McLeod recalled it vaguely. Something about Horner committing suicide unexpectedly.
"Well, he didn't jump. The World's Security Forces rescued him and got a scoop. Another wrongo for us, Darius. That's the second story Crippens bungled this month."
"Maybe it wasn't Cripp's fault, chief." Crippens was a plump, owl-faced man with big, watery eyes swimming behind concave glasses. McLeod had always liked him. He was the grimmest, saddest, cryingest, most logical drunk McLeod had ever met. Wonderful drinking partner.
"I didn't say it was. Just thinking, though."
"If psychology flubbed a dub on Horner, you can't blame Cripp."
"Not what I mean. The World's prediction is vague, see? Who's a star reporter? How do you single the man out? Any big by-line guy will do, right?"
"I guess so."
"Crippens gets his share of by-lines, Darius."
"Hey, wait a minute—"
"Why spend the time protecting you next week if we don't have to? It's expensive and not a sure thing. We'd hate to lose you, Darius."