Some of the studio audience had their hands clasped in prayer, their heads bent, praying Vera would think of the answer.

Outside on the street in front of the National Broadcasting Company’s main entrance, large speakers blared absolute silence to the anxious crowd standing on the pavement. It was the first time NBC had rigged speakers to the roof of their main entrance so that the large crowd on the sidewalk and in the street could hear what was happening in The Big Question studio. At Times Square, bright rolling white lights proclaimed: VERA SILENT…VERA SILENT…VERA SILENT…

Nuns, waiting for Vera’s answer, crossed themselves. Right-to-life and anti-death-penalty pickets ceased their chanting and marching in circles, standing still and waiting to hear Vera answer the question. Tourists and hardened New Yorkers alike stopped walking and waited too.

Everyone in the street and in the studio was aware by now that when Vera knew the answer to a question, she said it right away. Vera’s long pause caused enormous concern. “She doesn’t know,” was whispered from one to another inside and outside the building.

The gigantic hand on the clock was at the forty-five-second mark.

“Only fifteen seconds left, Vera,” said host Rip Puckett, suddenly worried himself.

And then the orchestra played a chord.

Time was up.

“I’m sorry, Vera. I really am,” said the obviously shaken host, “but time’s up. I need your answer now.”

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!”