The _Record_, who happened to be the _Ledger's_ opposition, said: "Old
Bobbus left. He ain't coming in no more."
"How come?"
"Got a Stereo contract. Doing comedy scenarios."
I thought to myself: "Oi, that means another wrestling match." You see,
whenever new opposition reporters get together, they're supposed to
have a symbolic wrestling match. I said supposed. It always turns into
a brawl with everybody else having the fun.
"Well," I said, "this new Hogan probably doesn't know the ropes yet. I
guess I'll have to go into training. Anybody seen him? He look strong?"
They all shook their heads and said they didn't know him. "O.K., then
let's gab without him--"
The _Post_ said: "Your correspondent has it that the pot's a-boilin'.
Every bigwig in town is in there." He jabbed his thumb toward the main
offices.
* * * * *
We all gave the door a glance, only, like I always did, I tried to
knock it in with a look. You see, although all of us came down to the
Prog Building every day, none of us knew what was inside. Yeah, 's'
fact. We just came and sat and listened to the big shots and went away.
Like specters at the feast. It griped all of us, but me most of all.
I would dream about it at night. How there was a Hyperman living in the
Prog Building, only he breathed chlorine and they kept him in tanks.
Or that they had the mummies of all the great men of the past which
they reanimated every afternoon to ask questions. Or it would be a cow
in some dreams that was full of brains and they'd taught it to "moo"
in code. There were times when I thought that if I didn't get upstairs
into the Prog Building I'd burst from frustration.