeply into ideologies. -He's afraid to see black-and-white because the other muddle-heads -insist there are such things as grays. You follow?" - -"Yeah," said McLeod. He followed, all right. It was all right if you -thought for yourself, according to Overman, provided you didn't think -too hard. You could attend all the high-brow confabs you wanted, safe -in the security of your tailor-made answers. Never doubt. Never guess. -You know. You just know. This is so and this is not so and there's -never any in-between. The insistence on shadings of opinion between -truth and error was a stumbling-block in the path of knowledge. Gray -was for people who didn't know the truth about black-and-white. - -"Yes, I can trust you. Thank God for that." - -"I ought to get a raise," said McLeod, smiling and playing the role -Overman had selected for him. - -"Very funny. You ought to get a move on. We still have to worry about -Wainwright and his men. There's no telling when they'll strike." - -"So I have to strike first, at Crippens." - -"Naturally. Have you filled out an application on him?" - -"No," McLeod said easily, and raised a hand for silence when Overman -was about to start yelling. "It's too important. I want to do the job -myself. It's my life we're playing around with." - -"I don't know if I approve. There's something to be said for -professional efficiency. The gunmen know their work." - -"I don't care if you approve or not. It's my life." - -"You see, Darius. That's what I like about you. You always know where -you stand." - -"Thanks. I'll need some security, though." - -"Now I don't follow you." - -"Some bargaining power. In case I'm not as efficient as your gunmen. -The proof that Tracy Kent and Harry Crippens are Anti-Newspaper." - -"It's safe." - -"I've got to know more about it." - -"On the contrary. Simply carry this weapon with you: if there's -trouble, have them contact me. Or contact me yourself. But that would -ruin everything, Darius. I suppose if you have to bargain for your -life, you wouldn't care." - -"That's right. I wouldn't." - -Overman chuckled. "You're a good man." - -"And one who knows black from white, remember? Let's be honest with -each other, chief. You're lying to me. You really figure if I fail, I -fail. You wouldn't be willing to bargain in my behalf with what you -have, and you know it. If I can kill Crippens and give Wainwright his -substitute story and win Miss Kent's confidence, you'd love it. If I -can't, you'll try to find another way. Sure, you think I'm good. But -you know I'm expendable." - -Overman thumped him soundly on the back. "Darius, we should have been -brothers. Is there anything else?" - -"Yes. How long would you want me to play this Anti-News game?" - -"Until we get all the facts." - -"Too dangerous," said McLeod. "Unless you make it worth my while." - -Overman hadn't stopped grinning. "Maybe you will get a raise, at that." - -"Not maybe. Definitely. Twenty per cent." - -"Twenty?" - -"Twenty." - -"All right, Darius. Twenty it is. You'd sell your mother, wouldn't you?" - -"Don't have to worry about it. The Anti-Newspaper League hasn't that -kind of money. You're safe." - -"I knew it," Overman said. "I couldn't have picked a better man." - -"I'll keep you informed," said McLeod, and put on his jumper. He walked -out congratulating himself on the way he'd convinced Overman. - -Only trouble was, he now knew there was more than black-and-white in -the world but wasn't sure he knew what to do about it. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -"I'm sorry," the recorder said when McLeod called Tracy's apartment. -"Miss Kent is not at home. Is there any message?" - -"No," said McLeod, then lied: "This is Harry Crippens talking." - -"Miss Kent left a message for you, Mr. Crippens," said the recorder. -"She will wait for you at the Fourth Estate. She says it is important." - -"Thank you," said McLeod. "If Miss Kent should check in, will you tell -her Darius wants to save Cripp's life if he can? Will you tell her -Darius has come to his senses?" - -"Darius wants to save Cripp's life if he can. Darius has come to his -senses. Yes, sir." - -McLeod had left the _Star-Times_ after a hurried lunch in the newspaper -cafeteria. He'd placed the call to Tracy's apartment from his own -because the wires might or might not be tapped in his office. - -Suddenly he began cursing silently. - -Overman had rigged receivers in various apartments--including -Darius'--to uncover the Anti-News cell. If Overman had heard his -conversation with Tracy's recorder, Weaver Wainwright wouldn't be the -only one gunning for McLeod. - -He found the receiver rigged to his TV set, unhooked it, but the damage -had been done. He doubted that Overman would constantly monitor the -set, yet Overman would see the damning evidence eventually. McLeod -could save Cripp's life by simply not killing him, but then what? He -smiled grimly. It posed a considerable problem for Overman too, for the -City Editor wanted to dump a fat wrongo in the _World's_ lap but -now would also want to see McLeod dead. One seemed to preclude the -other ... unless Overman decided to give McLeod a week of grace, then -kill him. McLeod was still smiling. Perhaps the situation confronting -the fictional lady-or-tiger man had been more aggravating, but it was -less deadly. - -McLeod taped a second parabeam to his right arm and took the escalator -to the roof and his copter. - - * * * * * - -"Hi," the weaponcheck girl greeted him as he entered the Fourth Estate. -"How are you today, Mr. McLeod?" - -"Never better." As she approached him, McLeod removed the first -parabeam from his trick sleeve and handed it to her. "I'm ticklish -today," he told her and saw that she was about to say something until -she noticed the folded bill wedged between trigger and trigger guard. -She nodded, patted his shoulders quickly without searching, and wagged -away. It happened all the time, McLeod knew. He wouldn't be the only -one. - -"You hurry up inside," the weaponcheck girl called over her bare -shoulder. "They're doing a combo-tease." - -As McLeod made his way through the darkened room, he saw a well-built -man and a delightfully built women performing the combo-tease on stage. -Sweat glistened on their sleek dark skins as red lights shifted and -flowed across the stage. It was more suggestive than French pictures, -combining features of an Apache dance and a conventional strip. It had -been outlawed everywhere but at the Fourth Estate and had everyone's -rapt attention. - -Everyone except Cripp and Tracy. McLeod found them in a distant corner -of the great room, hunched toward each other across a small table and -talking in low tones. - -"Mind?" McLeod asked. - -"You have your nerve," Tracy hissed at him, but people to left and -right were muttering angrily at them as the combo-tease neared its -conclusion. "Well, I guess you're harmless enough in here." - -"Sit down," Cripp said. - -"Overman knows about you two," McLeod told them quickly. "The works." - -"You mean that we're going to get married?" Tracy demanded. "It's no -secret." - -"I mean that you belong to the Anti-Newspaper League. Tracy, you're -pretending to spy on us for the _World_, he knows that, Cripp, you -thwart bad news when you can. You both belong to the Anti-Newspaper -League. To Overman, you're both anarchistic. He'd like to see you dead." - -The woman on stage had seemed spent but now rallied and held her own as -they danced a frenzied Apache battle from wing to wing. Tracy, who was -facing the stage, said, "That's positively lewd. We've all degenerated -so much, Cripp." - -McLeod shrugged. "Overman would say that's part of your Anti-News -tendencies." - -"And you?" - -McLeod grinned. "I'm not much for spectator sports." - -"No, I mean about the Anti-Newspaper League. I'm not admitting -anything, but I just wonder what you think." - -"You wouldn't believe me." - -"Why don't you try us, Darius?" Cripp suggested. - -"You don't have to admit anything," McLeod informed them. "Overman -plugged a receiver into your TV sets and monitored them. Mine too, by -the way. I called you a while ago. Which put me in hot water too." - -"You mean he'll monitor the call?" asked Cripp. - -"Maybe he already has. You can check with your recorder if you want to, -Tracy." - -"Tell me what you told the recorder?" - -"That I was going to try and save Cripp's life. That I had finally come -to my senses, I guess." - -"All you have to do to save Cripp's life is nothing. I was told by -someone on Lantrel's staff that you hadn't applied for Cripp's death." - -"Another part of the cell," McLeod mused. "Just how extensive is it?" - -"I wouldn't know," Tracy told him coolly. "Anyway, you said Overman -knows." - -"He does. I don't." - - * * * * * - -The Apache strippers had leaped from the stage and now were cavorting -acrobatically about the dance floor. A single red spot followed them -as they pounced after each other, working their way toward the rows of -tables and then among them. McLeod heard quick, eager breathing in the -shadowy audience. - -"I never knew they came off the stage," Tracy said. - -McLeod winked at her. "Maybe one of these days they'll want audience -participation." - -"Very funny. If you're telling us the truth, Darius, what are you going -to do?" - -"You tell me. Overman wanted me to kill Cripp, win your confidence and -take Cripp's place in the cell. I had to make it look like it wasn't -me who did the job. But if Overman monitored my TV, he'll realize I'm -not his boy. He'll have to do without an informant. He knows I'm wise -to him but probably doesn't want to know. Which means he'll have to act -fast." - -"But if he eliminates you, Wainwright and the _World_ get their -scoop," Cripp pointed out. - -"I know, I can't figure it. Overman's got a man-sized problem, but so -have you. I don't think you have much time to leave the city. Get lost -somewhere. Change your names. Anything." - -Tracy bristled. "We haven't admitted a thing." - -"There's no time for that. Please, Tracy," Cripp pleaded. "I think -Darius is on our side. We're making a mistake if we reject him." - -"Unless I'm wrong," McLeod said, "Overman hasn't told anyone but me. He -just doesn't know who to trust." - -"So he settles for Mr. Judas Iscariot himself," Tracy said. - -Cripp slammed his hand down on the table and drew angry oaths from the -tables around them. "Cut it out," he said. "Let's listen to Darius. Can -you think of anything else to do?" - -"Well--" - -"If I'm the only one he told," McLeod went on, "and then if he found -out about me and decided to come here in a hurry, we can hope he hasn't -told anyone else. Chances are, he hasn't. If he found out he can't even -trust me, he won't know which way to turn, not until he clears this -whole mess up." - -"What are you driving at?" Tracy asked him. - -"Reporter, City Editor. It's close enough. Maybe Wainwright can still -get his story." - -"You mean Overman? You wouldn't dare." - -"It isn't just Cripp's life, or even yours, if you still have your mind -made up about me. It's my life too. If we can make Wainwright settle -for Overman, all this doesn't have to go any further." - -"What's your price?" Tracy demanded. - -"For Heaven's sake!" Cripp cried. - -"I can't blame her, Cripp. I was pretty nasty about it before, and I -tried to be pretty tricky as well. I'm still all mixed up. I think I -know where I stand now but I can't guarantee anything." - -"You mean after all this is over you're liable to change your mind -again?" Tracy asked him, giving Cripp an I-told-you-so smile. - -"No. Definitely not. At worst, I'll be neutral. At best--" - -"At best," Cripp finished for him enthusiastically, "you'll probably -be made City Editor in Overman's place. You're the obvious man for the -job, and if you could see your way clear to joining us, there's no -telling what we might accomplish. Don't you see it, Tracy?" - -"All I can see is the combo-tease. They'll be dancing on our table if -they come any closer." - - * * * * * - -The team struggled three tables away to a subtle, wild, barely -audible rhythm. The man had regained the offensive, but it had cost -him everything he wore except for a pair of tight trousers and one -billowing, ruffled sleeve which flapped ridiculously from shoulder to -wrist. - -At the last moment, McLeod thought he saw a leather strap under the -sleeve. The couple had reached their table; the man forced the woman -back over it, still dancing. The red spotlight winked out like a -snuffed candle flame. - -Tracy screamed. - -The audience had interpreted the darkness and Tracy's scream as the -act's final, breath-taking garnish and now buzzed in isolated knots of -whispered excitement before the applause rolled deafeningly across the -room. - -McLeod leaped to his feet, groping blindly in the darkness with his -hands. He heard Cripp shout Tracy's name and began to yell himself -for someone to turn on the lights. Something struck his head above -and behind the right ear and he felt himself falling to his knees. He -grabbed at air, then made contact with two bare legs. Still yelling, -he guessed it was the woman--then felt unseen hands tugging at his -hair, fingers raking his face. He got up and was grappling with a -supple-swift invisible opponent when the lights went on and blinded him. - -There were shouts and restraining arms and when he could see again the -woman dancer, now almost naked, was pointing an accusing finger at him. -"He deliberately attacked me!" she wailed. - -McLeod wiped blood from his face and said, "That's crazy." These were -more than combo-strippers, he knew. They might be in Wainwright's -pay or Overman's. Either way, he was in for it. "They're a couple of -gunmen," he said. - -The male dancer was covering Tracy and Cripp with his parabeam, which -had been hidden under the flapping right sleeve. "See?" McLeod said to -the circle of people around them. "He's armed." - -The crowd parted to admit the weaponcheck girl to its center. With a -quick, deft movement she found McLeod's second parabeam, withdrew it -and told him, "So are you." - -More figures joined them, in police uniforms, the polished leather -harness for twin parabeams creaking on each pair of hips, the gaudy -blue and gold uniforms starched stiffly. "You're under arrest," one of -them told McLeod. "You'll have to come with us." - -"You're no more police than I am. Since when do police do anything more -than direct traffic?" - -"You'll have to come with us, sir." - -"And then get killed trying to escape? Keep your hands off me." - -At that moment, Weaver Wainwright made his way inside the wide circle -of onlookers, his long sad nose drooping over his upper lip as he -smiled at McLeod. "When our police reporter said it was you, I rushed -right over." - -"Sure," McLeod said bitterly. "Police reporter. Why don't you admit -these people are a bunch of your killers? You've really tailor-made -your accident this time, Wainwright. I guess I'll be killed trying to -escape." - -Wainwright regarded him with bland curiosity. "What I want to know is -why you attacked the girl." - -"He didn't attack her," Tracy said. "I was right here." - -"In pitch darkness," the weaponcheck girl reminded her. Apparently -McLeod's bribe had been topped. - - * * * * * - -McLeod let his eyes scan the crowd, seeking a friendly face. Here were -the minor luminaries of the fourth estate gazing upon their fallen -idol. For McLeod, like Weaver Wainwright, had been almost a legendary -figure. But Wainwright had engineered the fall and now, like those -South American fish which can strip the flesh from a man in seconds, -they clustered about McLeod's social corpse. They sensed his demise as -surely as if it had been something physical. They waited with avid eyes -at the bottom of the ladder for him to fall. Then each figure would -ascend one rung upward and so, each with his own capable hands and -thinkwriter, control human history a little more. - -If only he could somehow contact Overman, McLeod thought. How much time -did he have? He wasn't sure but thought it could be measured in minutes. - -"I'd like to call my City Editor," McLeod said. - -Wainwright chuckled. "A good reporter to the last. But I see Crippens -and Miss Kent here." - -"It's my right." - -"The _Star-Times_ will get its story. Won't you see to that, Mr. -Crippens?" - -McLeod stared mutely at Cripp, who finally said, "How do you know _I_ -didn't attack the woman?" - -The stripper pouted and pointed a manicured finger at McLeod. "It was -that man." - -"You see?" Wainwright demanded. - -"No," Cripp told him. "It was dark. She couldn't tell. If McLeod is -arrested, they'll have to take me, too." - -A muscle twitched in Wainwright's face, tugging the long nose down -and to the left. "Very well. But Miss Kent still represents the -_Star-Times_." - -Cripp shook his head. "A co-respondent?" - -"She's capable." - -"Too damned capable," McLeod said. "I have positive proof that Tracy -Kent is employed as a spy by the _World_." He turned on Wainwright with -what he hoped would pass for righteous indignation. "Is that the kind -of fair break you try to give the opposition?" - -The encircling crowd stirred, trembling with whispers. McLeod pressed -his advantage by jabbing a finger at the captain of police. "I demand -the right to call my newspaper." - -"Well, I don't know." The man looked to Wainwright for help. - -"Never mind him," McLeod said. "You tell me. I'm within my rights as a -newspaperman, or wouldn't you know about that?" - -Someone brought out a portable phone and thrust it at McLeod. The -captain of police looked at Wainwright, who shook his head quickly from -side to side. It was all right. Sure it was all right. McLeod could -make no accusations in public, the law said. If he started, he would -forfeit his right to complete the call. He could tell Overman that -Tracy and Cripp had him, instead, but he doubted if the City Editor -would act on that basis. - -Wainwright grinned. "There's your phone, McLeod. We're waiting for you -to call." - -"Thanks a lot," McLeod told him, and hurled the instrument at his face. - -He heard a thud and a startled oath and didn't wait to see the results. -He whirled and struck out with the edge of his hand, slicing it -expertly at the police captain's Adam's Apple. McLeod vaulted over the -gagging man as he went down and plunged, head tucked against his chest -and knees kicking high, into the first rank of the crowd. He fought -elbows, fists, shoulders, legs, warm human breaths, reaching the front -of the room and sprinting past the weaponcheck arsenal and out into the -green, summery glade that surrounded the anachronism of stone and glass -that was the Fourth Estate. - - * * * * * - -Protected by a force field, the grounds around the Estate knew nothing -but summer. But elsewhere, McLeod thought as he plunged on toward the -copter field, man's control over the elements vied for headlines. - -McLeod saw the figure of a man up ahead as he rounded the final turn -in the path, still sprinting. The man stood squarely in front of him, -blocking his way with a drawn