Tracy Kent was long and almost lean with hips angular rather than rounded and the clean lines of her long-striding legs accentuated by the tight sheath of skirt as she walked with McLeod toward the elevator. She was all woman unless you happened to look at her a certain way, when you caught a glimpse of something coltish, almost like Peter Pan, in the way she carried herself or smiled at you. She did not look like a vamp, thought McLeod, which helped explain why she was such a successful co-respondent.
"One of these days I'm going to stop feeling like a brother toward you," McLeod promised as they climbed into his copter on the roof.
"You're flattering but tardy, Mr. McLeod. I'm going to marry the guy."
"Crippens?"
"Don't look at me that way. He's your friend, too." Tracy grinned as the rotors flashed above them, then pouted. "Darius, do we have to go to the Press Club for lunch?"
"Mixing business with pleasure, I guess. Got to see some people. Why, does someone bother you over there?"
"That Weaver Wainwright, always staring at me like he wants to sit down at his thinkwriter and let the world know what it's like with a co-respodent. Me."
"Wainwright's one of the men I want to see."
"The Star-Times' hot-shot reporter hob-nobbing with that riff-raff from the World?"
"You named it," Darius McLeod said as their copter rose up from the roof of the Star-Times building and retreated from the checkerboard pattern of other copters resting on their landing squares. "Why the sour face?"