They got four hundred and ten all told. The whole little regiment was mustered before headquarters and the C-S made a beautifully concocted speech about a criminal and a crime that had to be prevented and hoopus-gadoopus, I forget most of it. Naturally we couldn't let them know about the Prog Building any more than we could the citizens—and I suppose you understand why the secret had to be kept.
You don't, eh? Well, for the benefit of the hermit from the Moon I'll explain that, aside from the important matter of Stability, there's the very human fact that the Prog would be besieged by a million people a day looking for fortunetelling and hot tips on the races. Most important of all, there's the question of death. You can't let a man know when and how he's going to die. You just can't.
There wasn't any sense keeping the news from the papers because everyone around Central Park was going to know something was up. While the C-S was giving instructions, I slipped into a booth and asked for multi-dial. When most of the reporters' faces were on segments of the screen, I said: "Greetings, friendlies!"
They all yelled indignantly because I'd been out of sight for three days.
I said: "No more ho-hum, lads. Carmichael sees all and tells all. Hot-foot it up to the north end of Central Park in an hour or so. Big stuff!"
The Journal said: "Take you three days to find that out?"
"Yep."
The Post said: "Can it, Carmichael. The last time you sent us north, the south end of the Battery collapsed."
"This is no gag. I'm giving it to you straight."
"Yeah?" The Post was belligerent. "I say Gowan!"