parabeam. - -"Did he come this way?" McLeod cried. "Talk, man! Did McLeod come this -way?" - -"No, sir. He, wait a minute...." - -But McLeod was upon him, using the same judo-cut that had floored the -captain of police. McLeod wrenched the parabeam from the man's fingers -as he fell, then found his copter and was airborne by the time the -vanguard of his pursuers appeared as tiny dots on the field below. - -Less than an hour later, McLeod landed on the roof of the _Star-Times_ -building, where a slowly circling plow was scooping up the snow, -digesting it and spitting out great jets of steam. McLeod doubled the -speed of the escalator with his own flying feet and was soon striding -across the City Room, nodding briefly to the sychophantic waves and -smiles which greeted him as the _Star-Times'_ ace reporter. - -"Chief," he said, entering Overman's glass-walled office without -bothering to knock, "the wolves are after your fair-haired boy--but -good!" - -"Wainwright?" Overman guessed, drumming nervous fingers on his desk. - -"Wainwright. Something about attacking the female member of a combo -tease. If his police ever had a chance to take me, I'd have been killed -trying to get away." - -"So, what happened?" - -"What happened, the man says. They're probably on their way here right -now. In order for me to get away, Cripp had to claim he attacked the -girl too." - -"That's wonderful. Doesn't that take care of Mr. Crippens for us? -Well, doesn't it? Incidentally, that was a stroke of genius on your -part, telling Tracy Kent you had a change of heart _before_ anything -happened. Paving the way, eh?" - -"Something like that," McLeod mumbled. Then Overman had monitored his -call to Tracy's apartment, but had misinterpreted what he heard-- - -"Sit down, Darius. There. Are you armed?" - -"Yes, but you don't think they'd try to take me right here, do you? -That would be an open declaration of war." McLeod took out the parabeam -and placed it on the edge of Overman's desk. - -"It would be war--unless I surrendered you to them." Overman scooped -up the parabeam and thumbled it to high intensity. "At first I thought -that was a stroke of genius on your part, but I wasn't sure. So I -had you followed. Your conversation with Crippens and Tracy Kent was -ingenius, all right. But it puts us on opposite sides now, doesn't it?" - -McLeod had never seen Overman so calm. His fingers no longer drummed -their incessant rhythm on the desk, his legs were still. He sat -motionless, like a tri-di picture of himself. McLeod said, "Not at all. -I only wanted to gain their confidence." - -"The one thing that bothers me is this: it looks like I'm going to give -Weaver Wainwright his story after all, although there's a chance I -can save something for the _Star-Times_. I suspect he'll take you off -somewhere and have you killed, but the moment he leaves this office -with you, you'll be denounced in the _Star-Times_. Wainwright won't be -killing a top reporter. He'll be killing a member of the Anti-Newspaper -League." - -"You're crazy," McLeod said. "It might have sounded bad, but it was -all part of the same thing. I wanted to gain their confidence and--" - -"And offer me in your place to Wainwright's hatchetmen? That's -interesting." - -"I was lying to them." - -"No. You're lying to me. I'll tell you this, Darius. It comes as -a great disappointment. Suddenly, all at once, a man finds his -organization is riddled with subversives. That's bad enough, but at -least he has one man he can trust. He thinks. He thinks, Darius. But -he's wrong there, too. Now he can trust no one. Perhaps he'll have to -fire his entire staff and start from the beginning again. But it's the -one man, the Judas, who hurts most. Even if Wainwright gets you and -gets his story--and I get mine--I'll never be able to trust anyone -again. Don't you see the position you've put me in? I'm a lonely man, -Darius." - - * * * * * - -McLeod stood up and leaned across the desk. "We've both been playing -God all our lives. What do you think happens when a God loses his -worshippers?" - -"I haven't lost them. Just the acolytes. There are others." - -"There are the people," McLeod said. "Waiting for the medical cures -we promise them but never give. The farmers, praying to their own God -while we ruin their crops capriciously to scoop the _World_. The dead -citizens of a dozen bombed out cities in a dozen unnecessary wars. The -people who haven't read Ortega y Gasset and maybe never even heard -of him and can't be convinced they're too stupid to seek their own -destinies." - -"Ortega was right. Mass man can't discriminate. He's incapable of -logical, creative thought. He blunders from catastrophe to catastrophe -and grovels at the feet of demagogues." - -"He can't be herded and led to slaughter." - -"He can't be the master of his own fate, you fool!" - -"Perhaps not. But there are people who can create, who can lead. People -who pave the way and let the masses follow where they lead." - -"What do you think we do? We pave the way. We make the future." - -"There's a difference." - -"I can't see it." - -"You don't want to. The truly creative man merely does his work. The -masses will follow of their own free will. Maybe they'll follow the -wrong leader as often as not, but we've still come a long way in a few -thousand years. It's wrong if they're led, or pushed, or tricked or--" - -"Sit down, Darius. Don't move. The trouble with you anti-news people -is you're too romantic. You think because God or Nature created man at -the top of the evolutionary ladder, man is good, man can do nothing but -move forward in the long run. You think it's a mistake for one man--or -a group of men, or an institution--to channel that movement. - -"But of all the institutions in man's civilization, the newspaper is -the most logical one for the job. We inform, Darius. We are the essence -of life. Life perceives and, after perceiving transmits information. Or -builds machines to do the job. Sensation, perception, information--the -same thing. We're at the top. We belong here." - -"Perception should be objective, un-colored. But there's no sense -talking to you." - -"Perception is never objective, my dear Darius. An individual -perceives. Some men are tone-deaf, others color-blind. We all taste -the same foods, liking some and disliking others. I say the newspaper -belongs on the top like this. I say our creation of news is no -different from the hundred varied opinions of a hundred members of -the rabble. Unless it's better. We're a cohesive force, Darius. We -simplify. We unite." - -"You hamper and destroy." - -"We don't rule by force. Have they ever tried to overthrow us? Have -they? You see, they don't dislike us. They have faith in us. They can -grow roots and feel secure. They don't have a myriad of possibilities -confronting them. They have only two on any given subject, except in -purely local situations which we don't consider important. Either the -_Star-Times_ is right, or the _World_ is." - -"Why are you telling me all this?" - -"It's very important to me. I believed in you, Darius. I still think -you've made a mistake. While it's too late now--you see, we can't -really control _all_ events, can we?--I would like to hear you admit -your mistake. I can never trust anyone again." - -"If I admit it?" - -"I'll thank you...." - -"And hand me over to Weaver Wainwright?" - -"And hand you over to Weaver Wainwright." - - * * * * * - -There was a disturbance outside, the sound of running feet in the City -Room, of many voices. Overman cocked his head to one side, listening -to the tiny receiver in his ear then picking up his microphone hose -and saying, "In a moment. That's right, I said let them in. But give me -five minutes." He dropped the hose. "They're here for you, Darius." - -"I gathered." - -"Would you make a man who once was your friend happy before you go? -Just tell me you were wrong. Tell me if you had your way over again -you would remain loyal to me even if you were confronted with the same -faulty philosophical notions." - -"At the point of a parabeam? What good would it do?" - -"Forget the parabeam. I'm two people now. I'm guarding you and I'll -kill you if you come any closer to me, but I'm also pleading with you. -I'm asking you to give me my salvation." - -"I wonder which one is stronger," McLeod said, standing again and -leaning across the desk. "Why does it mean so much to you, chief? Let -me tell you. Is it because you have doubts yourself and want me to -resolve them for you?" - -"Keep back, I'm warning you. That isn't it at all. You've made me lose -my faith in people." - -"I thought you didn't have any." - -"In a few people. Please, Darius. Don't come any closer. A man has to -trust someone." - -"You can't do anything about your doubts. You're hoping I can." - -"I'm going to kill you if you come any closer." Overman was still -standing like a statue, the parabeam an extension of his right hand. -It was as if he would never move again unless McLeod freed him with a -word. It was as if the heart too had stopped its beating and only the -lips were alive, the pleading lips, begging for a reprieve. - -McLeod leaped across the desk, his middle slamming down on the hard -surface, his diaphragm squeezing all the air from his lungs. His -fingers closed on Overman's wrist and forced it back as the parabeam -hissed from his cheek. - -Now the lips were still. Now the muscles which had remained so inert -for many moments were writhing with activity, each individual cell -adding its strength to the whole, to the wiry arms, the thin legs, -the twisting, heaving torso. The only sound was the harsh rasping of -Overman's breath as they grappled, tumbling over and over, rolling -across the floor. - -The parabeam was between them, separating their chests. Overman butted -with his head, bit, gouged, used his knees and elbows while he held -the weapon. The lungs filled with air--McLeod could feel the torso -lifting, the rib-cage expanding. The mouth opened to scream for help.... - -McLeod got a hand over it, felt teeth clamp on his fingers, very white, -very sharp. The mouth opened again as McLeod rolled suddenly clear to -avoid an up-thrusting knee. - -Knee hit elbow and hand tightened convulsively. The parabeam hissed -against Overman's chest and up, bathing his chin and face and the lips -which, instead of screaming, formed the words "tell me" and then closed -slowly. Afterwards, McLeod always thought Overman's ears must have -retained their sentience longest as the man died, waiting for an answer -which would never come. - -The door opened. People stood around, looking down at them. Wainwright. -The phony police. Tracy and Cripp. Some _Star-Times_ security agents. - -McLeod stood up slowly, his own muscles twitching. He looked at -Wainwright, then pointed to Overman's body on the floor and said, -"There's your story. You were modest in your prediction. Not a -reporter, but the City Editor. Dead. And listen to me, Wainwright. It's -the only story you'll ever get. Try anything else and there'll be open -war between our papers. You understand?" - -Wainwright considered, head down, arms folded in front of him, long -nose hiding lips from that angle. "They'll probably make you City -Editor," he mused. "I'll take the story. You're in the clear, McLeod." - -"I want to be exonerated from that false charge." - -But Wainwright shook his head. "Do it yourself. You have a newspaper, -too. Incidentally, how did Overman die?" - -"Say he was looking for something, something important--so important -that when he couldn't find it he killed himself." - -"That's no story." - -"It's a story," said McLeod, "We can make it a story." - - * * * * * - -"There are hundreds of us," Tracy said later. "All over the country. -All over the world. We're badly organized. We need organization. You're -in a position to give it to us." - -"Not overtly," Cripp warned. "But under cover at the beginning, until -we build up strength. We'll have to re-indoctrinate young reporters and -then forget about indoctrination when we can. We'll be fighting a war -all our lives." - -"Men like Overman and Wainwright are the alternatives," McLeod said. -"I think even Overman knew, at the end, that he was wrong. But it went -against everything he ever thought or believed. I almost could have -been another Overman." - -"You're not," Tracy said. "You just had to be goosed." - -"It's going to be interesting," McLeod told them. "We'll still predict. -To stay in business, we'll have to predict, at least to start with. -But we'll give our scientists and social workers a free hand, and our -predictions will all be practical. Do you realize there hasn't been a -substantial scientific discovery put to use in the last fifty years?" - -Cripp seemed worried. "Their approach is more sensational. They'll draw -the readers. But we have to--to stay in business." - -"That was your trouble all along," McLeod said. "You were a bunch of -snipers. I think you're wrong. What's not sensational about a trip to -the moon or a cure for cancer or controlled weather that actually helps -the farmers or campaigning for the better man in an election because he -truly has something to offer? We're liable to put the _World_ right out -of business." - -"We can try," said Tracy, smiling. - -"Not you, young lady. No more co-respondents. How would you like to be -a bonafide social worker?" - -But Tracy squeezed Cripp's hand and said, "No, thank you. I'd rather be -a housewife." - -McLeod thought he'd have to settle for loving both of them like a -brother--then realized he'd be too busy to do anything of the sort. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEWSHOUND *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Newshound</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Milton Lesser</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 2, 2021 [eBook #66648]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEWSHOUND ***</div> - -<div class="titlepage"> - -<div class="figcenter x-ebookmaker-drop"> - <img src="images/illusc.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h1>NEWSHOUND</h1> - -<h2>By Milton Lesser</h2> - -<p>The Fourth Estate was highly specialized<br /> -in the 22nd Century; for example, a good newsman<br /> -predicted coming events—and made them happen....</p> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy<br /> -July 1955<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Darius McLeod leaned back comfortably and watched the mayor sweat.</p> - -<p>His Honor popped a phenobarb tablet between his lips, tossing his head -and gulping the pill down without water. His moist, nervous hands left -their wet imprint on the desk top when he reached into his breast -pocket and withdrew a clipping from the morning's <i>New York World</i>.</p> - -<p>"You people elected me, McLeod," he said. "Now get me out of this mess."</p> - -<p>"We merely supported your candidacy, Your Honor," McLeod said easily. -"But let's see what you got there."</p> - -<p>"It amounts to the same thing," the mayor pleaded. "For God's sake, -give me a break."</p> - -<p>McLeod shrugged and unfolded the <i>World</i> clipping on his desk. -"Naturally, the <i>World</i> will oppose your administration," he began. -"Otherwise they'll never be able to live down the <i>Star-Times'</i> scoop -on your election."</p> - -<p>"That's precisely what I was saying. The way I understand it, you -people will have to support your man. The <i>Star-Times</i> can't abandon me -to the wolves, not now."</p> - -<p>"I'm only a reporter," McLeod explained. "We report events, not make -them."</p> - -<p>"That's it. That's what I mean. The attitude. You're treating me like a -child."</p> - -<p>"You're acting like one."</p> - -<p>"All I want is what's fair. Whatever you think is fair."</p> - -<p>"Then let me read this thing." The column clipped from the <i>World</i> bore -the cut-line COMING EVENTS. McLeod had always liked the <i>Star-Times'</i> -LOOKING FORWARD better, although he had to admit that the <i>World's</i> cut -of a swami rubbing his crystal ball had a certain fundamental appeal -for the masses. House-written, the <i>World</i> column appeared under the -by-line of Nostradamus.</p> - -<p>McLeod scanned the printed lines quickly. There was a prediction on -the outcome of the World Series. It had better turn out incorrect, -thought McLeod: the <i>Star-Times</i> had spent a small fortune building -up the opposing team. There was something about the dangers of forest -fires and an indirect reference to the possibility of a conflagration -next week in the Adirondack Game Preserve. (The <i>Star-Times</i> would be -alerting its fire-fighting unit to prevent such a possibility, McLeod -knew.) There was a talk of an impending war between Yugoslavia and -France at a time when relations between the two countries were never -more harmonious. McLeod wondered how the <i>World</i> would ever swing it. -He read the last two items aloud.</p> - -<p>"'We think it's high time the mayor of New York be exposed for his -corrupt political dealings. We wouldn't be surprised if the mayor were -forced to resign his office in January.... What ace reporter of what -rival New York daily is going to meet with a fatal accident next week? -Remember, you read it here first!'"</p> - -<p>"January," said the mayor as Darius McLeod folded the column and lit a -cigaret. "That's next month."</p> - -<p>"They could be talking about me."</p> - -<p>"Eh? If I'm forced to resign, you'll be scooped."</p> - -<p>"Yeah, scooped," McLeod mused. "We're their chief rival. I'm the big -Huck-a-muck over here. Those dirty sons—they can get me out of the way -and scoop us at the same time. Listen, Your Honor, check back with me -later. I've got to see the City Editor."</p> - -<p>"But I'm not politically corrupt—"</p> - -<p>"We'll decide. We'll let you know," Darius McLeod shouted, already -running from his glass-walled office and through the clattering din of -the City Room, disturbing the milling knot of scribes and gunmen going -over last minute instructions from the Crime Editor, shouldering by -the line of trim, pretty co-respondents receiving their briefs from -the Society Editor, almost knocking down the Medical Editor who was -either on the point of finding a cure for the <i>World's</i> latest plague -or dreaming up one of his own, McLeod didn't remember which.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McLeod found Overman, the City Editor, perched on a corner of his desk -and barking orders into a microphone. "What do you mean, he won't jump? -We said he'd jump. Coax him. Push him if you can get away with it, I -don't care. Don't make it obvious." Overman cocked his gaunt head to -one side, listening to the receiver imbedded in his ear. He looked like -a walking ad for hyper-thyroid treatment, with bulging eyes, hollow -cheeks and fidgety limbs. He couldn't sit still and he didn't try. -"All right, we'll hold up the story. And you're the guy who asked for -a raise." Overman dropped the microphone hose back into its cubby and -looked up. "Sometimes I wonder what the hell they think a reporter -draws his salary for. What do you want, Darius?"