(SA) 93-06-16 (x) Panic Station

TERRORISM. The scourge of our time and against which civilization seems powerless. Takes a sinister turn into Night's Story by Roger Servicine, title. Panic Station. Look, Mr. Pringle, I know only too well that this is a small paper.

But without report, it won't exist at all, and reporters must eat. Only if they produce the goods, Bob. News, that's the name of the game. Without it, the daily review's done for, and us along with it.

Yes, but you... Yes, but nothing. When last did you turn in the story worth printing? What are you talking about? You know what I'm talking about, hard headlines, the stuff that makes people buy papers.

The rubbish you pull in might work in the women's weepers, but it's not newspaper material. And you've got the gold, a combinear, asking for a raise. You used to, Pringle, it's not my fault, if I'm not given the leads.

I'm giving you one now, Bob, to the door. There, you see that operation? 93 men fully employed, all with wives, kids and mortgages. And every one of them entirely depended on you and the rest of the report and stopped to bring home the bacon.

I'd be doing my best, Mr. P and all gift wrapped in the sensational form of Samantha Booth,

110 pounds of gorgeous English womanhood, all five foot two of her, and she's all mine. Or will be, if I ever find anything my friendly porn broke is prepared to swap for a ring. Sounds like Pringle means at this time, Bob.

Yes, I'm afraid so, Sam. If I don't come out with a story with a page one or two rating, like soon, then I can kiss journalism goodbye for good. I just don't understand it. Your writing's brilliant.