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feeding information from this office to Jerry Sussman?"
    She stared at him blankly. "What?"
    "Would you like me to repeat it for you?" he asked sarcastically, echoing her own words.
    "I heard what you said—I just don't know what you mean.
Feeding
information to him? Illicitly? Are we supposed to be keeping secrets from Mr. Sussman?"
    It was either a great act or Fran Caffrey honestly didn't know what he was talking about. "No, no—just forget I said anything. Now beat it, will you, Fran? I've got a hangover and I feel lousy."
    "All right," she said amiably enough, and left.
    Walsh dropped his head into his hands, elbows on the desk. He'd reacted to bad news like any manual laborer: when things get rough, go out and get drunk. He'd really tied one on the night before. Dumb. And how had he allowed himself to get trapped into that childish argument with Fran? He wasn't thinking clearly today.
    How could he, after yesterday? He never read the
Wall Street Journal
himself. But, oh my, he had a lot of " friends" who were quick enough to call the day before and tell him about that little item tucked away in the inside pages.
    He should have known something was up. He'd gone ahead and published the anti-electronics-industry story and Jerry Sussman hadn't said a word. That should have told him right there. Then Mueller Electronics withdrew its advertising, just as Sussman had predicted . . . and still he hadn't said anything.
    And Simple Simon congratulated himself on having won a victory,
Walsh thought bitterly.
    Sussman had stopped coming around to
Summit's
editorial offices. At first Walsh had thought nothing of it; his partner had a business office elsewhere and
Summit
was only one of Sussman's "projects"—albeit his most important one. A year or so ago Sussman had acquired a bike-racing magazine, and rumor had it he was buying into one of the supermarket tabloids. Sussman was a busy man, driving himself with the kind of energy Walsh sometimes envied. So a prolonged absence of the majority owner wouldn't attract any particular notice.
    But then Walsh realized he hadn't seen Sussman at all since he'd published the electronics story.
Count your blessings,
he told himself nervously. Yet he couldn't help worrying; Sussman was not a man who tolerated opposition quietly. Walsh had called Sussman's office a couple of times.
In conference,
the secretary had said. Then the answer had appeared in yesterday's
Wall Street Journal
    Suddenly Walsh had to get out of the office. It was too early for lunch, but he just couldn't sit there any longer. "I'll be back," he called to his secretary as he rushed by.
    "When?" she asked. "Where are you going?"
    He left without answering. Secretaries hated bosses who didn't keep them informed of their whereabouts, but this time they'd all have to plug along without him for a while.
    He'd vaguely had it-in mind that a hair of the dog was what was needed to cure his hangover. But the elevator's swift descent brought out the wave of nausea he'd managed to keep suppressed so far.
Walk it off,
he told himself.
    He turned left and headed uptown. The air was still nippy—it was April—and he had to move along at a fast pace to keep from getting cold. His near-jogging stride jarred his headache, and for some reason all of Sixth Avenue seemed to be permeated with the odor of frying onions that morning. Feeling worse, he hurried across Central Park South and went into the park. He veered off to the right, toward the Pond. Looked for a place to sit. Found it. Sat.
    After a while the throbbing in his head began to ease. And he seemed to have found a relatively odor-free corner of the city. He hadn't gone far enough into the park to escape the traffic noise—but the sound was muted, tolerable. He was chilly, sitting still; but the nippy air was starting to brace him up. He decided to live.
    To live, but not to go back to the office. No—he changed his mind immediately; that was cowardly. He