The Push of a Finger

by Alfred Bester

I was surprised to find almost everybody was in. I slipped into my place and upped with my feet and then took a look around. Every sandal showed except the pair that should have been opposite me, so I settled back and shut my eyes. That was where the Trib man should have been parked, and I certainly couldn't talk without my opposition being there to contradict me.

The Post said: "What makes, Carmichael?"

I said: "Ho-hum—"

The Post said: "Don't sleep, baby, there's big things cookin'."

The Ledger said: "Shuddup, you know the rules—" He pointed to the vacant segment of table.

I said: "You mean the law of the jungle."

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.