There was one odd note in the melodic scheme: We had never had a claim for any kind of automobile accident from Granite City.
I shut off the projector.
It may be best to keep an open mind, but I have found in practice that you have to have some kind of working theory which you must proceed to prove is either right or wrong.
Tentatively, I decided that for generations the citizens of Granite City had been in an organized conspiracy to defraud Manhattan-Universal and its predecessors of hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars in false accident claims.
Maybe they made their whole livelihood off us before the quarry opened up.
I used my pocket innercom and had my secretary get me a plane reservation and a gun.
After so many profitable decades, Granite City wasn't going to take kindly to my spoil-sport interference.
The Absinthe Flight to Springfield was jolly and relatively fast. Despite headwinds we managed Mach 1.6 most of the way. My particular stewardess was a blonde, majoring in Video Psychotherapy in her night courses. I didn't have much time to get acquainted or more than hear the outline of her thesis on the guilt purgings effected by The Life and Legend of Gary Cooper. The paunchy businessman in the next lounge was already nibbling the ear of his red-haired hostess. He was the type of razorback who took the girls for granted and aimed to get his money's worth. I gave Helen, the blonde, a kiss on the cheek and began flipping through the facsimiles in my briefcase as we chute-braked for a landing at the Greater Ozarks.
It took me a full five minutes to find out that I couldn't take a copter to Granite City. Something about downdrafts in the mountains.