Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  Daryl purses his lips, cooing, “You owe me one, Mark.”

  David smirks at the comment, but Manning lets it pass, picking one of the books from the pile, a thin primer of astronomical theory and vocabulary. He hands it to David, telling his new assistant, “Spend some time with this over lunch. It’ll be helpful background if we get to meet Zarnik this afternoon.”

  David tucks the little book under one arm. “Will do, sir,” he tells Manning, cuffing him on the shoulder with his massive fist—a playful gesture typical of his jock-friendly manner. Then he turns and leaves the cubicle, heading toward his own desk at the far side of the newsroom.

  “Unh-unh-unh,” croaks Daryl. “Remember, gorgeous—you’re ‘married.’”

  Manning sits. “What’s that suppose to mean?”

  “I saw you watching David’s sweet derrière strutting down the aisle.” He plants himself on the edge of Manning’s desk and looks down at the reporter with an accusing grin. “If you’re entertaining a dip in the company inkwell, I’ve got first dibs.”

  “Christ, Daryl, there’s no harm in looking. I confess, you caught me—David’s an eyeful. But he’s off-limits. I’m happily coupled, and he’s happily straight.”

  “Ha!” Daryl’s reaction is so explosive that it briefly quells the surrounding hubbub. He leans into Manning’s face to say, “That four-eyed muscle-boy may look like a big butch stud, but I’m telling you, honey, when the lights go out, his feet hit the ceiling.”

  Manning’s blank stare conveys disbelief.

  “It’s true,” Daryl assures him. “We were in school together. Not that I’ve had the pleasure, mind you, but I know plenty of others who have.”

  “I had no idea,” says Manning. “He’s worked here almost two years….”

  “He’s a closet case, Mark. Or would it be more charitable to call him ‘guarded’?” Daryl’s tone turns confidential. “In any event, if you’re interested, he’s makable.”

  Manning laughs at the idea, pointing out, “I’m old enough to be his father.”

  Daryl tells him, “He’s twenty-four; you’re forty-two. That would make you one very young, very attractive daddy.”

  “Get off it. He’d never be interested in me.”

  “I happen to know otherwise.” Daryl gives him a lascivious wink.

  “Besides”—Manning’s voice rises a register—“I’m not available.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Daryl, sounding unconvinced.

  “Now hold on,” says Manning, dead serious, needing to sort this out. “Neil and I are committed to each other. I changed my whole lifestyle, my very self-identity, in order to build a life, a home with him. And he moved cross-country, walked away from an established career in Phoenix, in order to be here with me. We love each other, Daryl. We’re happy. Why would I jeopardize that?”

  Equally serious, Daryl tells him, “Because you’re human, Mark. You’re a man. You’re curious. Neil brought you out—God bless him—and I can see why you were bowled over. But that was two years ago, and you’ve never played the field. Neil has.”

  “Before I came along, sure.”

  “Sure.” Insinuation hangs in the air.

  They eye each other warily for a few long seconds, then, as if responding to some unspoken signal, they each break the stare. They have often sparred like this, though always over trivial matters, office chat. Daryl has never strayed into such intimate territory, and he has gone too far. “Sorry,” he says, removing his butt from Manning’s desk, “I oughta keep my yap shut. You and Neil are great together. Keep it that way.”

  Manning smiles. “Coming Saturday night?” He and Neil have just finished an extensive renovation of their loft on the city’s Near North Side, and they’ve invited Daryl to a housewarming party.

  Sheepishly, he answers, “If I’m still welcome.”

  “Of course,” Manning assures him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get hold of Dr. Pavo Zarnik.” As Daryl turns to leave the reporter alone with his work, Manning mutters into the messy pile of books strewn on his desk, “I still think Cliff Nolan would be a far better choice for this assignment.”

  “He probably would be”—Daryl turns back—“if we could find him.”

  Manning looks up. “What?”

  “Smith expected him to interview Zarnik and file his story by Monday night, but he didn’t. Then Tuesday—yesterday—he didn’t show up at all, so Smith reassigned the story to you.”

  “And this morning?” asks Manning, guessing the answer.

