"We have our Marco Polo, our Columbus, our Wright Brothers and our Lindbergh. Now, by the grace of God, we have our George Everson!"
"Step right up, folks! Get your souvenir programs here! And don't forget your dark glasses for the take-off. Special today—only one dollar!"
A clock struck one.
"No," said the stiffly polite girl, "the city editor isn't in. No, our reporters are covering the flight. Sorry."
A clock struck two.
"Sorry."
Jeffrey sighed. What else was there? The Research Bureau. The Department of Defense, the Pentagon. The Times, The Herald, The Post. He hadn't wanted to take his story to the newspapers, but they had given him a last, futile hope. Now, even they had refused to listen.
There was still The Mirror. The twilight news. The love nests, the exposés, the screaming headlines that most papers were saving for the second coming of Christ.
Jeffrey found himself walking up dark, thinly carpeted stairs, pushing a faded swinging door. Then someone was leading him forward. Sounds of clacking typewriters and rustling papers filled the air.