* * * * *
"Doug," pleaded 39 year old veteran reporter Scott Mason. "Not another computer virus story . . ." Scott childishly shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat.
"Stop your whining," Doug ordered in fun. "You are the special- ist," he chided.
When the story first came across the wire, Scott was the logical choice. In only seven years as a reporter Scott Mason had de- veloped quite a reputation for himself, and for the New York City Times. Doug had had to eat his words from years earlier more times than he cared to remember, but Scott's head had not swelled to the size of his fan club, which was the bane of so many suc- cessful writers. He knew he was good, just like he had told Doug
"There is nothing sexy about viruses anymore," said Scott trying to politely ignore his boss to the point he would just leave.
"Christ Almighty," the chubby balding sixtyish editor exploded. Doug's periodic exclamatory outbursts at Scott's nonchalance on critical issues were legendary. "The man who puts Cold Fusion on the front page of every paper in the country doesn't think a virus is sexy enough for the public. Good night!"
"That's not what I'm saying." Scott had to defend this one. "I finally got someone to go on the record about the solar payoff scandals between Oil and Congress . . ."
"Then the virus story will give you a little break," kidded Doug.
"You've been working too hard."
"Damn it, Doug," Scott defied. "Viruses are a dime a dozen and worse, there's no one behind it, there's nobody there. There's no story . . ."
"Then find one. That's what we pay you for." Doug loudly mut- tered a few choice words that his paper wouldn't be caught dead printing. "Besides, you're the only one left." As he left he patted Scott on the back saying, "thanks. Really."