  Daryl shrugs. “Still no Cliffy-poo. Smith told me to start phoning his apartment every hour, but I haven’t been able to reach him.”

  Manning wrings his brows. Clifford Nolan is a dedicated and intelligent writer—with a Partridge Prize to prove it. Manning has always admired the man’s refined tastes and astute mind. He’s at least fifty now and not much fun, but he’s certainly dependable, and it’s not like him to fail on a story. Even so, Manning considers, Cliff is still single, with an adolescent appetite for women. And though he rarely drinks, when he does, he binges. Manning has seen him out of control at a party or two. So the unexplained absence may not be such a mystery after all.

  Manning tells Daryl, “When you hear from Cliff, let me know.”

  Driving south from the Journal Building along the lake toward Civic Planetarium, Manning reflexively checks his pockets, confirming that he is equipped with pen, notebook, cell phone, and pager. Seated to his right is David Bosch, who has turned in the passenger seat to face Manning, speaking with animated gestures that cause his owlish glasses to inch down his nose.

  “When Gordon Smith took me aside this morning to say that I’d just been assigned to assist Mark Manning with the Zarnik story, I was blown away. I mean, J-school was one thing, and the internship was another, but there’s nothing like on-the-job experience to really learn a field—and now they’ve placed me at the feet of the master.” He mimics an elaborate bow to the sultan. “What is your will, O Great One? I am here to do your bidding.” His glasses have slipped down his nose again. He cuts the act and pushes them back. “Really”—his beefy hand now rests on Manning’s shoulder—“this is awesome.”

  Manning glances at the hand on his shoulder, then returns his gaze to the road.

  “Oh, sorry.” David plants his hands in his lap, looking absurdly prim.

  Manning isn’t sure how much more flattery he can stand. When they left the office this afternoon, David couldn’t stop gushing about Manning’s car, which pleased him greatly—to a point. But now this personal-hero routine leaves Manning ready to reopen the discussion of his “plus one” wheel upgrade. He decides to shift the topic back to business, asking David, “In what capacity does Gordon expect you to function as my assistant? Any clues?”

  “Guy Friday, I guess.” He laughs. “It’s up to you, sir. Anything goes.”

  “Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’” He tries to keep his sense of humor, but doesn’t find this especially funny. David’s subservient attitude makes Manning feel older than he’d prefer. Even more unsettling, in light of Daryl’s recent revelation, it hints that David has plans for an after-hours slave-and-master romp with the boss. This is nuts, Manning tells himself. Laughing at his overvivid imagination, he tells David, “Don’t call me Marko, either.”

  “Right. Mark.”

  “Hey,” says Manning, “I almost forgot. Neil and I are having a party Saturday—no big deal, sort of a housewarming at the loft. Care to come?”

  “You bet!” Then his enthusiasm drains. “Sorry, but I’m booked. My uncle and a friend are arriving from New York on Friday. They’re involved with the theater festival as part of Celebration Two Thousand.”

  “Oh?” Manning turns to David. “Who are they?”

  “My uncle’s name is Hector Bosch. He’s a—”

  “My God,” Manning interrupts, “he’s the most influential theater critic in New York. He’s one hell of a writer. The name never clicked—Hector Bosch is your unc
le?”

  “One and the same,” replies David with a shrug. “Maybe you’ve heard of his friend, too. She’s Claire Gray, a director. Supposed to be pretty good.”

  “Well, sure,” says Manning, amazed that David seems unaware of her celebrity status. “Claire Gray is not only one of Broadway’s best directors, but also a superb playwright. Her first script, Traders, ended up as a movie a few years ago.”

  “Yeah,” says David. “I saw it. That’s her.”

  “That is she,” Manning dryly corrects him. Then, lightening up, “Why don’t you invite them to the party? Neil would be thrilled to meet them—so would I.”

  Big smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

  Spotting the planetarium ahead, Manning reins the conversation back to business. “Did you get very far with your astronomy lesson?”

  “I read all I could, but I’m not sure how much I absorbed.” He knocks on his skull. “In grade school, I memorized the planets in order from the sun, and I can still recite them, but the rest is way beyond me.”

