For the space of a minute the small-eyed man was silent. His fingers toyed with the stone and the photograph.
Finally he murmured, "Suppose I publish your story. How much do you want for it?"
To Jeffrey, the words were like April sunshine streaking into a cobwebbed winter attic.
"You—you want to use the story? You believe me?"
"I didn't say I believe it. I don't give a damn whether it's true or not. My job is to sell newspapers. I asked how much you want for it."
"Nothing," Jeffrey said softly.
The small-eyed man grunted. "We could flood the city with the afternoon edition. People are buying anything with a moon angle. The Russians wouldn't shout for joy, but there shouldn't be any harm done at this late date."
His eyes brightened. "We might get away with it. We've got your stone. We could demand that Everson locate the place where you got it and either prove or disprove your story. Why, that'd be good for months!"
He laughed. "What a damper we'll put on this celebration! We'll make the city seem like a morgue. It's a dirty, lousy trick, but by God it'll sell papers!"