Jeffrey leaned forward, squinting. "A dirty, lousy trick? What do you mean?"
"Skip it." The man's enthusiasm was rising. He was like fizzing soda in a thumb-stoppered, shaken bottle. "We got to get this story in print. Hey, Marty! Get the dicto-typer over here! I've been waiting all my life to yell stop those presses. Marty! Stop those goddamn presses!"
"What did you mean?" Jeffrey insisted. "How can telling people the truth be a dirty, lousy trick?"
The small-eyed man laughed again. "You don't think folks'll like this story, do you? You don't think they'll feel like celebrating when they read this, do you? It's a cinch they won't start cheering you for what you did almost twenty years ago! Say, wait'll Everson sees that moon pic plastered on my front page. There's an angle! A pic of Everson's expression! Hey, Marty! Get me—"
Restlessly, Jeffrey rose and shuffled to a window. One of the city's myriad parades, like a battalion of colored ants, was streaming down the street.
The small-eyed man yelled, "Come on, let's have that story again! This time it's for publication."
Jeffrey didn't answer. Odd thoughts were stirring in deep recesses of his mind.
"Come on! Let's have that story!"
Jeffrey stared out the window, a far-away gaze in his eyes. "Do—do you suppose I was the only one who remembered? There must be others. I couldn't be the only one."