  “Ditto. And Zarnik is among the elite, the most knowledgeable in his field. He seemed friendly enough on the phone when I called—in fact, he sounded inexplicably eager to meet me—but I simply don’t feel qualified to question the man. We’ll just have to wing it, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

  Manning turns the car off the road and onto the grounds of the planetarium, parking at the farthest reaches of the lot to minimize the possibility of door dings. The Bavarian V-8 is new enough that its interior still smells of leather and its exterior has not yet been baptized to the ravages of city driving. It’s slick. It’s black. It’s perfect.

  As they leave the car and Manning sets its alarm with the fob button, David glances back with a gleam in his eye. “Sweet rims.”

  Once inside the building, Manning is surprised to find Zarnik himself waiting for him and David at a circular receptionist’s desk in the noisy, echoing lobby. Manning recognizes the scientist from file photos, but Zarnik cannot identify the two reporters among the crowd. Manning approaches him and extends his hand. With a smile he asks, “Dr. Zarnik, I presume?”

  “Ah!” says the scientist, checking his watch, “I knew that you would be prompt. Welcome to my domain.” His English is fluent, though colored by a nonnative stiffness, spoken with an indefinite accent.

  “Thank you, Professor, and welcome to Chicago.” Manning introduces David, and they all exchange pleasantries. The fusty astronomer then leads the two reporters through the back hallways of the planetarium, away from the yattering clumps of children, away from the meteor exhibits and the circular theater with its sky show, up a metal stairway, and down another hall.

  “Monday’s announcement was timed, Mr. Manning, to coincide with the summer solstice. I do hope such punctilio was not wasted on your readers.” Zarnik skitters along with quick, short steps, stopping at a locked door that bears a red plastic sign: Observatory, Authorized Personnel Only. He examines each of several keys hanging from a chain over his white lab coat like baubles on a necklace. A hefty chrome police whistle rattles among the keys.

  With, a laugh, David asks, “What’s that for, Professor? Expecting trouble?”

  “Ah, pfroobst!” He shrugs. “One never knows. Where I come from, everyone believes that Chicago is yet riddled by gangsters. Now that I have come to know your city, I am happy that this seems not true. Nonetheless—as you Americans are fond to say—better safe than sorry.” He gives his whistle a toot, unlocks the door, and waves David and Manning inside.

  Arcane electronic hardware clutters the fluorescent-lit room, whirring constantly, blinking randomly. A dusty chalkboard runs the length of one wall, but instead of mind-boggling formulas, it bears only a grocery list, a stray phone number. Computer screens stare blindly at the new visitors. Manning, in turn, absorbs the visual details of the laboratory, uncapping his Montblanc and scribbling a few hasty notes.

  Dr. Zarnik asks, “Is something amiss, Mr. Manning? You appear perplexed.”

  “Your observatory isn’t what I expected,” he explains. “I was hoping for a giant telescope—it would have made a great backdrop for a photo.”

  Zarnik clucks as though Manning should know better. “No telescope could possibly fathom such depths of space to view so small a planet, a dead speck of cosmic sand spinning wildly in the darkness. No, Mr. Manning, this”—he pats the top of a computer monitor—“this is my window to the universe.”

  David asks, “How does it work?”

  As Zarnik begins explaining some of the intricacies of his research, David stands listening and Manning sits at a desk to take notes. The professor rambles on about vector points, magnetic fields, and polar wobble. Manning struggles to follow, dutifully transcribing Zarnik’s verbal minutiae, but his mind begins to drift, and his eyes are soon exploring the room again. There’s a fire cabinet in a wall near the door, stocked with an ax, extinguisher, and folded hose. On the floor, a foot-thick bundle of cables snakes between the towering racks of high-tech electronic gear. From the desktop where Manning writes, a stack of green-bar printout spills over the edge and into a wastebasket. He pushes aside a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich to make more room for his notebook, and at the corner of the desk, he notices a no-frills Radio Shack VCR.

