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editorial stance, like his personal opinions, was always on the humane, liberal side of any issue. He thought that everyone would be humane and liberal if they would just take the time to think things through. That was our Bob.
    And so now, as he hung up the phone, it was a bit difficult for him to find the proper reaction. If he was too calm, then he wouldn’t be caring. If he was too caring, then he wouldn’t be calm. After a moment, he ran a hand thoughtfully over his chin. He raised his eyebrows. “Whoo boy,” he murmured.
    The assistant city editor, Jane March, glanced up quickly from her terminal. Knowing Bob, hearing a remark like that, she figured a plane had crashed into Busch Stadium or something.
    “Is Alan in yet?” he asked her softly.
    Really curious now, she moved her head toward the hallway. “He just went for coffee.”
    Bob nodded slowly, considering. Carefully, he stood up. He walked out of the city room at a measured pace, heading down the hall in the direction of the cafeteria.
    He met up with Alan Mann in the corridor. Alan was bulling his way back to his office. He had a styro of black coffee in one hand and a huge slab of crumb cake hidden in a bag in his jacket pocket. When Bob stopped him, Alan’s free hand touched the pocket protectively.
    Alan was our editor-in-chief, a man in his fifties. At six foot two, he towered over Bob Findley. He had broad shoulders and the rest of him was fit and thin except for his belly, which stuck out above and below his belt like some kind oftumor, round as a volleyball. He had a narrow, beaked face and a big forehead with bushy eyebrows. Accipitrine—like a hawk: that was Alan.
    Bob stood close to him and spoke very quietly up at his lowering brow. “I just got a call from Michelle Ziegler’s brother.” He gestured with his open right hand, as he often did, as if admonishing everyone to stay calm. “Michelle has been in a car accident.”
    Alan scowled. “How bad?”
    “Bad,” said Bob, gesturing with his hand some more. “She’s in critical. Right now, the doctors don’t think she’s going to make it.”
    For a long moment, Alan kept glaring down at him as if he hadn’t spoken. Then, with a disgusted shake of his head, he walked right past him, right down the hall without making any answer. Bob trailed after him slowly, back into the city room.
    Jane March watched the two men closely as they went into Alan’s office. When Bob shut the door, she whispered: “Damn!” Alan had the blinds drawn over the glass walls. He had wanted to come back and eat his crumb cake without being seen. From the city desk, Jane could only make out their shadows moving on the white blinds.
    Inside the office, Alan Mann went around his desk. He still hadn’t said anything. He set his coffee on the desktop. Then he drew the crumb cake bag out of his pocket and slapped it down too with a declarative force: matters, he felt, had moved beyond such petty deceptions. He flumped into his swivel chair. He frowned darkly.
    Finally, he said: “That dumb bitch. What was she, drunk?”
    Bob gave a pained smile. Alan had hired him, Alan was his mentor, and, having seen gruff editors-in-chief on television, Bob generally assumed that Alan had a heart of gold like they did. Because of this, Bob felt he could be bigenough not to despise Alan. But, all the same, secretly, he felt the world would be a more civilized place when dinosaurs like Alan Mann became extinct and everyone was more or less as caring as he was.
    “I don’t know,” Bob answered him now, gently. “It was up at that vicious turn onto the parkway. They really should do something about that.”
    Alan knew, of course, exactly how Bob thought of him and played his part to the hilt.
    “That dumb bitch,” he said again. “What was she on today?”
    Bob didn’t understand the question.
    “Do we have to cover for her?” Alan said. “Did she have anything big on?”
    “Oh …” Bob was taken aback. Not that he