Paul Ryan stared in disgust at the human-interest assignment before him. Man and dog reunited after 8 years. Great. Great for the man, great for the dog, and who the hell else gives a damn?

He shoved away the notebook with his nearly illegible notes scrawled on it and leaned back in his chair. He loathed these human-interest pieces. If any humans found them interesting they should get a life. The only time they were bearable is when they were part of a bigger, solid news story. But this crap was just fluff.

Things were definitely bad when it came to this. Here he was, a star reporter for the Times, winner of a damned Pulitzer for Chrissakes, expected to write about this garbage? He'd been through slow news periods before, but this had to be one of the worst - and longest. The news room was dead, a ghost town with people but no life. His co-workers slouched in their chairs, sipped on luke-warm coffee, chatted at the water cooler, tried to appear glad about the lull, to enjoy the slower pace. But Paul was different. He didn't try to deceive himself, or anybody else for that matter. He lived for the big story, for the times when the air in the news room turned electric, when the editor stormed out of his office barking orders at everyone, when black coffee tasted good because you had no time to bother with cream or sugar.

"Hey, Paul - how's that human-interest coming?"

It was Gary Oldsen, the closest thing Paul had to a friend. Not that they ever socialized outside of work - in fact it was rare that Paul was not at work - but he could usually tolerate Gary, and he actually respected his work as a reporter. Paul momentarily roused himself from his malaise and looked up at Gary's smiling, bearded face.

"How the hell do you think it's going? I can't write this crap - it's not in my nature." Paul hated the twinkle in Gary's eye and the stupid grin on his face that told him his co-worker enjoyed teasing him in this manner. "Please, tell me something happened, a plane crash, earthquake, bombing - anything. I'll even take a political scandal at this point."

Gary chuckled and shook his head. He had been acquainted with Paul long enough to know his little quirks. The man thrived on excitement, pressure, adrenaline. He was the opposite of everyone else Gary knew. During the busiest news periods he apparently lived in the news room - Gary wasn't even sure if he ate or slept - but that's when he worked best. At those times he was most human: friendly, gregarious, ebullient. It was when there was a lull in the news that he seemed burnt-out, tired and irritable. At times Paul could appear totally heartless, but Gary had a feeling that there were feelings buried somewhere deep within him; hell, there had to be. No one could be as cold as Paul seemed at face-value. Besides, he recalled a piece that Paul wrote - an interview with the widow of a victim of the Celebrity Bomber - that completely tore your heart out. It wasn't overly sentimental, or melodramatic, but Gary had literally fought back tears when he read it. It had even won Paul a Pulitzer that year. A guy had to have some feelings to be able to write that.

"Sorry, buddy, wish I could help you out," Gary responded, "but you know what they say, no news is..."

"Don't even finish it," Paul interrupted. "And get the hell away from my desk if you're gonna say that crap."

Gary chuckled again. "Look, I can see you're burnt-out. Why not take a vacation? You must have plenty of time coming. Maybe when you get back the news will have picked up."

Paul got a far-off look in his eyes. "You know, I think I might just take your advice."

When Paul returned to work a week and a half later, the news room was the same as when he had left. No major stories, no excitement, no reason for coming to work or even for getting up in the morning. Yet when Gary found him seated again at his desk, Paul looked a good deal more refreshed and cheery.

"Well, I see that the vacation did some good." He clapped Paul on the back. "Where did you go, anyhow?"

"Hiking along the Appalachian trail," Paul responded, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on his desk.

"Hiking?" Gary looked at his co-worker dubiously.

"Sure, hiking. I happen to like nature. I find it very peaceful and relaxing. Is that so hard..."

Paul was cut off in mid-sentence by the sound of the news editor slamming his phone down and throwing open his office door. The news room became silent in a heartbeat, and Paul could sense the tingle of excitement in the air, the almost audible expectancy building in the atmosphere. His feet were instantly on the floor, he was leaned forward in his chair, alert, waiting, like a leopard about to spring.

"All right, people, we've got a major story here," the editor shouted, though he could have whispered and still been heard. "There's been a tremendous explosion in the subway near the Flushing station. Sounds like it's a mess down there - several fatalities. F.B.I. says they got a letter today, so they're pretty sure it's the work of the Celebrity Bomber."

Paul was on his feet now. This was uncommonly good luck - a tremendous story. A bomb is one thing, but in a packed subway, that's huge. This would provide fodder for weeks; an investigation, press conferences, interviews with the victims and their families. In a flash he went over in his mind everything he had written about the Celebrity Bomber. The Feds gave the bomber the nickname because he sent package bombs to high-profile victims: actors, politicians, etc. Said it was because he wanted the media attention, craved exposure, that he perhaps envied the spotlight of celebrities. Paul inwardly laughed.

"Gary, Paul, I want you on the scene now! Get the story from the people who were there, saw it happen. Jack, the police commissioner is having a press conference in a half hour..."

The editor went on barking out orders and assignments, but Paul was already following Gary to the door of the news room, pulling on his coat as he jogged along. At the door he paused, and looked back around the news room. It hummed with activity, reporters rushing about, people on the phones, everyone's face alive with adrenaline. Paul smiled inwardly -they craved excitement just as much as he did, only they wouldn't admit it. They wouldn't take steps to break the lull, to shake off the boredom that stupefied and deadened. They would never know what Paul had just done for them - could never know. Again Paul laughed to himself. The F.B.I. would never in a million years piece it together, that the bombings always occurred during slow news periods, that the bomber didn't crave media attention - he craved covering the big story.