“I don’t think, just yet, just now,” Bray was saying in some kind of continental, faintly Brit way, “that this particular”—drawing out each syllable—“piece of journalism”—again each sound articulated and isolated—“is ready for the newspaper.” He fanned the pages of the book he’d been toying with on Adam’s desk as a punctuation mark, lifted his chin, and grinned, mouth closed.

From the desire of being consulted.

Constance whirred up. She narrowed her eyes at Gordon. “Gordon,” she said, “Gordon, since you think it’s not ready, which I wholeheartedly agree with, by the way, but could you, would you sum it up, put it in a nutshell for me.”

Gordon looked at her, semi-horrified.

“What in a nutshell?” whispered the Metro editor.

“The story.”

“This story?”

“This story right here on our laps.”

“It’s not on my lap.”

“Vera’s story. What’s it about? Is it about a plane crash? A secret military program? A Pentagon—what did you call him, spook tasker?—gone renegade? A deeper problem in our military system?? What? It seems to be about too many things.”

From the desire of being approved.

“I don’t see a nut graph. I just don’t.”

“It begins, The program raises questions about the creation of a new, sub-rosa military command,” protested Vera’s new editor, truculent.

“Who saw this guy the night of the crash?” Gordon Bray’s voice cut through.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Stanley said, standing up. He was off the side table, but holding on to it for support.

Gordon looked at Stanley. Vera could see he didn’t know who Stanley was. From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me.

“That’s really between Vera and her immediate editor, and myself,” Adam said to Gordon. He’d let this get too heated too fast. He smiled at Stanley. But Stanley wasn’t looking at Adam.

“It’s a young streetwalker named Patrice Edwards,” Vera’s new editor said, apparently unable to hear Adam over the energetic trading of sentences between Constance and her two Pentagon reporters.

“Streetwalker?” The Metro editor tucked his chin. “What is this? Busby Berkeley? This pye-pup is a ho.”

“How young is she?” This from Stanley, now a full step away from his side table. “Don’t you think that’s of some import?”

“The source on the renegade is a whore?” Don harrumphed. “Since when?”

“Please.” Adam didn’t bellow, but it was as if he had. All talk dead-ended. Don seemed inordinately satisfied, as if Adam had cleared the decks because of Don’s unanswered query.

“Don, could you just set my mind at ease?” Adam poked out.

Don looked at him with stillborn happiness. He sensed this was not tending toward a crowning of his unanswered question after all.

“Do you have this report?” Adam asked a little too softly. Vera saw Adam entirely alive. He was on a promontory.

“No,” Don said.