"See, here's the situation ..."
Half an hour later, they were still arguing about a multidimensional
universe when Rand remembered Dave Ritter, who should be at the Rosemont
Inn by now. He looked at his watch, saw that it was five forty-five, and
inquired about a telephone.
"Yes, of course; out here." Pierre took him back to the parlor, where he
dialed the Inn and inquired if a Mr. Ritter, from New Belfast, were
registered there yet.
He was. A moment later he was speaking to Ritter.
"Jeff, for Gawdsake, don't come here," Ritter advised. "This place is
six-deep with reporters; the bar sounds like the second act of _The Front
Page_. Tony Ashe and Steve Drake from the _Dispatch_ and _Express_;
Harry Bentz, from the _Mercury_; Joe Rawlings, the AP man from Louisburg;
Christ only knows who all. This damn thing's going to turn into another
Hall-Mills case! Look, meet me at that beer joint, about two miles on the
New Belfast side of Rosemont, on Route 19; the white-with-red-trimmings
place with the big Pabst sign out in front. I'll try to get there without
letting a couple of reporters hide in the luggage-trunk."
"Okay; see you directly."
Rand hung up, spent the next few minutes breaking away from Pierre and
his mother, and went out to his car.
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