"Because I read COMING EVENTS, Darius. Do you think Wainwright's been assigned the job?"
"It's a damned good guess. He just got back from overseas. He's been sopping up spirits like a blotter over at the club and making nasty noises while waiting for a new job. This is probably his baby."
"Why, Darius?"
"Because he's their number one boy."
"No. I mean, why you?"
McLeod shrugged. "Does there have to be a reason? It's good copy for them. The Star-Times loses a guy who's been around, too. That's the newspaper business, Tracy. Don't look for any reason."
"Don't be so calm about it. What's Overman going to do?"
McLeod considered the question as he brought the copter down expertly through the lanes of local traffic here at the edge of the city. Off in the distance, rank on rank of hemispherical suburban homes marched off, in orderly rows, to the eastern horizon. The Press Club, almost directly below them now, had snipped half a dozen square miles from the patterned picture. It was castle, game preserve and sylvan retreat not for one monarch, but for hundreds. Newshounds, newshens, gunmen. Flashing letters swam up at them from the green woodland, blinking on and off garishly—THE FOURTH ESTATE.
If he told her Overman had failed to offer any protection, she'd realize another alternative had been selected. It would be better if he lied. "What's Overman going to do?" he repeated her question. "The usual. I'll be protected. Don't worry about me."
"But if Wainwright's all they say, he's like a bloodhound. Be careful, Darius."