</p> - -<p>"The <i>World's</i> gunning for me, chief."</p> - -<p>"I already saw it."</p> - -<p>"Then don't just sit there."</p> - -<p>"What do you want me to do, hold your hand? Of course the <i>World's</i> -gunning for you. Great story for them, and they also kill off our star -reporter in the process. <i>If</i> they get away with it."</p> - -<p>"Damn it!" McLeod exploded. "This is the twenty-second century. If the -<i>World</i> says I'm going to meet with a fatal accident, then my life's in -danger." McLeod winced at his own words. In a matter of minutes he had -been reduced to the mayor's level and he didn't like it.</p> - -<p>"Counter-prognostication has already taken steps, Darius. Don't go off -the deep end on me. It happens like this every time. Even a top-flight -reporter sheds his own sophistication when the story's about himself."</p> - -<p>"How do you expect me to take it?"</p> - -<p>"Just relax, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Maybe you want me to write my own obituary."</p> - -<p>"Don't try so hard to be funny. Excuse me." Overman cocked his head -again and listened, then pulled out his microphone and barked: "All -right, all right. Don't cry. We can't get them all. I'm not saying it -was your fault. Report back in."</p> - -<p>"What's the matter?" McLeod wanted to know.</p> - -<p>"Harry Crippens is the matter. Remember Congressman Horner? That story -yesterday?"</p> - -<p>McLeod recalled it vaguely. Something about Horner committing suicide -unexpectedly.</p> - -<p>"Well, he didn't jump. The <i>World's</i> Security Forces rescued him and -got a scoop. Another wrongo for us, Darius. That's the second story -Crippens bungled this month."</p> - -<p>"Maybe it wasn't Cripp's fault, chief." Crippens was a plump, owl-faced -man with big, watery eyes swimming behind concave glasses. McLeod had -always liked him. He was the grimmest, saddest, cryingest, most logical -drunk McLeod had ever met. Wonderful drinking partner.</p> - -<p>"I didn't say it was. Just thinking, though."</p> - -<p>"If psychology flubbed a dub on Horner, you can't blame Cripp."</p> - -<p>"Not what I mean. The <i>World's</i> prediction is vague, see? Who's a star -reporter? How do you single the man out? Any big by-line guy will do, -right?"</p> - -<p>"I guess so."</p> - -<p>"Crippens gets his share of by-lines, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Hey, wait a minute—"</p> - -<p>"Why spend the time protecting you next week if we don't have to? It's -expensive and not a sure thing. We'd hate to lose you, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Thank you."</p> - -<p>"But Crippens is bungling. He ought to meet the <i>World's</i> requirements. -We do the job for them the first of next week. They get their story and -we keep our number one man, alive. How does it sound?"</p> - -<p>"Rotten," McLeod said. "I'm not going to sit by and let Cripp take that -kind of rap for me. What kind of louse do you think I am, anyway?"</p> - -<p>"Let it simmer, Darius. There's no hurry. I suppose His Honor has been -around to use your crying towel?"</p> - -<p>McLeod nodded. "That's right."</p> - -<p>"I thought he would. It was your series of articles that got him -elected in the first place. You saved my life, now support me. One of -those deals. It was obvious the <i>World</i> would try to show corruption -after their own candidate lost."</p> - -<p>"Is the <i>Star-Times</i> going to protect Mayor Spurgess' record?"</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Overman jerked his head from side to side, the stretched, translucent -lids blinking over popping eyes. "It's always easier to prove -corruption than disprove it, you know that. We'd be backing the wrong -animal, Darius. I've got it figured, though."</p> - -<p>"How do you mean?"</p> - -<p>"They won't have much of a story if something violent happens to the -mayor between now and next month. I don't want to see it in LOOKING -FORWARD, though. Just make it happen and get the scoop. See? We can't -let the mayor resign. This is the surest way."</p> - -<p>"Anything particular in mind?"</p> - -<p>"It's your assignment, Darius. Whatever you do is all right with me."</p> - -<p>"That poor guy treated me like his father-image before. Well—"</p> - -<p>"You're not weakening, are you, Darius? There's no time for emotion in -this business, none at all. You've got to go out and get a story before -some other outfit changes it on you. Or you've got to make <i>their</i> -stories fail to happen. And whatever you do, you've got to keep the TV -outfits guessing. If news starts happening according to Hoyle, we're -all through. Us and the <i>World</i> and all the other newspapers wouldn't -stand a chance, not with TV right on the spot. Keep TV guessing. -Confused. Never sure. Give some crumbs to the <i>World</i>, even, if you -have to.</p> - -<p>"So there's no time for thalamic responses, Darius. Do I make myself -clear?"</p> - -<p>McLeod bristled. "You never had to give me that kind of lecture. You -think I'm a cub or something? Don't worry about Mayor Spurgess, we'll -fix him up."</p> - -<p>"Splendid. But there's something else. Crippens."</p> - -<p>"I told you how I felt about that. I don't want any part of it. Talk -about your Judas's—"</p> - -<p>"Crippens or you, Darius. The <i>World's</i> gunning. You know it."</p> - -<p>"I can't tell you what to do. But I'll warn Cripp, that's all."</p> - -<p>"That would make your own assignment rather difficult."</p> - -<p>"What assignment are you talking about?"</p> - -<p>"Crippens. The way I figure it, you have a lot at stake there. We'll -let you handle Crippens."</p> - -<p>"You're crazy!"</p> - -<p>"You are if you refuse. We won't give you a single Security man for -protection. Remember what they said in COMING EVENTS. Your one chance -is to get Crippens before they get you and then let the <i>World</i> scoop -us. I would suggest the first thing next Monday morning, but then, it's -your baby."</p> - -<p>"First Mayor Spurgess and now Crippens. Are you trying to make me a -hatchetman?"</p> - -<p>"A reporter, Darius. You've always been a good one."</p> - -<p>"But Crippens is my friend."</p> - -<p>"I wish we had another way out. Crippens has his place on the -<i>Star-Times</i>, but we thought too much of him. We don't want to lose -you, Darius. You can take that as an objective compliment and sleep -easy. Your job's secure."</p> - -<p>"Thank you very much."</p> - -<p>"Don't be bitter. A man in the newspaper business is top-dog these -days, see? I don't have to tell you. We're not passive receptors. -We control things. We make things happen. We play God, but we've got -competition. You've got to take the good with the bad, that's all. See -what I mean?" All the while they had spoken, Overman had not moved from -where he had perched his small frame on his desk, but his nervous legs -had walked miles, his scrawny, sleeve-rolled arms had waved, flapped -and gesticulated, his wide, bulging eyes had darted about the frenzied -confusion of the great room where news was created and missed nothing. -It was Overman's passion, McLeod knew, his alpha through omega. He -suddenly wished it were that simple for himself. Less than half an hour -ago, it would have been.</p> - -<p>"We'll have our obituary people compose something tender for Crippens," -Overman said. "Keep me informed, Darius."</p> - -<p>"I haven't told you I'd do it."</p> - -<p>"Whose obit would you rather see them write?"</p> - -<p>"You could protect me instead."</p> - -<p>But Overman jerked his head side to side again. "It's the same as -politics. Much simpler to make news than to prevent it. The one sure -way to protect you, provided you don't foul things up with Crippens."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't—"</p> - -<p>"One of you makes the obituary page next week. The <i>World's</i> already -seen to that. Take your choice, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Yeah ... sure."</p> - -<p>"And don't forget about Mayor Spurgess. You've got a busy time ahead of -you. Good luck."</p> - -<p>Walking back toward his own office, McLeod saw that the flow of -co-respondents had slowed to a trickle. He swore softly. The last -girl in line was Tracy Kent, a tawny-haired divorce specialist -with an admirable record. McLeod liked Tracy, but it was strictly -brother-sister stuff.</p> - -<p>Tracy was going to marry Harry Crippens.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER II</p> - - -<p>"Hey, Darius. A girl gets hungry for lunch around this time every day."</p> - -<p>McLeod smiled. "Won't Cripp be along soon?"</p> - -<p>"Search me." Tracy rubbed her stomach under the smooth, tautly drawn -fabric of her dress. "When this piece of machinery starts to gurgle, I -eat."</p> - -<p>"Well, I was going to head over to the Press Club in a few minutes -anyway. Don't you have to get yourself caught with someone today?"</p> - -<p>"Later on. Tonight. Now I'm hungry."</p> - -<p>Tracy Kent was long and almost lean with hips angular rather than -rounded and the clean lines of her long-striding legs accentuated -by the tight sheath of skirt as she walked with McLeod toward the -elevator. She was all woman unless you happened to look at her a -certain way, when you caught a glimpse of something coltish, almost -like Peter Pan, in the way she carried herself or smiled at you. She -did not look like a vamp, thought McLeod, which helped explain why she -was such a successful co-respondent.</p> - -<p>"One of these days I'm going to stop feeling like a brother toward -you," McLeod promised as they climbed into his copter on the roof.</p> - -<p>"You're flattering but tardy, Mr. McLeod. I'm going to marry the guy."</p> - -<p>"Crippens?"</p> - -<p>"Don't look at me that way. He's your friend, too." Tracy grinned as -the rotors flashed above them, then pouted. "Darius, do we have to go -to the Press Club for lunch?"</p> - -<p>"Mixing business with pleasure, I guess. Got to see some people. Why, -does someone bother you over there?"</p> - -<p>"That Weaver Wainwright, always staring at me like he wants to sit -down at his thinkwriter and let the world know what it's like with a -co-respodent. Me."</p> - -<p>"Wainwright's one of the men I want to see."</p> - -<p>"The <i>Star-Times'</i> hot-shot reporter hob-nobbing with that riff-raff -from the <i>World</i>?"</p> - -<p>"You named it," Darius McLeod said as their copter rose up from the -roof of the <i>Star-Times</i> building and retreated from the checkerboard -pattern of other copters resting on their landing squares. "Why the -sour face?"</p> - -<p>"Because I read COMING EVENTS, Darius. Do you think Wainwright's been -assigned the job?"</p> - -<p>"It's a damned good guess. He just got back from overseas. He's been -sopping up spirits like a blotter over at the club and making nasty -noises while waiting for a new job. This is probably his baby."</p> - -<p>"Why, Darius?"</p> - -<p>"Because he's their number one boy."</p> - -<p>"No. I mean, why you?"</p> - -<p>McLeod shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason? It's good copy for -them. The <i>Star-Times</i> loses a guy who's been around, too. That's the -newspaper business, Tracy. Don't look for any reason."</p> - -<p>"Don't be so calm about it. What's Overman going to do?"</p> - -<p>McLeod considered the question as he brought the copter down expertly -through the lanes of local traffic here at the edge of the city. Off -in the distance, rank on rank of hemispherical suburban homes marched -off, in orderly rows, to the eastern horizon. The Press Club, almost -directly below them now, had snipped half a dozen square miles from -the patterned picture. It was castle, game preserve and sylvan retreat -not for one monarch, but for hundreds. Newshounds, newshens, gunmen. -Flashing letters swam up at them from the green woodland, blinking on -and off garishly—THE FOURTH ESTATE.</p> - -<p>If he told her Overman had failed to offer any protection, she'd -realize another alternative had been selected. It would be better if -he lied. "What's Overman going to do?" he repeated her question. "The -usual. I'll be protected. Don't worry about me."</p> - -<p>"But if Wainwright's all they say, he's like a bloodhound. Be careful, -Darius."</p> - -<p>"Hell, I said don't worry. I have till next week, anyway."</p> - -<p>"This is Friday."</p> - -<p>"Yeah, Friday." Their copter alighted with hardly a quiver. Uniformed -lackies were already polishing the chrome and glass by the time McLeod -helped Tracy to the ground. She came down lithely, long hair whipping -about her face and brushing against McLeod's cheek. A girl scantily -clad as an American Indian led them across the landing field and along -a path through the gnarled oaks which made the Fourth Estate resemble -more a chunk of Scotland than Long Island. But while they couldn't see -the acres of neon tubing from the ground, their pulsing glow spoiled -the effect.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The clubhouse itself was an architectural nightmare of quarry-stone, -turrets, battlements—and great, soft-hued thermo-glass walls. Music -stirred the air faintly with rhythm as they crossed the drawbridge -(which actually worked, McLeod knew) and entered the lobby. The pretty -little squaw disappeared and was replaced at once by the weaponcheck -girl, dressed in top hat and tails, but not much else.</p> - -<p>She smiled professionally at Tracy, then frisked her expertly, finding -the trick pocket in her skirt and removing the tiny but deadly -parabeam from her leg holster. Tracy grinned back like a yawning cat. -"I'd have given it to you."</p> - -<p>"I'm sorry, m'am. They all say that." The weaponcheck girl turned to -McLeod. "It's the law around here, you know that. Good afternoon, Mr. -McLeod."</p> - -<p>The hands darted with quick, practiced precision over him after he -nodded. He felt the sleeve-holster slip out by way of his armpit, was -given a numbered check for both weapons as the girl hip-wagged away and -suspended their weapons from hooks in her arsenal. They were then led -to a table near the bandstand, where they ordered cocktails.</p> - -<p>"It's an awful lot of fuss just to eat lunch," Tracy said. "Every time -that weapon hen paws me like that, I want to scratch her big, wide eyes -out. Darius, I'm still afraid for you. Is Wainwright here?"</p> - -<p>"I haven't looked, but don't worry. I have till next week, anyway."</p> - -<p>"They could kidnap you and hold you somewhere till they're ready to -kill you."</p> - -<p>McLeod tried to hide his momentary confusion by making a production of -lighting his cigaret and smiling at someone he hardly knew at a nearby -table. Tracy certainly had a good point—which he hadn't considered -until now.</p> - -<p>Tracy glanced about uneasily in the dim light. "Did Overman think of -that? I don't see any Security men around."</p> - -<p>McLeod exhaled a long plume of smoke and watched it get sucked into -the unseen currents of the climatizer. "They don't let themselves get -seen," he said easily. "They wouldn't be good Security men if they did, -would they?"</p> - -<p>"But what are <i>you</i> going to do, Darius? Can't you take some kind of -positive action? It's not like you, just sitting around and waiting."</p> - -<p>McLeod wanted to change the subject, for Tracy had a way of ferreting -out the truth even if she suspected nothing. He'd always thought she -was wasting her time as a co-respondent and often told her so, but -she'd always countered by striking a bump-and-grind pose and saying she -had all the equipment. "Have you heard about Cripp?" he asked her now.</p> - -<p>"Only that he was going out on an assignment. Suicide I think."</p> - -<p>"Unfortunately, the guy had a change of heart. They had to tear up the -obit."</p> - -<p>"Was it Cripp's fault?"</p> - -<p>"I doubt it. Suicide and murder are two different things. Psychology -fouled up, that's all."</p> - -<p>"But Overman must have been furious, anyway. Poor Cripp."</p> - -<p>"Overman'll get over it. Cripp's a good man."</p> - -<p>Tracy shook her head slowly. "Thanks for saying it, but Cripp isn't cut -out for the newspaper racket and you know it. A couple more flubs and -Overman will begin to think Cripp belongs to the Anti-Newspaper League -or something."</p> - -<p>"Very funny," McLeod told her. "I can just see it now: Cripp a -subversive."</p> - -<p>"Shh!" said Tracy, raising a finger to her lips. "We shouldn't even -talk about things like that. Mentioning the Anti-Newspaper League in -here is like eating beefsteak in Delhi."</p> - -<p>A figure approached their table and sat down at the empty chair without -receiving an invitation. "Did I hear something about the Anti-Newspaper -League?" the man demanded, chuckling softly. He was tall and gaunt but -well-tanned, the whites of his eyes very bright against the skin of his -face. He had a long, sad nose which drooped mournfully almost to his -upper lip, mitigating the effect of his smile.</p> - -<p>He was Weaver Wainwright, ace reporter of the <i>World</i>.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"We're just a couple of subversives, Mr. Wainwright," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>"So that's why the <i>Star-Times</i> is filling its pages with wrongos these -days. How do you do, McLeod?"</p> - -<p>"Never felt better. Ought to live to be a hundred, at least. Can we get -you something?"</p> - -<p>"As a matter of fact, I've just had lunch. Brandy might help my -sluggish liver, though."</p> - -<p>"Brandy it is," said McLeod, and gave the new order to their waiter -when he arrived with a pair of Gibsons. "According to what I read -in the papers, the <i>World's</i> thinking of starting a Tong War with -us." McLeod hid his impulse to smile by making a conventional toast -to Tracy. He wondered how much his unexpected candor had unnerved -Wainwright and decided to study the reporter's reaction carefully.</p> - -<p>But Wainwright merely grinned, making the upper lip all but disappear -and the nose become more prominent. "At least you read a good -newspaper," he said. "I don't think it's fair for you to say we had -war in mind, McLeod. Nothing of the sort. Our Prognostication division -merely indicated that a certain well-known opposition newsman was going -to meet with an unfortunate accident next week. While prognostication -is pretty reliable—especially coming from a good newspaper—it's -hardly the last word. Ah, here's my brandy." And he began to sip and -stare over the rim of his glass at Tracy.</p> - -<p>"Nice stay in Europe?" McLeod wanted to know. Under the circumstances, -Wainwright's composure had been admirable.</p> - -<p>"Fair. But then, you read the papers."</p> - -<p>"You mean that business about Yugoslavia and France?"</p> - -<p>"That's right. Your man—What's his name, Kitrick?—thought there would -be peace. He's wrong, you know. All you have to do is touch a spark to -the right fuse in the Balkans, I always said. Kitrick was trying to put -the fire out by spitting."