"So?" the older man shrugged. "Half hour flight. Hop in."
"I don't understand," the cub said.
"What? Me offering you a lift."
"No," said the cub. "Back there in the station house. You know."
"You mean the deAngelis?"
"Not that exactly," said the cub. "I understand a deAngelis board; everybody broadcasts emotions, and if they're strong enough they can be received and interpreted. It's the cops I don't understand. I thought any reading over eighty was dangerous and had to be looked into, and anything over ninety was plain murder and had to be picked up. Here they been ignoring eighties and nineties all night long."
"You remember that children's story you wrote last Christmas about an Irish imp named Sean O'Claus?" his companion asked him.
"Certainly," the cub said scowling. "I'll sell it some day."
"You remember the Fashion Editor killed it because she thought 'See-Ann' was a girl's name, and it might be sacrilegious."
"You're right I remember," the cub said, his voice rising.