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.