</p> - -<p>"Wayne Kitrick didn't think there was any fire to put out," Tracy told -the <i>World</i> reporter. "As of now, there isn't."</p> - -<p>"Give it some time," Wainwright promised. "You see, the President of -Yugoslavia was indiscreet in his youth, most indiscreet. With elections -approaching there, he had the alternative of—well, you know what a -newspaper can do to a man of position who's been indiscreet. Drink to -it?"</p> - -<p>They did. In spite of everything, McLeod had to admire Wainwright. -In the old days, nations went to war for economic reasons, over -diametrically opposed political philosophies, because of religion. -Today, a sharp reporter dug deep to unearth closeted skeletons and -moral potsherds and literally blackmailed a chief of state into war. -Wainwright was sharp, all right. History might one day write up the -whole series of twenty-second century wars as Blackmail Wars, but -meanwhile the U. N. could only gnash its collective teeth while -Wainwright picked up a fattened paycheck.</p> - -<p>"I'll bet you're proud of yourself," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>"I don't see why not. Kitrick will be reamed, my dear."</p> - -<p>"And so will a few million innocent people."</p> - -<p>"Perhaps you weren't fooling when you mentioned the Anti-Newspaper -League. But of course, you're pulling my leg."</p> - -<p>"I'm a co-respondent," Tracy said coldly. "I don't have to turn -cartwheels over your end of the newspaper game."</p> - -<p>"Tracy," McLeod said. This was one facet of the girl's character he'd -never seen before. He could almost see the gears meshing into place -inside Wainwright's skull. He didn't mind talk which bordered on the -subversive, as long as it came from Tracy, who was quite outspoken -about a lot of things, but Wainwright might have other ideas.</p> - -<p>But Wainwright said, blandly, "From a moral standpoint you carve out -your pound of flesh every now and then too, my dear. Or don't you think -framing innocent men in compromising circumstances is immoral?"</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't understand the difference," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>"It is a difference of degree, not kind."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Tracy bit her lips and did not reply. It was like a revelation to -McLeod. He suddenly wondered if Cripp knew how maladjusted his fiancee -was.</p> - -<p>Abruptly, Wainwright changed the subject. "Are you well insured, -McLeod?"</p> - -<p>"I never could figure out who to name as beneficiary."</p> - -<p>"That's a shame."</p> - -<p>"If you've planned anything now, I thought you'd like to know -<i>Star-Times</i> Security Forces are all around us," McLeod bluffed.</p> - -<p>"You underestimate me, sir. Prognostication comes up with the raw -facts, which I sift for story material. I merely wait for things to -happen. However, in case you have any inclinations to put the shoe on -the other foot, I'm sure you realize <i>World</i> Security men often lunch -at the Fourth Estate."</p> - -<p>That, McLeod suspected, was no bluff. Tracy was still nibbling on her -lip but managed to cast a worried look in his direction. They ordered -and ate in silence while Wainwright swirled and sipped another brandy.</p> - -<p>"Have you heard about poor Mayor Spurgess?" Wainwright asked as McLeod -cooled his coffee with cream.</p> - -<p>McLeod scalded his lips. The <i>World</i> reporter was playing cat-and-mouse -with him, taunting him overtly. Perhaps Wainwright figured he could -kill two birds with one stone, getting McLeod while McLeod tried to -protect the mayor's record. He hoped Wainwright had not thought of -Overman's alternative.</p> - -<p>"You're a busy man," McLeod finally said.</p> - -<p>"I detest inactivity. I assume since you wrote Mayor Spurgess into -office, you are going to protect his name. Miss Kent, could you excuse -yourself for a moment?"</p> - -<p>Tracy waited until McLeod nodded, then stood up and mumbled something -about going to powder her nose. McLeod lit a cigaret and waited.</p> - -<p>"Now we can talk," Wainwright said. "Recognize the spirit in which -this is said, McLeod: you're a fine reporter."</p> - -<p>"Thanks."</p> - -<p>"But you're as good as dead. We've written your obituary."</p> - -<p>Strangely, the announcement brought no fear. Although it had only been -a couple of hours, McLeod felt as if he'd been living with the idea for -years. "You haven't printed it yet."</p> - -<p>"In time. But we don't have to print it. Naturally, it's news, McLeod. -You have a well-known name. But there are others equally well-known. -More well-known. We can come up with a wrongo occasionally. Basically, -we want to kill you because you're too valuable to the <i>Star-Times</i>."</p> - -<p>"Your motive doesn't interest me. And I have some news for you: I'm a -long way from dead."</p> - -<p>"Don't be melodramatic, McLeod. We'll get you. A routine -assassination-accident doesn't often become a wrongo, you know that. We -have decided to make an offer to you."</p> - -<p>Now McLeod's skin did begin to crawl. Statistically, the -assassination-accident case was more fool-proof than any other. Gunmen -commanded good salaries and did their work expertly. Ninety-five per -cent accuracy could be expected. "I'm listening."</p> - -<p>"Join the <i>World</i>."</p> - -<p>"Come again?"</p> - -<p>"I'm sure you heard me. Quit the <i>Star-Times</i> and join us. We'll match -your salary, we won't kill you—"</p> - -<p>"But the <i>Star-Times will</i>!"</p> - -<p>"You'd be valuable to us, aside from your abilities as a reporter. No -doubt, they've included you in any long-range plans they might have. -We'll have them piling up wrongos from now till doomsday."</p> - -<p>"Which is exactly why they'll have me killed if I become a turncoat."</p> - -<p>"We'll offer you full protection."</p> - -<p>"I'm already getting full protection—from the <i>Star-Times</i>," McLeod -lied. It was almost a tempting offer, although its virtues were purely -negative. The <i>Star-Times</i> had refused to offer him protection because -Overman thought it would be simpler and more certain to serve up a -substitute reporter for the kill. If McLeod accepted Wainwright's -offer, at least he'd be able to sleep easy regarding Crippens. But if -the <i>World's</i> real purpose was to remove McLeod from the <i>Star-Times'</i> -staff, one way or the other, they might risk an all-out Tong War and -still gun for him.</p> - -<p>Besides, no turncoat newspaperman had ever survived six months. -McLeod knew it and was sure Wainwright knew it and guessed the <i>World</i> -reporter was promising him all he could under the circumstances—a -temporary reprieve.</p> - -<p>"I know what you're thinking," Wainwright told him. "The <i>Star-Times</i> -will get you if you turn on them. If necessary, they'll drop everything -else until you're dead."</p> - -<p>"Well, yes. That's just what I was thinking."</p> - -<p>"I don't envy your position," Wainwright admitted. "You believe I'm -offering you a few months more of life at best. But you're mistaken, -McLeod. <i>It will appear as if we have killed you.</i> We can do it, -working together. But I offer you life. The accident will all but -destroy you, although means of identification will remain. Don't you -see what I'm driving at? We can substitute some derelict for you, then -change your appearance and employ you on the <i>World</i>. The <i>Star-Times</i> -will never know the difference."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It was a daring plan. It was just the sort of thing which made the -newspaper business in general—and Weaver Wainwright in particular—so -omnipotent these days. McLeod did not try to hide his interest. The -plan had more than negative virtues, after all.</p> - -<p>"How do I know I can trust you?" McLeod asked.</p> - -<p>"I'm afraid you don't. But let it simmer. What it boils down to is -this: you're going to have to take a calculated risk either way, -McLeod. No doubt, you've devised some scheme to give us a fat wrongo -instead of your corpse. It may or may not work. Statistics say it will -not. On the other hand, I promise you life. My plan not only could -work, it <i>should</i> work. The risk there is that I may not be telling the -truth. You'll have to decide ... here comes Miss Kent."</p> - -<p>"The girl with the crooked face," said Tracy, sitting down. "Unless you -tell me it's straight."</p> - -<p>"As an arrow," said McLeod, hardly hearing his own words. The more he -thought of Wainwright's plan, the better he liked it. If Wainwright -were telling the truth, he'd be able to get both Cripp and himself off -the hook at the same time. "I'll think about it," he told the <i>World</i> -reporter, who was smiling and getting up to leave.</p> - -<p>"Call me," Wainwright said, and was gone.</p> - -<p>"What did he want?" Tracy asked.</p> - -<p>"The usual," McLeod told her, realizing a near-truth was often the best -lie. "That I join up with the <i>World</i> and get protected."</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't last a month and you know it. So why did you tell him -you'd think about it?"</p> - -<p>"To let him think I was playing both ends against dead center, I guess. -I don't know. I just want to come out of this thing alive, Tracy."</p> - -<p>"I was thinking. There must be something we could dig up about Weaver -Wainwright, something we could hold over his head so he'd rather be -guilty of a wrongo than see it revealed."</p> - -<p>"I doubt it. Anyway, you don't blackmail newspapermen."</p> - -<p>"You don't kill them, either. Darius, did you ever stop to think -how—how awfully evil this whole setup is? I don't mean just about -you and how the <i>World</i> wants to make a story out of killing off the -opposition. I mean everything. I mean Weaver Wainwright starting a -war in Europe so his paper can get the inside story on it. I mean -the President of Yugoslavia being blackmailed by a garden variety -newspaperman. I mean Cripp getting chewed out because he went to cover -a suicide and the man didn't jump. We ought to celebrate, don't you -see? A human life was saved. I mean me getting myself caught with -important men so their wives sue for divorce and we get the story. -I mean disease that doesn't have to happen and medical cures held -back until one paper or another can scoop them. I mean scientific -discoveries which aren't made because research scientists and -development engineers are on newspaper payrolls and perform their basic -research and experiments, then wait for the newspaper stories to be -released at an editor's leisure. I mean ... oh, what's the use? You're -laughing at me."</p> - -<p>McLeod was trying not to smile but meeting with little success. "I just -never heard you talk like that before, that's all. Tracy, you're like a -little girl in a lot of ways—idealistic, romantic, building castles on -air and not accepting the real world, but—"</p> - -<p>"Real!" Tracy cried. "It's phony from the word go. We're making it—to -suit headlines."</p> - -<p>"Stop shouting," McLeod said in alarm. "People are staring at you."</p> - -<p>"I don't care about them."</p> - -<p>"Well, I do. Before you know it, they'll be investigating you for -Anti-Newspaper tendencies. What's the matter with you?"</p> - -<p>"My God! Don't sound so gosh-awful righteous, Darius. You treat this -newspaper business like a religion."</p> - -<p>"Maybe I like being top-dog."</p> - -<p>"So now you're going to get yourself killed. A sacrifice to the -Headline God."</p> - -<p>"Stop it," McLeod said. "I won't get killed if I can help it."</p> - -<p>"And if Wainwright can help it too, is that the idea?"</p> - -<p>"What are you talking about?"</p> - -<p>"Sometimes I ... I hate you, Darius McLeod. That's what I'm talking -about. They're going to kill someone else and change your face and let -you work for the <i>World</i>." Tracy stood up and patted her lips with a -napkin.</p> - -<p>McLeod climbed to his feet too. "How did you know about that?"</p> - -<p>"Don't bother getting up. I can find my way back alone, thank you."</p> - -<p>McLeod sat down, staring at her.</p> - -<p>"Maybe it's because I'm a spy. Maybe I work for the <i>World</i>." Tracy -pivoted and stalked away, her heels click-clacking defiantly on the -marble floor. McLeod gaped after her until she disappeared.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER III</p> - - -<p>McLeod made an appointment to see Jack Lantrel, the Gunman Chief of -the <i>Star-Times</i>, Saturday morning. He spent the remainder of Friday -pondering and drinking a little too much. The combination yielded -a hangover, but not even tentative conclusions. While Tracy Kent -had become an unexpected enigma, he couldn't spend too much time on -it. Wainwright's proposal nagged at all his thoughts, but he kept -telling himself he couldn't trust the <i>World</i> reporter. And for the -first time he found he didn't like the feeling of power inherent in -a newspaperman's position. Having the power of life and death over -nameless, faceless people was one thing, but playing the role of the -Greek hag who snipped the thread of life with a pair of indifferent -scissors for Crippens was quite another.</p> - -<p>Lantrel met McLeod in the Gunman's office, greeted him and said, -"Dragging me down on Saturday, this better be important." Jack Lantrel -was a harried-looking little man. You always expected a great, bosomy -wife to come charging in to henpeck him, although, like McLeod, Lantrel -was a bachelor. He straightened the thinkwriter and the other items of -office equipment on his desk with mechanical efficiency. He was an old -fuddy-duddy, thought McLeod, but he had signed the death warrants for -hundreds of people.</p> - -<p>"It's a job," said McLeod.</p> - -<p>"Well, that's what I draw my check for. But we work on a rigid -schedule, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Then call it a priority job. Mayor Spurgess."</p> - -<p>Lantrel looked up from where he'd been drumming his fingers idly on the -desk. "Motive is none of my business," he admitted. "But did you say -you want to have Mayor Spurgess gunned?"</p> - -<p>McLeod sighed. "Yeah."</p> - -<p>"I'm glad my particular job is comparatively simple. You just elected -the guy."</p> - -<p>"And now we want him killed. Overman would sleep easier and so would I -if you did it by tomorrow night."</p> - -<p>Lantrel grunted something, prodded the intercom button on his desk and -demanded in his high-pitched voice, "Will you please get me the habit -file on Mayor Spurgess?" He turned to McLeod. "Sunday night, eh? That -doesn't give us much time."</p> - -<p>McLeod shrugged and watched a secretary bring in a bulging plastic file -envelope which Lantrel flipped through expertly. "Here we are. Subject -generally dines late Sunday night, reviews his Monday morning schedule, -smokes a pipe and plays with the TV set until he's convinced there's -nothing to interest him, then ... oh! here we are ... takes a walk -around twenty-two hundred hours, alone, without his wife."</p> - -<p>"Sounds simple," McLeod said.</p> - -<p>"An assassination-accident," Lantrel informed him with surprising -enthusiasm, "is never simple. Despite the statistical expectancy -of success, there are too many random factors you have to contend -with. If the weather's bad, perhaps subject won't take his evening -constitutional. Perhaps subject's wife will break the pattern with some -company for dinner. Subject might conceivably take a friend along with -him. You see what I'm driving at?"</p> - -<p>McLeod nodded. "All I want to know is this: can you do the job Sunday -night?"</p> - -<p>Lantrel scanned the file again. "Subject leaves his house at twenty-two -hundred, returns by twenty-two forty-five. That gives us forty-five -minutes. Probably, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Good enough."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Lantrel slid a gunman form into his thinkwriter, hunched himself down -in his chair and watched the machine type. Presently the sheet of paper -slipped out the other side of the squat machine and McLeod read:</p> - -<p>DATE: 14 Dec 2103</p> - -<p>NAME: Darius John McLeod</p> - -<p>ASSIGNMENT (CURRENT): City Desk</p> - -<p>JOB NO.: 03-4-12</p> - -<p>CLASSIFICATION: Top Priority</p> - -<p>SUBJECT: Peter Winston Spurgess, Mayor, New York City</p> - -<p>DATE OF EXECUTION (APPROX): 15 Dec 2103</p> - -<p>METHOD: Vehicular, or other, accident</p> - -<p>CODE: 4-12-DJM</p> - -<p>APPROVED:<br /> -/s/Jack Lantrel<br /> -JACK LANTREL<br /> -GUNMAN EDITOR</p> - -<p>THE UNDERSIGNED HEREBY CERTIFIES THAT JOB NO. 03-4-12, HEREAFTER -REFERRED TO AS 4-12-DJM, HAS BEEN ORDERED IN COMPLIANCE WITH THE -EXISTING REGULATIONS GOVERNING ASSASSINATION-ACCIDENTS, AND THAT -4-12-DJM HAS BEEN APPROVED, ORALLY OR IN WRITING, BY THE City Editor. -THE UNDERSIGNED IS COGNIZANT OF THE FACT THAT ANY FRAUD OR DECEIT IN -THIS APPLICATION, WHETHER FOR PERSONAL GAIN OR OTHERWISE, IS PUNISHABLE -BY SUMMARY REVOCATION OF HIS (HER) NEWSPAPER LICENSE.</p> - -<p class="ph2">DARIUS JOHN MCLEOD</p> - -<p>It suddenly was no simple matter for McLeod to scrawl his name at the -bottom of the sheet. He was aware of Lantrel, a puzzled expression -on his face, watching him. It seemed entirely routine to affix his -signature, but quite suddenly he was aware of the machinery that would -put into operation. Gunmen would be selected for the job, would study -Mayor Spurgess' habit file, would agree with Lantrel on the <i>modus -operandi</i>. Within thirty-six hours, Mayor Spurgess would be dead.</p> - -<p>Darius McLeod executioner?</p> - -<p>Hardly. He was merely carrying out an assignment. Newspapers were -active agents in the modern world. If it had not been his assignment, -it would have been someone else's. You could hardly consider it -murder. Murder was punishable today as it had always been—by capital -punishment or a long prison term. A newspaperman was above reproach—or -imprisonment.</p> - -<p>McLeod saw the parallel that he had first seen in Overman's office -yesterday. He was both executioner and victim. Even now as he was -signing the application for Mayor Spurgess' death, perhaps Weaver -Wainwright was signing one which read, SUBJECT: Darius John McLeod, -reporter, New York <i>Star-Times</i>. The <i>World</i> Gunman Editor might now be -studying <i>his</i> habit file, weighing the various factors to determine -what situation seemed most promising as a vessel for his "accidental" -death. Did the editor know that McLeod often spent weekends racing -across country or down to South America in his jet? It was there in -his habit file in all probability. Did he know that McLeod visited -the <i>Star-Times</i> space station once every fortnight because he was -being groomed to cover the <i>Star-Times</i> dash to the moon, if ever they -got the jump on the <i>World</i> space station and could leave Earth's -gravitational field without the near certainty of being tracked and -shot down by a <i>World</i> rocket? Did he know the thousand one little -habits which, combined in various predictable patterns, made up -McLeod's life? Unfortunately, the answer had to be in the affirmative. -It left McLeod feeling a little sick.