Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  Cain continues. “If Zarnik’s claims are fraudulent, he talks a damn good story—I’ll grant him that.” He settles against a long credenza that faces the sofas. Its top is cluttered with two television sets, a computer monitor, a rack of black-box hardware, and a pedestrian-looking VCR, its clock flashing midnight.

  “His technical mumbo-jumbo is way beyond me,” Manning admits, “but for some reason, he trusts me. I told him that any science writer would be better qualified to report this, but he insists that I alone tell his story to the world.”

  Gordon Smith beams. “Now that’s an exclusive! Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth, Marko. If the professor wants you to write it, we’ll run every word.”

  “Indeed,” says Cain, seizing the reins of the conversation. “If Dr. Zarnik feels some sort of allegiance either to Mr. Manning or to the Journal, we’d be foolish not to take advantage of it—our summer circulation can always use a little goosing. But there are other considerations, too, with ramifications beyond the selling of newspapers.”

  Smith’s normally jovial visage turns quizzical. He glances at Manning, then peers at Cain. “What do you mean, Nathan?”

  “That’s why I originally called you here today, gentlemen. May I get you a little something first?” He hoists himself from the credenza and crosses to the bar. A flick of his index finger signals that Smith and Manning should follow.

  “Bit early for me,” says Smith, chuckling.

  Manning tells Cain, “Club soda, if you have it.”

  “Hngh.” Cain nods, pours Manning’s drink, then a stiff snifterful of cognac for himself. He tips the glass to his lips, breathes deeply from it to savor the foretaste, then drinks. He closes his eyes, finally swallows, and sighs.

  Manning lifts his glass in a silent toast, then drinks the soda.

  Cain indicates by the direction of his glance that they should sit again, and he begins leading them back across the room to the sofas. Manning and Smith measure their steps so as not to outpace their boss. When they have settled in again, with Cain seated on the sofa across from his underlings, Manning produces his notebook and uncaps his pen.

  With a wag of his finger, Cain tells him, “No notes this morning, Mr. Manning. What I’m about to tell you is strictly between us.”

  The reporter obliges by closing his steno pad. With elbows planted on his knees, he stares at Cain, at full attention.

  “Ever since its founding,” says Cain, “the Journal has been widely perceived as a conservative paper. Whether in terms of the political philosophy promoted on its editorial page, or in terms of the prudent fiscal management that has allowed JournalCorp to thrive and reward its shareholders—this paper, this tower, and all that it represents has been guided for more than a century by the tenets of conservative capitalism. The pendulum of public opinion has swung erratically from generation to generation, but the Journal has stood tall as a bastion of time-honored values. We have been alternately lionized or vilified, depending on the mood of the day.”

  He swallows again from his snifter before continuing, “I realize that the Journal’s guiding principles are not shared by everyone within its corporate family. Today’s journalists, in particular, seem to be of a decidedly liberal stripe. That’s fine, that’s healthy. Society is always enriched by debate, never endangered by it, and this paper exists, at its very core, to defend freedom of speech and diversity of ideas. I tell you this not to impress you with my open-mindedness, not to enlighten you with a history already known to you, but to prepare you for a glimpse of things to come.”

  Cain leans forward, ready to share a secret. “Gentlemen, when I made the decision to leave military life and turn my attentions to the private sector, I never dreamed that I would one day be entrusted at the helm of the most venerable newspaper in the Midwest. With such miracles behind us, though, our vision has been greatly expanded. The Journal is now poised to become the centerpiece of a communications empire that will rival anything in New York”—Cain’s eyes bug as he spits a single, explosive breath of laughter—“let alone Atlanta.”

  Smith and Manning, seated next to each other, exchange a reticent glance, unsure if they should share Cain’s mirth or be awed by his ambition. Smith says, “That’s wonderful, Nathan. I didn’t realize there were plans—”

  “Gordon,” says Cain, nostrils flaring as he sniffs at his glass, “of course you didn’t know. I hate to sound secretive, but the Pentagon’s involved here—they’re making it happen for us.”

  Smith and Manning again exchange a glance, but this time there is no option of mirth. Nathan Cain has long been known for both the perversity and dryness of his humor—what there is of it. For him to make the Pentagon the subject of a fib, though, would be the moral equivalent of flag-burning.

  Cain continues. “You’re well aware that our broadcasting division has been developing a new communications satellite. Greater capacity, higher output, blah blah blah, all the bells and whistles. But you’re not aware that the satellite employs a whole new technology that will enable JournalCorp to take a commanding lead in integrating broadcast functions with print journalism, telecommunications, cable, the Internet, you name it. It becomes one big ball of wax. And, gentlemen”—with a decisive clack, he sets his snifter on a marble-topped end table—“it’s ours.”

  Smith and Manning don’t even look at each other. They’re speechless.

  “But,” says Cain, “there’s no way in hell we can accomplish this on our own. The military sees the potential value in all this—who wouldn’t?—and thanks to old friends and unforgotten favors, the Journal and the Pentagon have gone to bed together. They’re helping us enhance our computer power, and they’re bumping us up to the next shuttle launch. Strings have been pulled, my friends. They have cooperated. And now they expect a little cooperation—a minor accommodation—from us.”

  Manning clears his throat before asking, “What do they want?”

  “It’s Dr. Zarnik. They need to know more about him.”

  “Ah,” says Manning. “But why come to us? They’ve got the whole State Department at their disposal.”

