Charlie Jingle felt his guts deflate in a rush.
"Yeah," he said, dead-toned. "I see."
"What you gonna do?"
"I dunno. I got it set up with Galaxy Films to be waitin' in New York Rocket-Port with cameras. Couple of friends of mine are gonna fake a shootin' with me when I get there. Guess I've got no choice. I'll have to go through with it now."
"Okay now," said Rabbit Markey. "Now lemme go and get ulcers over the cars." He gave Charlie his hand and they shook slowly.
"Take care, kid—and thanks."
"Nahhh! Forget it! Forget you even saw me here! But don't forget what I told you. Harry Belok's got friends in LA, too. I got racing-ulcers, but I don't mind bein' alive with them. You get me?"
Charlie Jingle nodded again, and Rabbit Markey walked out into the roar of the Jet-Races. Charlie Jingle looked down at the ticket in his hand, ripped it in two, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.
Outside, he hailed a cab.
To board the Eastbound Rocket would have been to play into the very hands of his enemies. And he needed time to think—to figure his way out of the fix that had been planned for him. Perhaps by avoiding the Rocket trip, he would avoid the pre-planned shooting, the filming of which was also pre-set, and so avoid the press, and whatever consequent notoriety would follow the whole affair at the Rocket-Port.