The voice behind McLeod's back seemed bodiless and as cold as the falling snow. "What's wrong with that?"
"You wouldn't understand," McLeod said without turning. "He would." He would win his life the moment he won over the shorter man. His two companions did not matter. "Look. The Gunman Editor on the World is near retirement, isn't he? You look like you've been around, but you won't be considered for the job if Wainwright bears a grudge."
"He's pretty smooth," the young gunman with the parabeam said.
"Why do you think I'm here at all?" McLeod insisted. "I didn't know you were coming. I came to prevent this thing myself."
The man behind McLeod muttered a curse and said, "You came here for the same reason you always go out on an assignment. To get the story."
But the older man said, "Have you any proof?"
"Only Wainwright. Ask him when he gets here."
"If he decides to come," said the man with the parabeam.
"And if he doesn't?" McLeod demanded. "Are you going to take a chance and—"