Vera smiled and said, “I just remembered! The answer is a little over two thousand miles.”

“Vera,” said Rip Puckett, “that is NOT correct.”

After another commercial break, the program returned to the nation’s TV screens. The stage was barren and completely dark except for a pin spot’s circle of light surrounding an armchair. Vera Bundle was led to the chair by two nurses dressed in white caps and uniforms and bright red capes over their right shoulders. Vera Bundle sat down. The TV cameras tightened on her face. There were tears in her eyes. In the past few minutes, Vera Bundle had aged ten years. She now appeared to be a very old woman. She was acutely frightened. She wondered what mystical and circuitous route had brought her, plain Vera Bundle from Steubenville, Ohio, to this soft armchair of death in New York City.

Vera’s eyes were wide as saucers.

Her mouth was dry as a bone. She continually licked her lips.

The once rowdy audience had turned silent.

Then someone shouted, “Let Vera go!” Others picked up the slogan and a chant began. “Let Vera go! Let Vera go! Let Vera go! Let Vera go! Let Vera go!”

Outside on the street in front of the NBC building, traffic was halted to allow the crowd to swell. They too chanted, “Let Vera go!”

On the stage, on a table beside Vera’s armchair, was a small cordial glass with a longish stem. It was filled with an amber-colored liquid. The two nurses in their white caps and uniforms, their red capes the only color on the morose stage, now moved to either side of Vera’s armchair. A woman, dressed in a severe black three-piece suit with a black dress shirt and black tie, walked onto the stage. She stood on the other side of the small table, the side away from Vera Bundle. She was a tall, dour woman in her middle forties. Her hair was cut extremely short and shaped like a man’s. She wore no makeup. She and her wardrobe were perfect for the part.

The show’s host, Rip Puckett, was no longer on the stage.

The tall, dour woman crossed over to the small table and lifted the glass of amber fluid. She carried the glass to Vera Bundle and said, “Mrs. Bundle, I am Dr. Lizabeth Wax-Dupee, the attending physician. I am in charge of your execution. As you know, your beneficiaries will receive twenty-five thousand dollars in cash, a gift from the producer of The Big Question.”

Vera Bundle mumbled some incoherent words.

“Pardon? Did you just try to say something? You’ll have to speak up, Mrs. Bundle,” said Dr. Wax-Dupee impatiently.

“I said I don’t have any beneficiaries.”

“Yes. Well. Now…” Dr. Wax-Dupee held the glass of poison in front of Vera Bundle’s face. “This is Madeira with a rather heavy dose of potassium cyanide in it. I suggest you take three or four swift gulps, then drink as much as you can as quickly as possible.”