"Then don't just sit there."
"What do you want me to do, hold your hand? Of course the World's gunning for you. Great story for them, and they also kill off our star reporter in the process. If they get away with it."
"Damn it!" McLeod exploded. "This is the twenty-second century. If the World says I'm going to meet with a fatal accident, then my life's in danger." McLeod winced at his own words. In a matter of minutes he had been reduced to the mayor's level and he didn't like it.
"Counter-prognostication has already taken steps, Darius. Don't go off the deep end on me. It happens like this every time. Even a top-flight reporter sheds his own sophistication when the story's about himself."
"How do you expect me to take it?"
"Just relax, that's all."
"Maybe you want me to write my own obituary."
"Don't try so hard to be funny. Excuse me." Overman cocked his head again and listened, then pulled out his microphone and barked: "All right, all right. Don't cry. We can't get them all. I'm not saying it was your fault. Report back in."
"What's the matter?" McLeod wanted to know.
"Harry Crippens is the matter. Remember Congressman Horner? That story yesterday?"