Parliament, a strike, and inflation-they were all yesterday stories. There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed up with a today intro, like "Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government's narrow escape…" There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday's disaster became today's news story with "Dawn today revealed the full horror…" Yesterday's murder benefited from "Detectives today searched London for the man who…" Arthur's problem had given birth to scores of cliche's. In a civilized society, he thought, when there was no news there would be no newspapers. It was an old thought, and he brushed it out of his mind impatiently.

Everyone accepted that the first edition was rubbish three days out of six. But that gave no comfort, because it was the reason Arthur Cole had the job of producing that edition. He had been deputy news editor for five years. Twice during that period the news editor's chair had fallen vacant, and both times a younger man than Cole had been promoted. Someone had decided that the number-two job was the limit of his capabilities. He disagreed.

The only way he could demonstrate his talent was by turning out an excellent first edition. Unfortunately, how good the edition was depended largely upon luck. Cole's strategy was to aim for a paper which was consistently slightly better than the opposition's first edition. He thought he was succeeding: whether anyone upstairs had noticed, he had no idea; and he would not let himself worry about it.

George came up behind him and dumped a pile of newspapers on his desk. "Young Stephen's reported sick again," he grumbled.

Arthur smiled. "What is it-a hangover or a runny nose?"

"Remember what they used to tell us? 'If you can walk, you can work.' Not this lot."

Arthur nodded.

"Am I right?" George said.

"You're right." The two of them had been Lads together on the Post. Arthur had got his NUJ card after the war. George, who had not been called up, had remained a messenger.

George said: "We were keen. We wanted to work."

Arthur picked up the top newspaper from the pile. This was not the first time George had complained about his staff, nor the first time Arthur had commiserated with him. But Arthur knew what was wrong with the Lads of today. Thirty years ago, a smart Lad could become a reporter; nowadays, that road was closed. The new system had a double impact: bright youngsters stayed at school instead of becoming messengers; and those who did become messengers knew they had no prospects, so they did as little work as they could get away with. But Arthur could not say this to George, because it would call attention to the fact that Arthur had done so much better than his old colleague. So he agreed that the youth of today were rotten.

George seemed disposed to persist with his grouse. Arthur cut him off by saying: "Anything on the overnight wire?"

"I'll get it. Only I've got to do all the papers myself-"

"I'd better see the wire copy first." Arthur turned away. He hated to pull rank. He had never learned to do it naturally, perhaps because he took no pleasure in it. He looked at the Morning Star: they had led with the industry bill.

It was unlikely that there would be any national news on the teletype yet; it was too early. But foreign news came in sporadically during the night, and more often than not it included one story which could be the splash, in a pinch. Most nights there was a major fire, a multiple murder, a riot, or a coup somewhere in the world. The Post was a London paper and did not like to lead with foreign news unless it was sensational; but it might be better than "Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest…"

George dumped a sheet of paper several feet long on his desk. Not cutting the sheet into individual stories was his way of showing displeasure. He probably wanted Arthur to complain, so that he could point out how much work there was for him to do with the early Lad off sick. Arthur fumbled in his desk for scissors, and began to read.

He went through a political story from Washington, a Test Match report, and a Middle East roundup. He was halfway through a minor Hollywood divorce when the phone rang. He picked it up and said: "News desk."

"I've got an item for your gossip column." It was a man's voice, with a broad Cockney accent.

Cole was instantly skeptical. This was not the voice of a man who would have inside information on the love lives of the aristocracy. He said: "Good. Would you like to tell me your name?"

"Never mind about that. Do you know who Tim Fitzpeterson is?"

"Of course."

"Well, he's making a fool of himself with a redhead. She must be twenty years younger than him. Do you want his phone number?"

"Please." Cole wrote it down. He was interested now. If a Minister's marriage had broken up, it would make a good story, not just a gossip item. "Who's the girl?" he said.

"Calls herself an actress. Truth is, she's a brass. Just give him a ring right away, and ask him about Dizi Disney." The line went dead.

Cole frowned. This was a little odd: most tipsters wanted money, especially for news of this kind. He shrugged. It was worth checking out. He would give it to a reporter later on.

Then he changed his mind. Innumerable stories had been lost forever by being put aside for a few minutes. Fitzpeterson might leave for the House or his Whitehall office. And the informant had said: "Give him a ring right away."

Cole read the number off his notebook and dialed.

SEVEN A.M.

4

"Have you ever watched yourself doing it in the mirror?" she had asked; and when Tim admitted he had not, she insisted they try it. They were standing in front of the full-length glass in the bathroom when the phone rang. The noise made Tim jump, and she said: "Ouch! Careful."

He wanted to ignore it, but the intrusion of the outside world took away his desire. He left her, and went into the bedroom. The phone was on a chair underneath a pile of her clothes. He found it and lifted the receiver. "Yes?"

"Mr. Fitzpeterson?" It was the voice of a middle-aged man with a London accent. He sounded slightly asthmatic.

"Yes. Who is that?"

"Evening Post, sir. I'm sorry to call you so early. I have to ask you whether it's true you're getting divorced."

Tim sat down heavily. For a moment he was unable to speak.

"Are you there, sir?"

"Who the devil told you that?"

"The informant mentioned a woman called Dizi Disney. Do you know her?"

"I've never heard of her." Tim was regaining his composure. "Don't wake me up in the morning with idle rumors." He put the phone down.

The girl came into the bedroom. "You look quite white," she said. "Who was it?"

"What's your name?" he snapped.

"Dizi Disney."

"Jesus Christ." His hands were trembling. He clenched his fists and stood up. "The papers have got hold of a whisper that I'm getting divorced!"

"They must hear that sort of thing about famous people all the time."

"They mentioned your name!" He slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. "How could they find out so quickly? What am I going to do?"

She turned her back on him and put her panties on.

He stared out of the window. The gray Rolls was still there, but now it was empty. He wondered where the driver had gone. The stray thought annoyed him. He tried to assess the situation coolly. Someone had seen him leave a club with the girl, and phoned the information to a reporter. The informant had built the incident up for dramatic effect. But Tim was sure no one had seen them enter the flat together.

"Listen," he said. "Last night you said you weren't feeling well. I took you out of the club and got a taxi. The cab dropped me off, then took you home. All right?"