The Peacock Flies Away
“Yeah, Chris,” said the man on the line, “but that would mean—”
“John?” Chris asked. “John…you there?” The phone disconnected and beeped shrilly. “Curse these stupid cell phones,” Chris said, angrily slamming the phone down. He picked it up and proceeded to dial the number again.
Out of breath, Martha ran into the room. “Chris, we need you upstairs, buddy,” she said, panting.
Chris groaned. “What is it this time?”
Martha swallowed. “We lost the New York feed,” she said. “How are they going to tell us what we’re running tonight now that we can’t show the Steve Spengler story?”
“Carl probably scooted his chair back and unplugged the fiber optic cable,” Chris spat. He started to get up, then paused.
John is in New York, at Headquarters, he thought.
He brushed the thought out of his mind and went to try to see what the problem was.