They did. In spite of everything, McLeod had to admire Wainwright. In the old days, nations went to war for economic reasons, over diametrically opposed political philosophies, because of religion. Today, a sharp reporter dug deep to unearth closeted skeletons and moral potsherds and literally blackmailed a chief of state into war. Wainwright was sharp, all right. History might one day write up the whole series of twenty-second century wars as Blackmail Wars, but meanwhile the U. N. could only gnash its collective teeth while Wainwright picked up a fattened paycheck.
"I'll bet you're proud of yourself," Tracy said.
"I don't see why not. Kitrick will be reamed, my dear."
"And so will a few million innocent people."
"Perhaps you weren't fooling when you mentioned the Anti-Newspaper League. But of course, you're pulling my leg."
"I'm a co-respondent," Tracy said coldly. "I don't have to turn cartwheels over your end of the newspaper game."
"Tracy," McLeod said. This was one facet of the girl's character he'd never seen before. He could almost see the gears meshing into place inside Wainwright's skull. He didn't mind talk which bordered on the subversive, as long as it came from Tracy, who was quite outspoken about a lot of things, but Wainwright might have other ideas.
But Wainwright said, blandly, "From a moral standpoint you carve out your pound of flesh every now and then too, my dear. Or don't you think framing innocent men in compromising circumstances is immoral?"
"You wouldn't understand the difference," Tracy said.
"It is a difference of degree, not kind."