</p> - -<p>"What's the matter, Darius? Is something wrong?"</p> - -<p>"Huh? No. Nothing." McLeod signed the application. "There you are."</p> - -<p>"Fine," said Lantrel, placing the application in his out basket. "Call -me at home tomorrow afternoon, Darius. I'll give you the details so you -can cover the assignment. You know the number?"</p> - -<p>McLeod said that he did and left. He wondered if Weaver Wainwright -would make a similar call. The worst part of it was that he didn't know -when.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>When he reached his bachelor apartment in the East Seventies, the door -recorder told him that two visitors, one male and one female, were -waiting for him. McLeod felt the comforting bulk of his parabeam -in its arm holster and loosened it there. If they had entered his -apartment it was because their fingerprint patterns had been included -in the locking mechanism, but he couldn't take any chances. He opened -the door and sighed his relief.</p> - -<p>"Morning, Darius," Harry Crippens greeted him cheerfully, bouncing up -from a web-chair and extending his hand. "Shake hands with a reporter -who just got a big, fat, unexpected raise."</p> - -<p>McLeod lit a cigaret and said, "I'm very glad to hear that, Cripp. Did -Overman tell you?"</p> - -<p>"Nope. First I knew of it, I read it in the paper. Take a look."</p> - -<p>As McLeod took this morning's <i>Star-Times</i> from Crippens, Tracy entered -the living room from the kitchen. "Coffee in a minute, Cripp," she -said. "Oh, Darius. We're making ourselves to home, as the expression -goes. Did you see that crazy thing in the paper?"</p> - -<p>"I'm about to," said McLeod.</p> - -<p>"Crazy!" Crippens cried in mock horror. "I get a raise right before we -get married and she says crazy."</p> - -<p>"Well, it doesn't make sense."</p> - -<p>McLeod turned to the Internal Affairs page of the <i>Star-Times</i>. With -the newspaper profession supplanting Hollywood fifty-odd years ago as -the world's most glamorous, articles on internal affairs had evolved -from small islands of type in a sea of advertisements to a place of -importance with their own daily page and special editor.</p> - -<p>"Three column head," Crippens said proudly. "Liberal quotes from the -King himself. Maestro Overman."</p> - -<p>"That's what I mean," Tracy repeated. "Crazy. Only yesterday, he was -chewing you out."</p> - -<p>The article said that a new star was on the <i>Star-Times</i> horizon, -and went on to discuss all the successful assignments Crippens had -handled. There was no mention of his wrongos which, McLeod knew, were -considerable. A two-column cut of Crippens at his thinkwriter was -included and the caption rendered a thumb-nail biography. The article -concluded by mentioning a raise in salary which gave Crippens more than -Tracy and almost what McLeod earned.</p> - -<p>"That's great," McLeod said, finding it difficult to maintain his -enthusiasm. Damn Overman, he didn't miss a trick. Fattening the calf -for slaughter.</p> - -<p>"Now the girl's got to marry me," Crippens declared. "I earn more -money than she does." He was flip, building effusively in the best -newspaperman fashion. He was not the serious, intent Crippens McLeod -had always known, although, on closer examination, McLeod realized that -the owlish eyes looked quite sober.</p> - -<p>"Quit your kidding," McLeod told him. "Harry Crippens would probably -celebrate by discussing his next assignment, or making a study of the -moral factors involved. What's the matter?"</p> - -<p>"Not a thing," Crippens assured him easily. "Here, have a drink. It's -your whisky."</p> - -<p>"In the morning?" asked Tracy.</p> - -<p>"This is a celebration, girl. There you go." And Crippens sloshed -liquor into three glasses. His hands were shaking.</p> - -<p>"I said what's the matter?" McLeod ignored the drink.</p> - -<p>Crippens didn't. "Not a thing. Not a single, solitary thing."</p> - -<p>"Go ahead and talk to him," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>"Don't mind her, Darius. Have another?" Crippens poured for himself.</p> - -<p>"Darn it, Cripp. Even if it means making me feel better?"</p> - -<p>"Darius wouldn't do a thing like that, that's all."</p> - -<p>"Like what?" McLeod wanted to know.</p> - -<p>"I have to hand it to you," Tracy told him. "I thought you'd do your -best to change the subject."</p> - -<p>"Like nothing," Crippens said. "I mean it, don't mind her. She had some -silly idea.... I don't even want to talk about it."</p> - -<p>"Darius," Tracy asked abruptly, "what have you decided to do about -Weaver Wainwright?"</p> - -<p>"Please," said Crippens.</p> - -<p>"I haven't made up my mind yet. I'm not going to let him kill me if I -can help it."</p> - -<p>"Do tell. Does Cripp fit into the picture at all?"</p> - -<p>McLeod hoped he could substitute evasion for outright lying. "Why don't -you ask Overman?"</p> - -<p>"Because I'm asking you."</p> - -<p>He didn't think Tracy would ask Overman. He didn't think Overman would -tell her the truth if she did. He saw she was waiting for an answer and -said, "If the answer to that question were yes, you wouldn't expect me -to tell you. If it were no, I ought to consider it an insult, coming -from friends."</p> - -<p>"We never stood on ceremonies before, Darius."</p> - -<p>"Tracy, for gosh sakes!" Crippens pleaded. "Darius is my friend."</p> - -<p>"I'm still waiting for an answer."</p> - -<p>McLeod walked to the door and opened it. Crippens opened his mouth to -speak, but changed his mind. He glared at Tracy.</p> - -<p>"Get out of here," McLeod said. He was behaving like a child he -realized. But more than anything else, he needed time to think.</p> - -<p>Tracy went through the doorway, staring straight ahead. McLeod wished -she would look at him, or holler, or slap him. She said, "All right, -Darius. If that's the way you want to play it."</p> - -<p>McLeod heard them arguing in low tones as he shut the door behind them.</p> - -<p>Just what do you do, he thought, when your whole world starts to blow -up all around you? You don't kick over the remaining traces. You try to -re-establish the familiar, comforting pattern in some small way.</p> - -<p>McLeod called the mayor's residence and got through to Spurgess at -once. The flabby, thick-jowled face looked sickly white, like putty.</p> - -<p>"McLeod, thank God. I thought you'd forgotten."</p> - -<p>"Not on your life. I just wanted to tell you everything's going to be -fine. You won't have to resign your office for political corruption. -We'll see to that."</p> - -<p>"Oh, thank you," said Mayor Spurgess. "Thank you very much."</p> - -<p>"Sure," said McLeod, and cut the connection. Give or take a couple, -Mayor Spurgess had about thirty-six hours to live.</p> - -<p>And McLeod?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Snow was falling in thick, slow flakes which melted on contact with -the ground when McLeod went outside after lunch. Since neither the -<i>Star-Times</i> nor the <i>World</i> was depending on the cold virus or -influenza for medical headlines this season, it was comparatively safe -venturing out in this weather.</p> - -<p>This, McLeod thought, seeing it for the first time in a strange, -new light, was the city. Gray-white sky, overflowing snowflakes. -Slidewalks, covered for the winter, conducting crowds of bovinely -unaware people from place to place. Steel and glass and stone, soaring -skyward, disappearing in the feathery white snow which, up above, was -not feathery at all but a solid gray pall.</p> - -<p>Did the cud-munching people know the truth about newspapers? McLeod -doubted it. The old name had remained—newspapers—but the function had -changed. We give them each day their daily cud. We don't report. We -motivate. You didn't find it anyplace. It wasn't written. It happened -and it was accepted. Maybe they did know. It might make a good book, if -people ever went back to reading books again. Not yellow journalism, -but ROY G. BIV journalism, for all the colors in the rainbow. Concepts -had changed. How? After the Third World War? The Fourth? People wanted -to believe what they read. Each individual existence was precarious, -cliff-edged, ready to fall or scramble back to safety. People believed. -Almost, it was as if they had forgotten their Western Christian -heritage, in which they moved through time from past to future, active -agents in a static environment. Now they embodied the old Greek idea. -People didn't flow. Time did. They stood backwards in the river of -time, with the future flowing up, unseen, behind them, becoming the -present, flowing on and becoming the past which lay, decipherable, -before their eyes. Only newspapermen had eyes in the back of their -heads.</p> - -<p>Look out, cancer's coming. I read it in the <i>World</i>. (The <i>World</i> -Medical Corps sows the seed, and the incidence of cancer increases.) -Good newspaper, the <i>World</i>. Always lets you know what's coming. I see -where the <i>Star-Times</i> says the cancer rate is dropping. Hope they're -right. (Newspaper Medical Corps battle mightily, offstage, and the -<i>Star-Times</i> wins. Temporarily, no more cancer.) What do you know, the -<i>Star-Times</i> was right.</p> - -<p><i>Star-Times</i> says we ought to have a spaceship on the moon soon. -Thrilling, isn't it (<i>Star-Times</i> astronauts prepare to launch a -two-stage rocket from their space station, but <i>World</i> astronauts -intercept it with a guided missile and destroy it.) Well, looks like -the <i>World</i> was right. Space travel soon, but not yet.</p> - -<p>Senator Blundy's daughter was attacked on the campus of that -there college up-state, what's its name? You read about it in the -<i>Star-Times</i>? You know, it's not so bad, being small time, I always -say. Things like that only happen to important people. Yes sir, we're -lucky.</p> - -<p><i>World</i> says it's a Brinks, one of those unsolved robberies. Three -million dollars from the Bank of New York! (But <i>Star-Times</i> detectives -go to work and find—or sometimes frame—the criminal.) Hey, it's not a -Brinks anymore. Maybe I ought to read the <i>Star-Times</i> more often.</p> - -<p>That Weaver Wainwright earns six hundred thousand dollars a year, but -my kid wants to be a politician. Some kids you just can't figure.</p> - -<p>McLeod wandered into a bar and got himself mellowed, then found another -and repeated the process. When he returned to the street and made his -way to the slidewalk, the snow had finally begun to stick. Someone -in the bar had recognized him and asked for an autograph. It hadn't -stirred him at all. Was he maturing or turning sour?</p> - -<p>Returning home as dusk descended on the city and street lights gleamed -on three inches of snow, McLeod learned from his door recorder that he -had one female visitor. That would be Tracy, he thought, and prepared -himself for more unpleasantness. Why couldn't they leave him alone?</p> - -<p>"Come in, Darius. Shut the door." He did both, turned, and saw Tracy -pointing a parabeam at him. His hand fumbled with the trick sleeve of -his jacket, but the storm-coat got in his way. Tracy's parabeam zipped -audibly and McLeod turned to stone.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER IV</p> - - -<p>"I'll unfreeze your head so you can talk. You realize I ought to kill -you."</p> - -<p>His head tingled and he found that he could open his mouth, blink his -eyes and twitch his nose. He couldn't turn his neck. From the chin down -he was helplessly immobile. He was a disembodied brain with a face. He -wished he were sober.</p> - -<p>"Cripp still doesn't believe me," Tracy said. "He insisted I come back -alone and apologize. So I came back."</p> - -<p>"But not to apologize."</p> - -<p>"To get some information, Darius. I could be wrong. I don't think I am."</p> - -<p>"Out at the Fourth Estate yesterday, you knew what kind of proposition -Wainwright had made me," McLeod said, stalling for time while he tried -to summon a logical defense. His mind was almost a blank.</p> - -<p>"Sometimes I talk too much. Yes, I knew. Never mind how. I'm doing -the questioning, and I want answers. When I read about Cripp in the -Internal Affairs section, I put two and two together. Wainwright's -assignment had been vague, so I guessed you and Overman had decided -some substitution might be in order."</p> - -<p>McLeod was silent.</p> - -<p>"I advise you to talk, Darius. If I killed you now, it would be a bit -ahead of schedule, but I think that would still satisfy Wainwright. -Don't you?"</p> - -<p>"You're bluffing," McLeod said—and hoped. "You couldn't possibly be on -assignment to kill me. So you'd be subject to the same laws which face -the general public for murder."</p> - -<p>"All right. Maybe I won't kill you. But you feel no pain under a -parabeam, Darius. Remember that. I could start burning your hand with -my lighter and work up to your elbow and you wouldn't even know—until -I unfroze you."</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't," McLeod said. "Maybe we don't see eye to eye now, but -we're friends."</p> - -<p>Tracy began nibbling at her lip. Her eyes were big and watery, as if -she'd been fighting back tears. "Sure—I liked you. Maybe I still do. -I don't know. I'm all mixed up. You know me, Darius. I'm liable to do -anything—anything ... when I'm all mixed up like this. I don't want -to hurt you, not if I can help it. I like you, Darius. We've had fun -together. Great times."</p> - -<p>"That's better." McLeod's confidence was returning. He'd be out of -freeze in no time now. "Just unfreeze me, and we can talk about this -like two sensible people."</p> - -<p>"I like you, but I'm in love with Cripp." Tracy removed her lighter -from a pocket of her blouse with trembling fingers. She lit a cigarette -and didn't extinguish the flame. She came closer to McLeod.</p> - -<p>"Cut it out," he said. He felt sweat rolling down his forehead from -his hairline and making his eyes blink. Parabeaming did peculiar, -unpredictable things to the metabolism. The room seemed furnace-hot.</p> - -<p>"Then answer my question."</p> - -<p>There was no sense being maimed, McLeod finally decided. Tracy knew the -truth anyway. She just wanted to hear him say it. But now she brought a -tiny mini-recorder into view from where it had been resting on a table -and flipped the switch to on.</p> - -<p>"What's that for?"</p> - -<p>"Cripp. I want him to know. I want him to be able to protect himself -from you. We're recording now, Darius. Answer this question: do you -and Overman plan to use Cripp as a substitute corpse to satisfy Weaver -Wainwright and the <i>World</i>? Is that why Cripp got his raise and all -that unexpected publicity?"</p> - -<p>McLeod licked his lips and tried to look down as Tracy's hand -disappeared from view with the lighter. He saw no smoke but imagined -his flesh beginning to crisp.</p> - -<p>"Answer me. Did you and Overman plan to kill Cripp and give Wainwright -his story that way?"</p> - -<p>McLeod read nothing in her eyes, not even hatred. He said, "Yes. That's -right."</p> - -<p>Tracy shut off the mini-recorder, pocketed her lighter. She reversed -the parabeam and McLeod felt his limbs begin to tingle with minute -sparks of pain.</p> - -<p>"Don't try anything," Tracy said. "I'm still pointing this at you." Her -voice caught. She tried to speak again but sobbed.</p> - -<p>McLeod brought his arm up slowly and examined it. No damage.</p> - -<p>"I—I guess you know I couldn't do it, Darius. I couldn't hurt you. But -I don't want you to hurt Cripp. I want to give Cripp a fair chance. -Have you signed an application for his death yet?"</p> - -<p>"No."</p> - -<p>"Will you?"</p> - -<p>They were friends again. McLeod couldn't sense it. Friends who might -try to hurt each other, of necessity, but friends. "I don't know," he -said.</p> - -<p>"Give him a break, Darius. There must be another way out. I could tell -you things, if I could only trust you...."</p> - -<p>McLeod laughed easily, massaging his forearms. "Better not," he said. -"Better get out of here."</p> - -<p>"Maybe someday."</p> - -<p>"Maybe. Thanks for telling me you couldn't do it. That's good to know." -He shouldn't have said that. He was acting compulsively, striking back -blindly.</p> - -<p>The color left Tracy's face. "That was only because you haven't -actually threatened Cripp yet. Don't rely on it, though."</p> - -<p>She was striking back, too. He staggered to the door and watched her -go. Crippens had himself a good woman there, the lucky s. o. b. Maybe -that was why he hadn't rejected the idea of killing Crippens, McLeod -thought.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Sleeping that night, after a dinner which felt like slag inside him, -McLeod dreamed he had just signed an application for his own demise on -the steps of City Hall while bands played and people cheered. Mayor -Spurgess was there with a television camera and kept on pleading for -McLeod not to renege, but Tracy clung to the mayor's arm and tried to -lure him away to a co-respondent rendezvous. Weaver Wainwright and -Overman lurked on the fringe of the crowd, both pointing at McLeod and -laughing. Harry Crippens was the gunman.</p> - -<p>When McLeod awoke, a gray dawn was seeping in through the windows. He -showered and downed some bicarbonate of soda in water, but still felt -like hell. A mantle of snow covered the silent streets outside and more -snow was falling. Even the meteorologist's job wasn't guesswork now, -McLeod thought wryly. Predicting snow, the <i>Star-Times</i> had sowed the -clouds for it.</p> - -<p>It was suddenly very important for Mayor Spurgess not to die.</p> - -<p>Early in the afternoon, McLeod called Jack Lantrel at home, but a -pert-faced girl smiled at him from the screen. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lantrel -is not at home. Is there a message?"</p> - -<p>"It's important that I reach him," McLeod said.</p> - -<p>"Mr. Lantrel is out. He left no number. What is it in reference to?"</p> - -<p>"4-12-DJM," McLeod said, and waited while the receptionist disappeared -from view.</p> - -<p>"You're Mr. McLeod, aren't you?"</p> - -<p>"That's right."</p> - -<p>"You don't have to worry about 4-12-DJM, sir. Everything will be taken -care of."</p> - -<p>"There's been a change of plans. I want the gunmen called off."</p> - -<p>The professional smile was replaced by a frown. "Only Mr. Lantrel can -do that."</p> - -<p>"That's why I want to reach him. I told you it was important."</p> - -<p>"But I don't know when he'll be back. Confidentially, sir, Mr. Lantrel -just hates snow. When he read in the paper it was going to snow, he -said he was leaving town. I'm sorry."</p> - -<p>McLeod asked if she knew where Lantrel usually went.</p> - -<p>"That's hard to say. He likes to forget about business, you see. He's -down south," she added brightly. "Someplace down south. Is there any -message?"</p> - -<p>"Yes," McLeod said. "I'll be home all day. If Mr. Lantrel calls, have -him contact me at once."