Justin heard Doris' tortured sobbing long before he reached the top flight. Trying to hurry, his legs buckled. The long tramp across George Washington Bridge, the nine miles down the west face of Manhattan; the skirting of hysterical, shouting mobs; the senseless crushing to death of women under their feet ... no wonder he was exhausted.
And there was Austin's speech. At Times Square, the mob had hanged him in effigy and wrecked his campaign headquarters. It was there, in the red glare of a burning building, that Hackett reached his decision.
"Okay," he'd said. "I'm still sore as hell with Austin, but we'll go along. I'll call McPhail and the boys tomorrow. This is only providing, of course, that Doris turns out all right."
Justin reached his landing and swung into the corridor. Ahead, a door opened and the midwife flitted out.
Doris was shrieking now. It tore at his heart. As he reached his door, the shrieking stopped. Doris whimpered:
"It's a dwarf, I tell you! Oh Justin, how could you?"
Justin nodded at the midwife. Her answering nod was assuring.
"Rotten I'm late." He crossed to his table. From a drawer he procured a bottle, poured green fluid into a glass, stepped to the bed, held it to Doris' lips. Her eyes were wide and frightened.