"Bemidji," said Annie. "That would be the closest."

"All right. Then get hold of a ear rental outfit in Bemidji and arrange for a car to be waiting for us. We'll phone them later and tell them when we'll be getting in."

Annie picked up her phone and started dialing.

Garrison stood up and looked over the newsroom, flinching at what he saw.

Finley over in one corner, peeking away at a story—but Finley was the rankest cub, still wet behind the ears. Sanderson, but she was not much better and had the unfailing habit of writing a bit too cutely. Some day, by God, he thought, she would have to mend her ways or be out the door. Jamison, but Jamison took forever. All right on an in-depth story, but too slow and deliberate for a story that was breaking fast.

"Kathy!" he bawled.

Startled, Kathy Foster stopped her typing, got up and started for the city desk, fighting down her anger. Jerry hadn't called as yet and her story, as she wrote it, seemed sillier and sillier. If she had to miss the concert

Gold was on one phone, listening, speaking only now and then, his fingers stabbing at the typewriter, making notes. Annie was busy on another phone. Garrison had sat down again and was dialing.

"This is Garrison," he said into the phone. "We need a good photographer. Who you got back there? Where is Allen? This is an out-of-town assignment. Important. Top priority."

He listened. "Oh, hell," he said. "You mean Allen isn't there. He's the man for the job we have. Where is he? Can you reach him?"

A wait, then, "Yes, I forgot. I do remember now. Allen's on vacation. All right, then. Send him up."

He hung up the phone and turned to Kathy. "I have something for you," he said.

"Not now," she said. "Not tonight. Not overtime. I'm almost through for the day. And I have tickets for the symphony tonight."