</p> - -<p>But as the afternoon dragged on, McLeod thought it unlikely that the -Gunman Chief would receive his message. He had reached the unexpected -decision about Mayor Spurgess quite suddenly and now found it almost -beyond analysis. He neither liked the mayor nor disliked him. It was -not the man who must live, but the symbol.</p> - -<p>Symbol? Of what?</p> - -<p>McLeod found the idea mildly ridiculous, almost as if he were drumming -up trade for the Anti-Newspaper League, self-proselytizing. It wasn't -that for the first time in his life, he told himself, he found an -intrinsic evil in the newspaper business. It was simply that the system -had hit home for the first time, unexpectedly. He had set the machinery -in motion for Mayor Spurgess' death; Weaver Wainwright had done the -same for him; Overman had decided the <i>Star-Times</i> could not afford to -lose his services but could manage without Harry Crippens.</p> - -<p>There was no logical connection. If Mayor Spurgess died, -that was that. Flowers and a sad song for the widow. But the -Wainwright-McLeod-Overman-Crippens problem still remained unsolved. Not -to mention Tracy Kent.</p> - -<p>Had he become anti-newspaper? The term almost defied definition. The -Anti-Newspaper League was one thing, formal, organized, purposeful. -But anti-newspaper could mean a lot of things. It could mean slight -deviation, non-conformity, the simple desire to earn your keep in some -other line. Such a desire was never realized, however. There were only -three classes of newspapermen: working reporters, corpses and retired -hounds and hens who lived on newspaper farms in old-folk luxury. A -newspaperman simply knew too much to be allowed to change his line of -work.</p> - -<p>No, there was a fourth type. There was the Anti-Newspaper League. What -was the old word—Quisling? It referred to politics or some other -fields of endeavor, McLeod thought. He wasn't sure what. They were on -newspaper payrolls but tried to gum up the works.</p> - -<p>Logic was getting him nowhere. He belonged to no cut-and-dry category.</p> - -<p>He wanted Mayor Spurgess to live.</p> - -<p>Lantrel failed to call by dinner-time or afterwards. At twenty-hundred -thirty, McLeod zipped on an insulined jumper, checked his parabeam and -went out into the <i>Star-Times</i> snow.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER V</p> - - -<p>Hidden heat-coils melted the snow which managed to drift over the -slidewalks despite their protective canopies, but the streets were -covered with snow now more than a foot deep. McLeod felt it crunch -underfoot as he left the slidewalks and headed for the mayor's house.</p> - -<p>His breath exhaled in quick vapor-puffs against the cold, brittle air. -His feet were heavy in the snow but dry. His were the only set of -footsteps marring the white blanket which covered everything.</p> - -<p>It occurred to him all at once that Mayor Spurgess would likely forego -his evening walk because of the weather. Which necessitated another -type of accident. Lantrel's men were both experienced and imaginative. -You could write a book categorizing all the possibilities....</p> - -<p>Wind whipped around corners and sprayed McLeod's face with snowflakes. -He heard a voice calling far off in the fuzzy white dimness, but -soon it was gone. Finally, he reached the mayor's house—a red-brick, -white-columned Georgian structure massive and secure on a large corner -lot. He crouched behind a leafless privet hedgerow in the driveway and -waited, peering up occasionally at the cheery yellow squares of light -that were the second story windows. His ear-crono whispered the time to -him: twenty-two hundred hours.</p> - -<p>The tell-tale footsteps he had left in the snow were fast disappearing -as the flakes fell thicker. He slid his parabeam out through the -jumper's trick sleeve and felt the cold knife momentarily into his -bare arm. The feeling of warm security, so paradoxical under the -circumstances, left him. If he foiled Lantrel's gunmen, Overman would -learn of it. If he didn't foil them but tried—which seemed more -likely—Overman would also hear.</p> - -<p>Just what was he doing here, anyway?</p> - -<p>He flexed his stiff muscles and was on the point of standing up when he -saw three figures approaching down the street, vague as ghosts in the -snow. There was still time. He could intercept them and say he had come -to cover the story, something which was expected of him. He wondered -what sort of accident they had planned.</p> - -<p>He jogged toward them through the snow, met them still half a block -from Spurgess' house. Two were young, possibly still in training. They -were tall and looked like soldiers in their slick jumpers. They stared -at him arrogantly. The third was shorter, heavier, of calculating eye. -The expression of the first two faces said: <i>we're gunmen—whatever -you are, we're better</i>. The third face said: <i>we'd as soon kill you as -spit, but we don't kill except for hire or when provoked in the line of -duty</i>.</p> - -<p>"I'm from the paper," McLeod told them, whispering. "Here to cover the -story."</p> - -<p>The three faces stared back at him through the snow, crystalizing what -he had felt all day but had not been able to explain. Those faces.</p> - -<p>They had nothing against Mayor Spurgess. Perhaps they had never even -seen him. If they didn't like him and had a reason and wanted to kill -him, that wouldn't be so bad. That would be fine. But they were here to -kill him because McLeod had signed the application along with Lantrel. -They wanted to do the job and get back to warmer places and hot -buttered rum or whatever they liked.</p> - -<p>"He come out yet?" the older gunman asked.</p> - -<p>"I don't think he will, not in this weather. What other plans have you -got?"</p> - -<p>"We'll just wait and see. We don't have to make the plans."</p> - -<p>Had they been able to read McLeod's face as readily as he had read -theirs? "I don't understand," he said. "You'll have to think of -something else if he doesn't take his walk, won't you?"</p> - -<p>"You say you were from the paper, guy?"</p> - -<p>"Of course."</p> - -<p>"Well, you're not making sense."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McLeod toyed with his parabeam, then watched as matching weapons leaped -into the hands of the two younger gunmen.</p> - -<p>"What paper, guy?" the older one drawled.</p> - -<p>McLeod felt his heart flutter wildly and checked a strong impulse to -laugh.</p> - -<p>One of the young gunmen said, "I thought the big boy himself was -covering this. Wainwright. I know what he looks like."</p> - -<p>"Come on, guy. What paper?"</p> - -<p>McLeod knew the mistake could be fatal. Somehow the <i>World</i> had learned -what the <i>Star-Times</i> had planned for Mayor Spurgess. These men were -<i>World</i> gunmen, come to thwart Lantrel's men. Perhaps they could, but -McLeod might die in the process.</p> - -<p>"Listen," he said desperately. "The other day, Weaver Wainwright made -me a proposition."</p> - -<p>"Who <i>are</i> you?"</p> - -<p>"Darius McLeod. Hold on, damn it! If you freeze me now, you'll be -making a mistake. Wainwright wanted me to work for the <i>World</i>. That's -why I'm here, don't you understand? I can tell you exactly what the -<i>Star-Times</i> is going to do."</p> - -<p>"We already know, McLeod. You're skating where the signs say not to, -guy. I guess you know that."</p> - -<p>"Won't Wainwright be here? Ask him."</p> - -<p>"Don't know if he will or not."</p> - -<p>One of the younger gunmen had circled around behind McLeod. The other -one stood facing him, pointing the parabeam at his chest. The older man -seemed to be enjoying himself.</p> - -<p>"I don't want Spurgess killed," McLeod said. "That's the truth. I came -here to prevent it myself."</p> - -<p>"Can you tell me why?"</p> - -<p>"No—yes. Because I want to accept Wainwright's proposition. The -<i>World</i> said I was going to die. Wainwright offered me life."</p> - -<p>"We know that you're going to die."</p> - -<p>McLeod sucked in his breath. This same wholesome trio had probably -received the application for his own death, had probably studied his -habit file. "Not before next week," McLeod said.</p> - -<p>"Now, I don't know. It's a gift horse, guy. They won't hold up our -checks for a couple of hours either way."</p> - -<p>"No, but you'll spend the rest of your life as a gunman if you cross -Wainwright."</p> - -<p>The voice behind McLeod's back seemed bodiless and as cold as the -falling snow. "What's wrong with that?"</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't understand," McLeod said without turning. "He would." -He would win his life the moment he won over the shorter man. His two -companions did not matter. "Look. The Gunman Editor on the <i>World</i> is -near retirement, isn't he? You look like you've been around, but you -won't be considered for the job if Wainwright bears a grudge."</p> - -<p>"He's pretty smooth," the young gunman with the parabeam said.</p> - -<p>"Why do you think I'm here at all?" McLeod insisted. "I didn't know you -were coming. I came to prevent this thing myself."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The man behind McLeod muttered a curse and said, "You came here for -the same reason you always go out on an assignment. To get the story."</p> - -<p>But the older man said, "Have you any proof?"</p> - -<p>"Only Wainwright. Ask him when he gets here."</p> - -<p>"<i>If</i> he decides to come," said the man with the parabeam.</p> - -<p>"And if he doesn't?" McLeod demanded. "Are you going to take a chance -and—"</p> - -<p>"It wouldn't be taking a chance at all," the older man told McLeod. "We -could freeze you and box you and ask Wainwright about it later."</p> - -<p>"You fool! I haven't told Wainwright one way or the other yet."</p> - -<p>"Then we could unfreeze you and let him decide. Go ahead, George."</p> - -<p>McLeod could never hope to freeze all three of them before they -froze him. Their actions were cut from the same Kantian categorical -imperative he had expected of himself and all newspapermen—until -today. He felt sorry for himself because it no longer applied, but that -hardly helped.</p> - -<p>"Someone's coming," the voice behind McLeod said. He started to turn -and got three quarters of the way around when the parabeam hit him.</p> - -<p>After that, it was almost like watching a melodrama on television. He -could watch the action unfold. His sympathies might be directed first -one way, then another, but he had no part in the play. He was a statue, -standing upright as the snow drifted down and coated him with white. -His body-heat didn't escape the insulined jumper to melt it and in a -few moments he was an incredibly manlike snowman with a human face. The -last thing he wanted to do was stand there, frozen, and watch.</p> - -<p>He stood and watched.</p> - -<p>Half a dozen figures were clustered close by the white columns at the -front of Mayor Spurgess' house. Then, as if they were puppets and all -their strings had been pulled at once, they darted behind the columns.</p> - -<p>The <i>World</i> gunmen were caught in the open and knew it. Parabeams -hissed as they fell toward the ground and the snow's protection. Only -the shorter, heavier man tried to get up, waddling three or four yards -on his knees before a parabeam caught him too and froze him.</p> - -<p>Two figures detached themselves from the white columns and ran across -the snow toward McLeod, parabeams ready.</p> - -<p>"Hey, he looks familiar."</p> - -<p>"That's Darius McLeod, stupid. Familiar, the man says. They probably -caught him and froze him."</p> - -<p>A beam sucked the sleep from McLeod's limbs and he was soon massaging -his arms together. After two freezes in as many evenings, he'd really -have a parabeam hangover in the morning.</p> - -<p>"What about those three people, Mr. McLeod?" the man who had unfroze -him asked.</p> - -<p>"A natural," the other one said. "Here's our accident. Assault and -robbery and accidental death. We even have the assailants. Strip these -people of their <i>World</i> identification. I'll be right back—with the -mayor."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Newshounds might trick and maim and kill one another, McLeod knew, but -never frame other newspapermen for civil crime. You had to keep the -public happy with all newspaper people. The police, of course, never -investigated very thoroughly these days, since that would be poaching -on newspaper territory. They handled traffic very well, though.</p> - -<p>There was a commotion in front of the mayor's house, where only one -of the gunmen was visible. Presently the door opened. There was loud -talking, much pointing. The gunman's voice was pleading, the mayor's -was indignant. Finally, the mayor ducked inside and McLeod hoped he -would stay there. Soon he emerged, however, dressed in a jumper. He ran -along at the heels of the gunman and neared McLeod just as the other -man had finished removing identification cards from the three still -figures.</p> - -<p>"McLeod, is that you? I knew I could depend on you. You have no idea -how much better I'm able to relax now. No, sir. If you said I don't -have to worry, I don't have to. What's going on out here? He said you -wanted to see me but couldn't move from the spot. Something I can do? -What's wrong with them?"</p> - -<p>There were not three figures in the snow, but four. "Take a look," the -man with Mayor Spurgess said.</p> - -<p>The mayor waited for McLeod to answer him, then shrugged and crouched. -It was exactly as if he were still under the parabeam, McLeod realized. -There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do.</p> - -<p>The <i>Star-Times</i> gunmen had sized up the situation too well. The three -men from the <i>World</i> were as good as dead now, which would make it -close to impossible for McLeod to turn on the <i>Star-Times</i> and expect -help from Wainwright, even if that were what he wanted. He had better -play along. It was still a show on television and he could only watch. -But now he knew the outcome.</p> - -<p>The fourth still figure on the snow suddenly erupted into violent -motion. A leg snaked out, an arm—the mayor grunted and fell, staring -mutely at McLeod, surprised, offended and outrageously indignant the -moment before he died. A knife flashed quickly, expertly, gleaming for -a split second before it disappeared through the mayor's jumper.</p> - -<p>The standing gunman twirled his parabeam to full intensity and sprayed -the <i>World</i> men with what was now lethal radiation, halting involuntary -actions such as blinking—and breathing.</p> - -<p>The gunman smiled at McLeod. "Well, you have your story now. We'd -better get out of here while you phone for the police."</p> - -<p>McLeod had his story, all right. He felt sick. He would call the police -and then go write his story about how Mayor Spurgess had chased three -unidentified vandals from his house, only to be stabbed to death while -protecting his family. McLeod who was visiting the mayor on business, -had naturally joined in the chase, in time to overtake and kill the -unidentified vandals but not in time to save His Honor's life.</p> - -<p>The police investigation, if any, would fail to uncover anything.</p> - -<p>"Thanks a lot," McLeod said.</p> - -<p>"Don't mention it." The two gunmen ran to join their companions and -soon disappeared through the snow.</p> - -<p>In tomorrow's <i>Star-Times</i>, McLeod would be a hero.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER VI</p> - - -<p>"Enough snow for you?" Overman asked jovially as McLeod removed his -jumper the next morning in his office at the <i>Star-Times</i>. "We're ready -to stop it now because the <i>World</i> weather bureau finally owned up to -its red face. Thirty-two inches."</p> - -<p>McLeod nodded. He'd had trouble reaching the slidewalk through the -drifts and more trouble struggling through the few yards of high-piled -snow to the <i>Star-Times</i> building.</p> - -<p>"Rewrite showed me the story you sent in last night, Darius. Wonderful. -Someone over at the <i>World</i> must be biting his fingernails. They've got -to be ready for split second changes in the newspaper business, though. -If they don't, they're lost."</p> - -<p>"What's that little bit of homely philosophy leading up to?" McLeod -wanted to know. Overman rarely made his point without prefacing it with -some mundane generalization. The more important the point, McLeod knew -from experience, the triter the generalization.</p> - -<p>"We've done a little G-2'ing these last few weeks, Darius." Overman -seemed almost on the point of prancing nervously like an anxious -racehorse at the starting gate. "I couldn't tell you until it was -certain. Harry Crippens is a member of the Anti-Newspaper League." -Overman grinned like a yawning owl. "Close your mouth, Darius. Stop -gaping. It's the truth."</p> - -<p>"But that doesn't make sense, chief." McLeod figured it made very good -sense if Overman said so, but he needed time to collect his thoughts.</p> - -<p>"Dirty doings at the <i>Star-Times</i>," preached Overman. "It's -frightening, isn't it? If you can't trust your fellow reporters, just -who in the world can you trust? You see, it's not merely Crippens. -There's an Anti-News cell here.</p> - -<p>"They usually work in pairs, Darius. One to get the information, -another to see that editorial policy is not carried out. Don't ask -me why they do it. Mis-guided anarchistic tendencies, I suppose. The -first member of the pair very often poses as a turncoat with some -other newspaper."</p> - -<p>"I don't get you."</p> - -<p>"It's simple. That way, he can play two papers against each other -and try to make them both wrong. In this case, <i>she</i> can. You see, -Crippens' confederate is our number one co-respondent, Tracy Kent," -Overman finished melodramatically.</p> - -<p>"Tracy! That's incredible." <i>Don't think</i>, McLeod told himself. <i>Don't -think and let it show on your face. Just listen.</i></p> - -<p>"At this moment, the <i>World</i> believes Kent is on their payroll. -Kent keeps them informed of what's going on over here and draws two -salaries. Crippens is her executioner. Crippens, for example, sees to -it that Congressman Horner doesn't commit suicide."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Tracy had put two and two together with a blithe ease which had left -McLeod wondering. Tracy had seemed to be aware of the alternative -which Weaver Wainwright had offered him at the Fourth Estate. But -Tracy hadn't balked because she was a loyal member of the <i>Star-Times</i> -staff. She should have favored the plan, anyway, since it meant saving -Crippens' life. But she hadn't favored it at all.</p> - -<p>Because she'd held out hope for McLeod?</p> - -<p>"How did you find all that out?" McLeod demanded.</p> - -<p>"We suspected someone. We didn't know who. We planted television -receivers and let them talk. Darius, I think you know my position. -I'm a newspaperman because I think the public is so muddle-headed and -mediocre it can't make its own decisions. Democratic governments try -to make those decisions and fail because the people play too large a -role and mess things up. Totalitarian governments fail because they're -too obvious, especially when the guy next door happens to live in a -democracy.