"Is that better?"

"Depends on what you're after. For a man who wants to write, it's
better, of course."

"Why?"

"Gives him a larger audience. No newspaper story is remembered overnight
except by newspaper men. And they don't matter."

"Why don't they matter?" Banneker was surprised again, this time rather
disagreeably.

"It's a little world. There isn't much substance to it. Take that
Verschoyle stuff of yours; that's literature, that is! But you'll never
hear of it again after next week. A few people here will remember it,
and it'll help you to your next raise. But after you've got that, and,
after that, your lift onto space, where are you?"

The abruptly confidential approach of Tommy Burt flattered Banneker with
the sense that by that one achievement of the Verschoyle story he had
attained a new status in the office. Later there came out from the inner
sanctum where sat the Big Chief, distilling venom and wit in equal parts
for the editorial page, a special word of approval. But this pleased the
recipient less than the praise of his peers in the city room.

After that first talk, Burt came back to Banneker's desk from time to
time, and once took him to dinner at "Katie's," the little German
restaurant around the corner. Burt was given over to a restless and
inoffensively egoistic pessimism.