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Updated: June 13, 2025
Off to one side of the main building a faint yellowish glow was the plastic dome of the meteor-watch radar instrument. Inside Brad Soames displayed his special equipment to a girl reporter flown down to the Antarctic to do human-interest articles for not-too-much-interested women readers. All was quiet. This seemed the most unlikely of all possible places for anything of importance to happen.
"My mistake," he apologized. She considered it promiscuous and cheap, and you know her aversion for cheapness. Then she obtained, after a few forays in and out of brownstone houses in West Forty-fifth Street, one of those hall bedrooms so familiar to human-interest stories the iron-bed, washstand, and slop-jar kind. There was a five-dollar advance required. That left her twenty dollars.
He'd prepared a complete report about the ship, telling in detail about its arrival and adding everything he could infer about the civilization that had made it, except its location on the Earth of aeons ago and its imminent doom. Gail had written what she considered the best human-interest story of her life about the children. Neither report was asked for. Nobody knew where either was to be sent.
The "human-interest" stories of both the evening before and those in the extras describing the latest freak in the Atlas Building, Darrow passed over with barely a glance. But certain figures he copied carefully into his notebook. On the basis of these latter figures he made some calculations which, when finished, he looked on with doubtful satisfaction.
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