Roger, wearing sunglasses, crosses the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal to ticket window 15.
“Yeah?” says the ticket agent.
“Give me a bedroom on the 20th Century, please,” says Roger.
“It’s leaving in five minutes,” replies the ticket agent.
“Yes, I know,” says Roger. “Can you make it snappy?”
“I think they’re all sold out,” says the ticket agent.
“Sold out?” says Roger.
“You can always go coach,” says the ticket agent.
“No, I can’t do that,” replies Roger. “What time is the next train?”
“Nothing until ten o’clock,” replies the ticket agent. “You’re in a hurry, huh?”
“Could you call them and see what they have?” asks Roger, looking around.
“Something wrong with your eyes?” asks the ticket agent.
“Yes, they’re sensitive to questions, ” replies Roger. “Will you call them?”
“Sure. Sure,” says the ticket agent, looking at a copy of the photo of Roger with the knife, taken at the UN a few hours ago. The photo is out of view for Roger. “Don’t go away,” the ticket agent says.
The ticket agent walks behind a row of ticket printing plates. Picking up the phone, he dials a number. Quietly, he says “He’s at Window 15, upper level. Hurry,” and hangs up.
Returning to the window, the ticket agent puts on a false voice of relief. “You’re in luck, Mister!” he says – – but Roger has left.