</p> - -<p>"The answer is the obvious evolution of the newspaper to policy-making -journalism. People don't associate us with policy-making any more than -they think short story writers or television script writers develop -schools of psychology. We're both before the fact and after the fact, -but they wouldn't believe that if we ran it in banner headlines.</p> - -<p>"That's what the Anti-Newspaper League is after. They don't want us to -look forward. They don't want us to predict the future and then make it -happen. They make inane pronouncements about the essential dignity of -man and the necessity for him to work out his own destiny. They sneer -at Ortega y Gasset and deify Tom Paine. They shun authoritarianism in -any form and blandly forget that Mr. Average Citizen has always yearned -for his little niche in a totalitarian system because he actually wants -decisions rained down on him like manna.</p> - -<p>"I hate them, Darius. It isn't logical, but I hate them. Between you -and me, I would like to strangle them with my bare hands, slowly, -forgetting I am a civilized man, forgetting even that we can still use -them. But the opportunity is a magnificent one. You could spend all -your life G-2'ing after Anti-News people and come up with nothing but -wrongos. From now on they'll be playing their little game where I can -watch it."</p> - -<p>"What about my obituary?" McLeod demanded. "It's the first of the week. -I thought you said we were going to substitute Crippens for me."</p> - -<p>"I did. I still do. Cripp we will have to sacrifice. But—I apologize -in advance, Darius, because I know you won't like this—our G-2'ing was -thorough. We received in your apartment, too."</p> - -<p>"Don't tell me you can't trust me?"</p> - -<p>"Calm down. That's just it, I can. The cell is spread thin at the -<i>Star-Times</i>, so thin that we'll have to watch our step until it's -uncovered. You see, Darius, you are going to take Crippens' place -in it. When Cripp dies Tracy will turn to someone for sympathy. If -it looks like you tried to save Cripp because you believed as he -did—well, I'm sure you see the possibilities."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McLeod nodded vaguely. Anti-News. He was playing the game, almost, the -way he felt. But he lacked the name. It was strange how you could amble -cheerfully through life accepting or ignoring certain things until -you woke up one morning and everything looked different. Whoever had -decided leopards don't change their spots was all wet.</p> - -<p>"... sorry if this sounds cloak-and-daggerish," Overman was saying, -"but don't tell anyone. I can trust you. If the conspiracy is as big -as I think, the good people at the <i>World</i>, the sensible ones, can -probably trust a man like Weaver Wainwright. The rest must be suspect."</p> - -<p>McLeod grinned. "Why trust me, chief?" he said easily, "I've never been -a bug for ideology either way."</p> - -<p>"That's precisely why. Newspapering is a job with you, but a good one. -You're our highest-paid reporter. You have a reputation to maintain. A -man gets muddle-headed if he starts delving too deeply into ideologies. -He's afraid to see black-and-white because the other muddle-heads -insist there are such things as grays. You follow?"</p> - -<p>"Yeah," said McLeod. He followed, all right. It was all right if you -thought for yourself, according to Overman, provided you didn't think -too hard. You could attend all the high-brow confabs you wanted, safe -in the security of your tailor-made answers. Never doubt. Never guess. -You know. You just know. This is so and this is not so and there's -never any in-between. The insistence on shadings of opinion between -truth and error was a stumbling-block in the path of knowledge. Gray -was for people who didn't know the truth about black-and-white.</p> - -<p>"Yes, I can trust you. Thank God for that."</p> - -<p>"I ought to get a raise," said McLeod, smiling and playing the role -Overman had selected for him.</p> - -<p>"Very funny. You ought to get a move on. We still have to worry about -Wainwright and his men. There's no telling when they'll strike."</p> - -<p>"So I have to strike first, at Crippens."</p> - -<p>"Naturally. Have you filled out an application on him?"</p> - -<p>"No," McLeod said easily, and raised a hand for silence when Overman -was about to start yelling. "It's too important. I want to do the job -myself. It's my life we're playing around with."</p> - -<p>"I don't know if I approve. There's something to be said for -professional efficiency. The gunmen know their work."</p> - -<p>"I don't care if you approve or not. It's my life."</p> - -<p>"You see, Darius. That's what I like about you. You always know where -you stand."</p> - -<p>"Thanks. I'll need some security, though."</p> - -<p>"Now I don't follow you."</p> - -<p>"Some bargaining power. In case I'm not as efficient as your gunmen. -The proof that Tracy Kent and Harry Crippens are Anti-Newspaper."</p> - -<p>"It's safe."</p> - -<p>"I've got to know more about it."</p> - -<p>"On the contrary. Simply carry this weapon with you: if there's -trouble, have them contact me. Or contact me yourself. But that would -ruin everything, Darius. I suppose if you have to bargain for your -life, you wouldn't care."</p> - -<p>"That's right. I wouldn't."</p> - -<p>Overman chuckled. "You're a good man."</p> - -<p>"And one who knows black from white, remember? Let's be honest with -each other, chief. You're lying to me. You really figure if I fail, I -fail. You wouldn't be willing to bargain in my behalf with what you -have, and you know it. If I can kill Crippens and give Wainwright his -substitute story and win Miss Kent's confidence, you'd love it. If I -can't, you'll try to find another way. Sure, you think I'm good. But -you know I'm expendable."</p> - -<p>Overman thumped him soundly on the back. "Darius, we should have been -brothers. Is there anything else?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. How long would you want me to play this Anti-News game?"</p> - -<p>"Until we get all the facts."</p> - -<p>"Too dangerous," said McLeod. "Unless you make it worth my while."</p> - -<p>Overman hadn't stopped grinning. "Maybe you will get a raise, at that."</p> - -<p>"Not maybe. Definitely. Twenty per cent."</p> - -<p>"Twenty?"</p> - -<p>"Twenty."</p> - -<p>"All right, Darius. Twenty it is. You'd sell your mother, wouldn't you?"</p> - -<p>"Don't have to worry about it. The Anti-Newspaper League hasn't that -kind of money. You're safe."</p> - -<p>"I knew it," Overman said. "I couldn't have picked a better man."</p> - -<p>"I'll keep you informed," said McLeod, and put on his jumper. He walked -out congratulating himself on the way he'd convinced Overman.</p> - -<p>Only trouble was, he now knew there was more than black-and-white in -the world but wasn't sure he knew what to do about it.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p class="ph1">CHAPTER VII</p> - - -<p>"I'm sorry," the recorder said when McLeod called Tracy's apartment. -"Miss Kent is not at home. Is there any message?"</p> - -<p>"No," said McLeod, then lied: "This is Harry Crippens talking."</p> - -<p>"Miss Kent left a message for you, Mr. Crippens," said the recorder. -"She will wait for you at the Fourth Estate. She says it is important."</p> - -<p>"Thank you," said McLeod. "If Miss Kent should check in, will you tell -her Darius wants to save Cripp's life if he can? Will you tell her -Darius has come to his senses?"</p> - -<p>"Darius wants to save Cripp's life if he can. Darius has come to his -senses. Yes, sir."</p> - -<p>McLeod had left the <i>Star-Times</i> after a hurried lunch in the newspaper -cafeteria. He'd placed the call to Tracy's apartment from his own -because the wires might or might not be tapped in his office.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he began cursing silently.</p> - -<p>Overman had rigged receivers in various apartments—including -Darius'—to uncover the Anti-News cell. If Overman had heard his -conversation with Tracy's recorder, Weaver Wainwright wouldn't be the -only one gunning for McLeod.</p> - -<p>He found the receiver rigged to his TV set, unhooked it, but the damage -had been done. He doubted that Overman would constantly monitor the -set, yet Overman would see the damning evidence eventually. McLeod -could save Cripp's life by simply not killing him, but then what? He -smiled grimly. It posed a considerable problem for Overman too, for the -City Editor wanted to dump a fat wrongo in the <i>World's</i> lap but -now would also want to see McLeod dead. One seemed to preclude the -other ... unless Overman decided to give McLeod a week of grace, then -kill him. McLeod was still smiling. Perhaps the situation confronting -the fictional lady-or-tiger man had been more aggravating, but it was -less deadly.</p> - -<p>McLeod taped a second parabeam to his right arm and took the escalator -to the roof and his copter.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"Hi," the weaponcheck girl greeted him as he entered the Fourth Estate. -"How are you today, Mr. McLeod?"</p> - -<p>"Never better." As she approached him, McLeod removed the first -parabeam from his trick sleeve and handed it to her. "I'm ticklish -today," he told her and saw that she was about to say something until -she noticed the folded bill wedged between trigger and trigger guard. -She nodded, patted his shoulders quickly without searching, and wagged -away. It happened all the time, McLeod knew. He wouldn't be the only -one.</p> - -<p>"You hurry up inside," the weaponcheck girl called over her bare -shoulder. "They're doing a combo-tease."</p> - -<p>As McLeod made his way through the darkened room, he saw a well-built -man and a delightfully built women performing the combo-tease on stage. -Sweat glistened on their sleek dark skins as red lights shifted and -flowed across the stage. It was more suggestive than French pictures, -combining features of an Apache dance and a conventional strip. It had -been outlawed everywhere but at the Fourth Estate and had everyone's -rapt attention.</p> - -<p>Everyone except Cripp and Tracy. McLeod found them in a distant corner -of the great room, hunched toward each other across a small table and -talking in low tones.</p> - -<p>"Mind?" McLeod asked.</p> - -<p>"You have your nerve," Tracy hissed at him, but people to left and -right were muttering angrily at them as the combo-tease neared its -conclusion. "Well, I guess you're harmless enough in here."</p> - -<p>"Sit down," Cripp said.</p> - -<p>"Overman knows about you two," McLeod told them quickly. "The works."</p> - -<p>"You mean that we're going to get married?" Tracy demanded. "It's no -secret."</p> - -<p>"I mean that you belong to the Anti-Newspaper League. Tracy, you're -pretending to spy on us for the <i>World</i>, he knows that, Cripp, you -thwart bad news when you can. You both belong to the Anti-Newspaper -League. To Overman, you're both anarchistic. He'd like to see you dead."</p> - -<p>The woman on stage had seemed spent but now rallied and held her own as -they danced a frenzied Apache battle from wing to wing. Tracy, who was -facing the stage, said, "That's positively lewd. We've all degenerated -so much, Cripp."</p> - -<p>McLeod shrugged. "Overman would say that's part of your Anti-News -tendencies."</p> - -<p>"And you?"</p> - -<p>McLeod grinned. "I'm not much for spectator sports."</p> - -<p>"No, I mean about the Anti-Newspaper League. I'm not admitting -anything, but I just wonder what you think."</p> - -<p>"You wouldn't believe me."</p> - -<p>"Why don't you try us, Darius?" Cripp suggested.</p> - -<p>"You don't have to admit anything," McLeod informed them. "Overman -plugged a receiver into your TV sets and monitored them. Mine too, by -the way. I called you a while ago. Which put me in hot water too."</p> - -<p>"You mean he'll monitor the call?" asked Cripp.</p> - -<p>"Maybe he already has. You can check with your recorder if you want to, -Tracy."</p> - -<p>"Tell me what you told the recorder?"</p> - -<p>"That I was going to try and save Cripp's life. That I had finally come -to my senses, I guess."</p> - -<p>"All you have to do to save Cripp's life is nothing. I was told by -someone on Lantrel's staff that you hadn't applied for Cripp's death."</p> - -<p>"Another part of the cell," McLeod mused. "Just how extensive is it?"</p> - -<p>"I wouldn't know," Tracy told him coolly. "Anyway, you said Overman -knows."</p> - -<p>"He does. I don't."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The Apache strippers had leaped from the stage and now were cavorting -acrobatically about the dance floor. A single red spot followed them -as they pounced after each other, working their way toward the rows of -tables and then among them. McLeod heard quick, eager breathing in the -shadowy audience.</p> - -<p>"I never knew they came off the stage," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>McLeod winked at her. "Maybe one of these days they'll want audience -participation."</p> - -<p>"Very funny. If you're telling us the truth, Darius, what are you going -to do?"</p> - -<p>"You tell me. Overman wanted me to kill Cripp, win your confidence and -take Cripp's place in the cell. I had to make it look like it wasn't -me who did the job. But if Overman monitored my TV, he'll realize I'm -not his boy. He'll have to do without an informant. He knows I'm wise -to him but probably doesn't want to know. Which means he'll have to act -fast."</p> - -<p>"But if he eliminates you, Wainwright and the <i>World</i> get their -scoop," Cripp pointed out.</p> - -<p>"I know, I can't figure it. Overman's got a man-sized problem, but so -have you. I don't think you have much time to leave the city. Get lost -somewhere. Change your names. Anything."</p> - -<p>Tracy bristled. "We haven't admitted a thing."</p> - -<p>"There's no time for that. Please, Tracy," Cripp pleaded. "I think -Darius is on our side. We're making a mistake if we reject him."</p> - -<p>"Unless I'm wrong," McLeod said, "Overman hasn't told anyone but me. He -just doesn't know who to trust."</p> - -<p>"So he settles for Mr. Judas Iscariot himself," Tracy said.</p> - -<p>Cripp slammed his hand down on the table and drew angry oaths from the -tables around them. "Cut it out," he said. "Let's listen to Darius. Can -you think of anything else to do?"</p> - -<p>"Well—"</p> - -<p>"If I'm the only one he told," McLeod went on, "and then if he found -out about me and decided to come here in a hurry, we can hope he hasn't -told anyone else. Chances are, he hasn't. If he found out he can't even -trust me, he won't know which way to turn, not until he clears this -whole mess up."</p> - -<p>"What are you driving at?" Tracy asked him.</p> - -<p>"Reporter, City Editor. It's close enough. Maybe Wainwright can still -get his story."</p> - -<p>"You mean Overman? You wouldn't dare."</p> - -<p>"It isn't just Cripp's life, or even yours, if you still have your mind -made up about me. It's my life too. If we can make Wainwright settle -for Overman, all this doesn't have to go any further."</p> - -<p>"What's your price?" Tracy demanded.</p> - -<p>"For Heaven's sake!" Cripp cried.</p> - -<p>"I can't blame her, Cripp. I was pretty nasty about it before, and I -tried to be pretty tricky as well. I'm still all mixed up. I think I -know where I stand now but I can't guarantee anything."</p> - -<p>"You mean after all this is over you're liable to change your mind -again?" Tracy asked him, giving Cripp an I-told-you-so smile.</p> - -<p>"No. Definitely not. At worst, I'll be neutral. At best—"</p> - -<p>"At best," Cripp finished for him enthusiastically, "you'll probably -be made City Editor in Overman's place. You're the obvious man for the -job, and if you could see your way clear to joining us, there's no -telling what we might accomplish. Don't you see it, Tracy?"</p> - -<p>"All I can see is the combo-tease. They'll be dancing on our table if -they come any closer."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The team struggled three tables away to a subtle, wild, barely -audible rhythm. The man had regained the offensive, but it had cost -him everything he wore except for a pair of tight trousers and one -billowing, ruffled sleeve which flapped ridiculously from shoulder to -wrist.</p> - -<p>At the last moment, McLeod thought he saw a leather strap under the -sleeve. The couple had reached their table; the man forced the woman -back over it, still dancing. The red spotlight winked out like a -snuffed candle flame.</p> - -<p>Tracy screamed.</p> - -<p>The audience had interpreted the darkness and Tracy's scream as the -act's final, breath-taking garnish and now buzzed in isolated knots of -whispered excitement before the applause rolled deafeningly across the -room.</p> - -<p>McLeod leaped to his feet, groping blindly in the darkness with his -hands. He heard Cripp shout Tracy's name and began to yell himself -for someone to turn on the lights. Something struck his head above -and behind the right ear and he felt himself falling to his knees. He -grabbed at air, then made contact with two bare legs. Still yelling, -he guessed it was the woman—then felt unseen hands tugging at his -hair, fingers raking his face. He got up and was grappling with a -supple-swift invisible opponent when the lights went on and blinded him.</p> - -<p>There were shouts and restraining arms and when he could see again the -woman dancer, now almost naked, was pointing an accusing finger at him. -"He deliberately attacked me!" she wailed.</p> - -<p>McLeod wiped blood from his face and said, "That's crazy." These were -more than combo-strippers, he knew. They might be in Wainwright's -pay or Overman's. Either way, he was in for it. "They're a couple of -gunmen," he said.</p> - -<p>The male dancer was covering Tracy and Cripp with his parabeam, which -had been hidden under the flapping right sleeve. "See?" McLeod said to -the circle of people around them. "He's armed."</p> - -<p>The crowd parted to admit the weaponcheck girl to its center. With a -quick, deft movement she found McLeod's second parabeam, withdrew it -and told him, "So are you."</p> - -<p>More figures joined them, in police uniforms, the polished leather -harness for twin parabeams creaking on each pair of hips, the gaudy -blue and gold uniforms starched stiffly. "You're under arrest," one of -them told McLeod. "You'll have to come with us."</p> - -<p>"You're no more police than I am. Since when do police do anything more -than direct traffic?"</p> - -<p>"You'll have to come with us, sir."</p> - -<p>"And then get killed trying to escape? Keep your hands off me."</p> - -<p>At that moment, Weaver Wainwright made his way inside the wide circle -of onlookers, his long sad nose drooping over his upper lip as he -smiled at McLeod. "When our police reporter said it was you, I rushed -right over."