McLeod let his eyes scan the crowd, seeking a friendly face. Here were the minor luminaries of the fourth estate gazing upon their fallen idol. For McLeod, like Weaver Wainwright, had been almost a legendary figure. But Wainwright had engineered the fall and now, like those South American fish which can strip the flesh from a man in seconds, they clustered about McLeod's social corpse. They sensed his demise as surely as if it had been something physical. They waited with avid eyes at the bottom of the ladder for him to fall. Then each figure would ascend one rung upward and so, each with his own capable hands and thinkwriter, control human history a little more.
If only he could somehow contact Overman, McLeod thought. How much time did he have? He wasn't sure but thought it could be measured in minutes.
"I'd like to call my City Editor," McLeod said.
Wainwright chuckled. "A good reporter to the last. But I see Crippens and Miss Kent here."
"It's my right."
"The Star-Times will get its story. Won't you see to that, Mr. Crippens?"
McLeod stared mutely at Cripp, who finally said, "How do you know I didn't attack the woman?"
The stripper pouted and pointed a manicured finger at McLeod. "It was that man."
"You see?" Wainwright demanded.