  Finding it difficult to concentrate, Manning loosens his tie. “Excuse me, Professor, but let me bring this discussion back to planet Earth for now. I’d like to cover a few basic facts and figures. For instance, the theoretical basis of your research—Who has been your key influence? Which methodology have you followed?”

  For the first time, the astronomer’s tone shows signs of annoyance, as if perturbed by this direction of the interview. “I would be loath to sound egotistical in such matters, and I hope you will afford me the courtesy of not printing these words, but my research is truly revolutionary, grossly more sophisticated than methods of radio astronomy employed in the past. There is no precedent for what has been accomplished in this room. If you insist upon labeling my method, however, it should rightly be termed the Zarnikal Model.”

  Both Manning and David are now making copious notes. Manning asks, “Can you tell me how much computer power is at work here?”

  “Pfroobst!” says Zarnik, waving both arms about the room, as though the answer should be self-evident. “All of it.”

  “No,” says Manning with a laugh, “I’m talking about gigabytes and such.”

  Zarnik pauses, weighing his words. “I am ashamed to admit that I do not know. The battery of computers was installed in phases, designed as we progressed. We are charting new territory here—unknown worlds—and to devise a comprehensive plan at the outset would be rash. So the computer power required by this project has been left as an open-ended variable. I have no accurate numbers at this moment, but if you care to check back, I shall compile them for you.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I’ll do that.”

  Zarnik dons a pair of reading glasses and makes a note of his own. The easy manner of his pencil strokes shows his satisfaction in having successfully dodged the question. Just when he’s feeling off the hook, though, Manning asks, “And what about funding?”

  Zarnik’s pencil stumbles on the pad. “Funding?”

  Manning borrows Zarnik’s earlier gesture encompassing the entire room. “This stuff doesn’t come cheap. What did it cost, and who paid for it?”

  “I am a scientist”—he clears phlegm from his throat—“not a bookkeeper. The pursuit of science, the gleaning of knowledge purely for its own sake, is among man’s highest callings. Man’s curiosity, his thirst to know, defines his very humanity. My role in this noble endeavor is to supply the vision and, I daresay, the brains. What it costs and where it comes from is of no concern to me. I find myself in the happy position of—what is the expression?—not losing sleep over it.”

  “You came to Chicago from Switzerland with the help of our State Department. Can we assume that your work here is backed by federal dollars?”

>   Zarnik takes off his glasses, thinking. “I presume so, yes.”

  “Which agency do you presume provides the funding?”

  Zarnik chews the ends of his glasses. “I do not know.”

  “The funding for this project must amount to many millions of dollars. Can you hazard a guess as to how many?”

  Zarnik tucks the glasses into a pocket. “No, I cannot.”

  Manning says, “Excuse me, Professor, if this question sounds too personal, but who signs your paycheck?”

  Zarnik tells him, “I am paid by the Chicago Civic Planetarium. I do not recall that anyone signs it—a computer spits it out.”

  Sensing that he has pushed as far as he dare, Manning says, “Thank you, Dr. Zarnik. This has been helpful. Please understand that I didn’t intend to ‘grill’ you this afternoon. By the nature of my job, I need to dig for hard facts—you can surely appreciate that, being a man of science. We’ll let these issues slide for now in favor of the central question.”

  Zarnik asks. “That being what?”

  “I write for a very general readership, what we used to call, in less peevish times, ‘the common man.’ Those readers don’t care about vectors. They just want an answer: Is there really a tenth planet out there? If you can prove your claim to my satisfaction, I’ll let them know.”

  Zarnik sighs, clapping his palms to his cheeks. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Manning. You are truly a godsend.” He plants himself in a chair to face Manning squarely, rolling so close that their knees touch. He explains, “Though I am new here, your repute has spread far beyond this city. You are known to be scrupulous, insightful, and fair”—Zarnik punctuates each adjective by tapping his index finger on Manning’s khaki-clad leg. “It is important that you understand this discovery, that you know it, believe it. Then you can tell the world.”

  “You mentioned on the phone that you’ve developed a simple demonstration that makes the validity of your discovery apparent to any layman. I believe you called it”—Manning checks his notes—“a ‘graphic realization.’”

  David interjects, “Cool.”