</p> - -<p>"Sure," McLeod said bitterly. "Police reporter. Why don't you admit -these people are a bunch of your killers? You've really tailor-made -your accident this time, Wainwright. I guess I'll be killed trying to -escape."</p> - -<p>Wainwright regarded him with bland curiosity. "What I want to know is -why you attacked the girl."</p> - -<p>"He didn't attack her," Tracy said. "I was right here."</p> - -<p>"In pitch darkness," the weaponcheck girl reminded her. Apparently -McLeod's bribe had been topped.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McLeod let his eyes scan the crowd, seeking a friendly face. Here were -the minor luminaries of the fourth estate gazing upon their fallen -idol. For McLeod, like Weaver Wainwright, had been almost a legendary -figure. But Wainwright had engineered the fall and now, like those -South American fish which can strip the flesh from a man in seconds, -they clustered about McLeod's social corpse. They sensed his demise as -surely as if it had been something physical. They waited with avid eyes -at the bottom of the ladder for him to fall. Then each figure would -ascend one rung upward and so, each with his own capable hands and -thinkwriter, control human history a little more.</p> - -<p>If only he could somehow contact Overman, McLeod thought. How much time -did he have? He wasn't sure but thought it could be measured in minutes.</p> - -<p>"I'd like to call my City Editor," McLeod said.</p> - -<p>Wainwright chuckled. "A good reporter to the last. But I see Crippens -and Miss Kent here."</p> - -<p>"It's my right."</p> - -<p>"The <i>Star-Times</i> will get its story. Won't you see to that, Mr. -Crippens?"</p> - -<p>McLeod stared mutely at Cripp, who finally said, "How do you know <i>I</i> -didn't attack the woman?"</p> - -<p>The stripper pouted and pointed a manicured finger at McLeod. "It was -that man."</p> - -<p>"You see?" Wainwright demanded.</p> - -<p>"No," Cripp told him. "It was dark. She couldn't tell. If McLeod is -arrested, they'll have to take me, too."</p> - -<p>A muscle twitched in Wainwright's face, tugging the long nose down -and to the left. "Very well. But Miss Kent still represents the -<i>Star-Times</i>."</p> - -<p>Cripp shook his head. "A co-respondent?"</p> - -<p>"She's capable."</p> - -<p>"Too damned capable," McLeod said. "I have positive proof that Tracy -Kent is employed as a spy by the <i>World</i>." He turned on Wainwright with -what he hoped would pass for righteous indignation. "Is that the kind -of fair break you try to give the opposition?"</p> - -<p>The encircling crowd stirred, trembling with whispers. McLeod pressed -his advantage by jabbing a finger at the captain of police. "I demand -the right to call my newspaper."</p> - -<p>"Well, I don't know." The man looked to Wainwright for help.</p> - -<p>"Never mind him," McLeod said. "You tell me. I'm within my rights as a -newspaperman, or wouldn't you know about that?"</p> - -<p>Someone brought out a portable phone and thrust it at McLeod. The -captain of police looked at Wainwright, who shook his head quickly from -side to side. It was all right. Sure it was all right. McLeod could -make no accusations in public, the law said. If he started, he would -forfeit his right to complete the call. He could tell Overman that -Tracy and Cripp had him, instead, but he doubted if the City Editor -would act on that basis.</p> - -<p>Wainwright grinned. "There's your phone, McLeod. We're waiting for you -to call."</p> - -<p>"Thanks a lot," McLeod told him, and hurled the instrument at his face.</p> - -<p>He heard a thud and a startled oath and didn't wait to see the results. -He whirled and struck out with the edge of his hand, slicing it -expertly at the police captain's Adam's Apple. McLeod vaulted over the -gagging man as he went down and plunged, head tucked against his chest -and knees kicking high, into the first rank of the crowd. He fought -elbows, fists, shoulders, legs, warm human breaths, reaching the front -of the room and sprinting past the weaponcheck arsenal and out into the -green, summery glade that surrounded the anachronism of stone and glass -that was the Fourth Estate.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Protected by a force field, the grounds around the Estate knew nothing -but summer. But elsewhere, McLeod thought as he plunged on toward the -copter field, man's control over the elements vied for headlines.</p> - -<p>McLeod saw the figure of a man up ahead as he rounded the final turn -in the path, still sprinting. The man stood squarely in front of him, -blocking his way with a drawn parabeam.</p> - -<p>"Did he come this way?" McLeod cried. "Talk, man! Did McLeod come this -way?"</p> - -<p>"No, sir. He, wait a minute...."</p> - -<p>But McLeod was upon him, using the same judo-cut that had floored the -captain of police. McLeod wrenched the parabeam from the man's fingers -as he fell, then found his copter and was airborne by the time the -vanguard of his pursuers appeared as tiny dots on the field below.</p> - -<p>Less than an hour later, McLeod landed on the roof of the <i>Star-Times</i> -building, where a slowly circling plow was scooping up the snow, -digesting it and spitting out great jets of steam. McLeod doubled the -speed of the escalator with his own flying feet and was soon striding -across the City Room, nodding briefly to the sychophantic waves and -smiles which greeted him as the <i>Star-Times'</i> ace reporter.</p> - -<p>"Chief," he said, entering Overman's glass-walled office without -bothering to knock, "the wolves are after your fair-haired boy—but -good!"</p> - -<p>"Wainwright?" Overman guessed, drumming nervous fingers on his desk.</p> - -<p>"Wainwright. Something about attacking the female member of a combo -tease. If his police ever had a chance to take me, I'd have been killed -trying to get away."</p> - -<p>"So, what happened?"</p> - -<p>"What happened, the man says. They're probably on their way here right -now. In order for me to get away, Cripp had to claim he attacked the -girl too."</p> - -<p>"That's wonderful. Doesn't that take care of Mr. Crippens for us? -Well, doesn't it? Incidentally, that was a stroke of genius on your -part, telling Tracy Kent you had a change of heart <i>before</i> anything -happened. Paving the way, eh?"</p> - -<p>"Something like that," McLeod mumbled. Then Overman had monitored his -call to Tracy's apartment, but had misinterpreted what he heard—</p> - -<p>"Sit down, Darius. There. Are you armed?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, but you don't think they'd try to take me right here, do you? -That would be an open declaration of war." McLeod took out the parabeam -and placed it on the edge of Overman's desk.</p> - -<p>"It would be war—unless I surrendered you to them." Overman scooped -up the parabeam and thumbled it to high intensity. "At first I thought -that was a stroke of genius on your part, but I wasn't sure. So I -had you followed. Your conversation with Crippens and Tracy Kent was -ingenius, all right. But it puts us on opposite sides now, doesn't it?"</p> - -<p>McLeod had never seen Overman so calm. His fingers no longer drummed -their incessant rhythm on the desk, his legs were still. He sat -motionless, like a tri-di picture of himself. McLeod said, "Not at all. -I only wanted to gain their confidence."</p> - -<p>"The one thing that bothers me is this: it looks like I'm going to give -Weaver Wainwright his story after all, although there's a chance I -can save something for the <i>Star-Times</i>. I suspect he'll take you off -somewhere and have you killed, but the moment he leaves this office -with you, you'll be denounced in the <i>Star-Times</i>. Wainwright won't be -killing a top reporter. He'll be killing a member of the Anti-Newspaper -League."</p> - -<p>"You're crazy," McLeod said. "It might have sounded bad, but it was -all part of the same thing. I wanted to gain their confidence and—"</p> - -<p>"And offer me in your place to Wainwright's hatchetmen? That's -interesting."</p> - -<p>"I was lying to them."</p> - -<p>"No. You're lying to me. I'll tell you this, Darius. It comes as -a great disappointment. Suddenly, all at once, a man finds his -organization is riddled with subversives. That's bad enough, but at -least he has one man he can trust. He thinks. He thinks, Darius. But -he's wrong there, too. Now he can trust no one. Perhaps he'll have to -fire his entire staff and start from the beginning again. But it's the -one man, the Judas, who hurts most. Even if Wainwright gets you and -gets his story—and I get mine—I'll never be able to trust anyone -again. Don't you see the position you've put me in? I'm a lonely man, -Darius."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>McLeod stood up and leaned across the desk. "We've both been playing -God all our lives. What do you think happens when a God loses his -worshippers?"</p> - -<p>"I haven't lost them. Just the acolytes. There are others."</p> - -<p>"There are the people," McLeod said. "Waiting for the medical cures -we promise them but never give. The farmers, praying to their own God -while we ruin their crops capriciously to scoop the <i>World</i>. The dead -citizens of a dozen bombed out cities in a dozen unnecessary wars. The -people who haven't read Ortega y Gasset and maybe never even heard -of him and can't be convinced they're too stupid to seek their own -destinies."</p> - -<p>"Ortega was right. Mass man can't discriminate. He's incapable of -logical, creative thought. He blunders from catastrophe to catastrophe -and grovels at the feet of demagogues."</p> - -<p>"He can't be herded and led to slaughter."</p> - -<p>"He can't be the master of his own fate, you fool!"</p> - -<p>"Perhaps not. But there are people who can create, who can lead. People -who pave the way and let the masses follow where they lead."</p> - -<p>"What do you think we do? We pave the way. We make the future."</p> - -<p>"There's a difference."</p> - -<p>"I can't see it."</p> - -<p>"You don't want to. The truly creative man merely does his work. The -masses will follow of their own free will. Maybe they'll follow the -wrong leader as often as not, but we've still come a long way in a few -thousand years. It's wrong if they're led, or pushed, or tricked or—"</p> - -<p>"Sit down, Darius. Don't move. The trouble with you anti-news people -is you're too romantic. You think because God or Nature created man at -the top of the evolutionary ladder, man is good, man can do nothing but -move forward in the long run. You think it's a mistake for one man—or -a group of men, or an institution—to channel that movement.</p> - -<p>"But of all the institutions in man's civilization, the newspaper is -the most logical one for the job. We inform, Darius. We are the essence -of life. Life perceives and, after perceiving transmits information. Or -builds machines to do the job. Sensation, perception, information—the -same thing. We're at the top. We belong here."</p> - -<p>"Perception should be objective, un-colored. But there's no sense -talking to you."</p> - -<p>"Perception is never objective, my dear Darius. An individual -perceives. Some men are tone-deaf, others color-blind. We all taste -the same foods, liking some and disliking others. I say the newspaper -belongs on the top like this. I say our creation of news is no -different from the hundred varied opinions of a hundred members of -the rabble. Unless it's better. We're a cohesive force, Darius. We -simplify. We unite."</p> - -<p>"You hamper and destroy."</p> - -<p>"We don't rule by force. Have they ever tried to overthrow us? Have -they? You see, they don't dislike us. They have faith in us. They can -grow roots and feel secure. They don't have a myriad of possibilities -confronting them. They have only two on any given subject, except in -purely local situations which we don't consider important. Either the -<i>Star-Times</i> is right, or the <i>World</i> is."</p> - -<p>"Why are you telling me all this?"</p> - -<p>"It's very important to me. I believed in you, Darius. I still think -you've made a mistake. While it's too late now—you see, we can't -really control <i>all</i> events, can we?—I would like to hear you admit -your mistake. I can never trust anyone again."</p> - -<p>"If I admit it?"</p> - -<p>"I'll thank you...."</p> - -<p>"And hand me over to Weaver Wainwright?"</p> - -<p>"And hand you over to Weaver Wainwright."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>There was a disturbance outside, the sound of running feet in the City -Room, of many voices. Overman cocked his head to one side, listening -to the tiny receiver in his ear then picking up his microphone hose -and saying, "In a moment. That's right, I said let them in. But give me -five minutes." He dropped the hose. "They're here for you, Darius."</p> - -<p>"I gathered."</p> - -<p>"Would you make a man who once was your friend happy before you go? -Just tell me you were wrong. Tell me if you had your way over again -you would remain loyal to me even if you were confronted with the same -faulty philosophical notions."</p> - -<p>"At the point of a parabeam? What good would it do?"</p> - -<p>"Forget the parabeam. I'm two people now. I'm guarding you and I'll -kill you if you come any closer to me, but I'm also pleading with you. -I'm asking you to give me my salvation."</p> - -<p>"I wonder which one is stronger," McLeod said, standing again and -leaning across the desk. "Why does it mean so much to you, chief? Let -me tell you. Is it because you have doubts yourself and want me to -resolve them for you?"</p> - -<p>"Keep back, I'm warning you. That isn't it at all. You've made me lose -my faith in people."</p> - -<p>"I thought you didn't have any."</p> - -<p>"In a few people. Please, Darius. Don't come any closer. A man has to -trust someone."</p> - -<p>"You can't do anything about your doubts. You're hoping I can."</p> - -<p>"I'm going to kill you if you come any closer." Overman was still -standing like a statue, the parabeam an extension of his right hand. -It was as if he would never move again unless McLeod freed him with a -word. It was as if the heart too had stopped its beating and only the -lips were alive, the pleading lips, begging for a reprieve.</p> - -<p>McLeod leaped across the desk, his middle slamming down on the hard -surface, his diaphragm squeezing all the air from his lungs. His -fingers closed on Overman's wrist and forced it back as the parabeam -hissed from his cheek.</p> - -<p>Now the lips were still. Now the muscles which had remained so inert -for many moments were writhing with activity, each individual cell -adding its strength to the whole, to the wiry arms, the thin legs, -the twisting, heaving torso. The only sound was the harsh rasping of -Overman's breath as they grappled, tumbling over and over, rolling -across the floor.</p> - -<p>The parabeam was between them, separating their chests. Overman butted -with his head, bit, gouged, used his knees and elbows while he held -the weapon. The lungs filled with air—McLeod could feel the torso -lifting, the rib-cage expanding. The mouth opened to scream for help....</p> - -<p>McLeod got a hand over it, felt teeth clamp on his fingers, very white, -very sharp. The mouth opened again as McLeod rolled suddenly clear to -avoid an up-thrusting knee.</p> - -<p>Knee hit elbow and hand tightened convulsively. The parabeam hissed -against Overman's chest and up, bathing his chin and face and the lips -which, instead of screaming, formed the words "tell me" and then closed -slowly. Afterwards, McLeod always thought Overman's ears must have -retained their sentience longest as the man died, waiting for an answer -which would never come.</p> - -<p>The door opened. People stood around, looking down at them. Wainwright. -The phony police. Tracy and Cripp. Some <i>Star-Times</i> security agents.</p> - -<p>McLeod stood up slowly, his own muscles twitching. He looked at -Wainwright, then pointed to Overman's body on the floor and said, -"There's your story. You were modest in your prediction. Not a -reporter, but the City Editor. Dead. And listen to me, Wainwright. It's -the only story you'll ever get. Try anything else and there'll be open -war between our papers. You understand?"</p> - -<p>Wainwright considered, head down, arms folded in front of him, long -nose hiding lips from that angle. "They'll probably make you City -Editor," he mused. "I'll take the story. You're in the clear, McLeod."</p> - -<p>"I want to be exonerated from that false charge."</p> - -<p>But Wainwright shook his head. "Do it yourself. You have a newspaper, -too. Incidentally, how did Overman die?"</p> - -<p>"Say he was looking for something, something important—so important -that when he couldn't find it he killed himself."</p> - -<p>"That's no story."</p> - -<p>"It's a story," said McLeod, "We can make it a story."</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>"There are hundreds of us," Tracy said later. "All over the country. -All over the world. We're badly organized. We need organization. You're -in a position to give it to us."</p> - -<p>"Not overtly," Cripp warned. "But under cover at the beginning, until -we build up strength. We'll have to re-indoctrinate young reporters and -then forget about indoctrination when we can. We'll be fighting a war -all our lives."</p> - -<p>"Men like Overman and Wainwright are the alternatives," McLeod said. -"I think even Overman knew, at the end, that he was wrong. But it went -against everything he ever thought or believed. I almost could have -been another Overman."</p> - -<p>"You're not," Tracy said. "You just had to be goosed."</p> - -<p>"It's going to be interesting," McLeod told them. "We'll still predict. -To stay in business, we'll have to predict, at least to start with. -But we'll give our scientists and social workers a free hand, and our -predictions will all be practical. Do you realize there hasn't been a -substantial scientific discovery put to use in the last fifty years?"</p> - -<p>Cripp seemed worried. "Their approach is more sensational. They'll draw -the readers. But we have to—to stay in business."</p> - -<p>"That was your trouble all along," McLeod said. "You were a bunch of -snipers. I think you're wrong. What's not sensational about a trip to -the moon or a cure for cancer or controlled weather that actually helps -the farmers or campaigning for the better man in an election because he -truly has something to offer? We're liable to put the <i>World</i> right out -of business."</p> - -<p>"We can try," said Tracy, smiling.</p> - -<p>"Not you, young lady. No more co-respondents. How would you like to be -a bonafide social worker?"</p> - -<p>But Tracy squeezed Cripp's hand and said, "No, thank you. I'd rather be -a housewife."</p> - -<p>McLeod thought he'd have to settle for loving both of them like a -brother—then realized he'd be too busy to do anything of the sort.</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEWSHOUND ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. 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