  Smith turns from Manning to tell Cain, “That’s a good point, Nathan.”

  Cain tells them, “They’ve got plenty of background on Zarnik, which is all that the State Department can provide. What they need to check is the man’s science, his research. As I understand it, the military has no particular interest in the tenth planet itself, but in the methods employed by Zarnik in documenting his discovery.”

  “I’m no scientist,” Manning reminds them. “I can’t possibly explain Zarnik’s methods on a level that would be useful to the scientific community.”

  “That’s not what they’re after,” Cain tells him, sounding impatient. “They need to take this in steps. And the first step is simply to determine whether Zarnik is on the level. In other words, is his claim genuine, and if not, why not? The Pentagon seems to think there’s something peculiar about the timing of all this. As you know, Manning, it would take months for NASA to replicate Zarnik’s research. The military feels that that period of uncertainty may present a window of opportunity for … God knows what.”

  Resigned to the fact that the Zarnik story is his for keeps, Manning asks, “What would you like me to do?”

  “Go back,” says Cain, “talk to the professor, and put him through his song and dance again. Your story is slated for page one, so the follow-up interview is a reasonable backup anyway.”

  “No problem,” Manning tells him. “I still need to see his video demonstration. David Bosch and I have an appointment with him tomorrow.”

  “That’s all I ask,” says Cain, rising. “I hope Zarnik is shooting straight. It’s a great story—everybody loves that interplanetary stuff. It expands our horizons. And even though it tells us we’re a smaller part of the big picture than we thought, it makes us feel a little bigger for having figured it out.”

  Smith always knows when the conversation could use some lighteni
ng. “I’m glad somebody’s able to figure it out. I think we were born a little early, Nathan, to fully grasp the technology that now surrounds us. As for me, I’m a Neanderthal from the Dark Ages, when computers were just fancy typewriters. Look at this place,” he says, rising. “They’ve got you wired for just about everything now.”

  “Did you notice the mess they’ve made of the outer offices?” Cain asks. “That’s just the tip of it.”

  “I wondered about that,” Manning muses while rising, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

  “And who’s that new assistant?” Smith asks. “Lucy …?”

  “Lucille Haring,” Cain obliges. “She’s part of the whole package. I don’t know what to make of her. She’s on JournalCorp’s payroll, but the Pentagon dug her up for us, security clearance and all. She’s a model of efficiency, but God, what a stiff woman—like talking to a board.” He laughs, but it’s more of a grunt. “I’ve come to depend on her, though. She knows computers inside out, and I’m older than you are, Gordon, so I’ve got some catching-up to do. Every day, I spend an hour or so with her in remedial training.”

  Smith says, “My hat’s off to you, Nathan, if you’re actually able to master these gizmos.” He waves at all the equipment on the sideboard. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. Well, on second thought, I could probably figure out how to turn on the TV. And the VCR doesn’t look too intimidating—don’t ask me to set its clock or program it to record, but any idiot can hit the ‘play’ button.”

  “Yes, Gordon,” says Cain, sounding ready to wrap up the meeting. “Mr. Manning, you’ll be in touch with Dr. Zarnik soon?”

  “I’ll phone him this morning to reconfirm tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Excellent.” Cain claps Manning on the shoulder, a bonhomous gesture unnatural to him.

  As they begin strolling toward the door to the outer offices, Manning says, “I thought I was forgetting something, Mr. Cain. There’s a party this Saturday. Neil and I—that is, my loftmate, Neil Waite—”

  “I know about Neil,” says Cain. “He’s done committee work for the celebration, correct? Commendable. You see, Mr. Manning, the Journal’s management is not totally unenlightened and Victorian—although I’m still convinced that the military’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy is probably the wisest. It’s certainly the most comfortable.”

  “A lot of folks take issue with that, sir,” Manning tells him.

  Smith cringes.

  “Indeed,” says Cain.

  With a smile that defuses the tension of the moment, Manning says, “Societal issues aside, Mr. Cain—Neil and I have just finished fixing up our place, and we’re throwing sort of a housewarming Saturday night, and we’d be honored if you’d care to attend. You too, Gordon—and bring Molly, of course.”

  “Thanks, Marko,” says Smith. “We’ll be there.”

  Cain draws his brows together. “Sorry, Manning. It just won’t work. Other commitments, you know. There are some labor issues pending at a subsidiary, and I’ll be tied up late with lawyers that night.”

  “Certainly. Very short notice—”

  Manning’s words are cut short by Lucille Haring, who raps once, sharply, on the door and enters the office. “Excuse me, Mr. Cain,” she says, “but there’s a call from Washington I think you’ll want to take.”

  “Thank you, Miss Haring. We were just finishing up. I’ll take it inside.” He begins crossing toward the door to his private quarters, waving a perfunctory farewell to Smith and Manning, when he stops and turns, having thought of something. “Mr. Manning, if it’s quite all right with you and your friend, why don’t I send Miss Haring in my stead Saturday evening? Miss Haring,” he says to her with a bent smile, “you strike me as the sort of gal who’s always up for a good party.”

  David asks, “So now they have you working both stories?”

  Manning pulls his car to the curb, lucky to find a space so close to Cliff Nolan’s apartment building. “That’s right.” Manning wags his head, recognizing the irony of this turn of events. “Cain insists that I investigate Zarnik’s planet, and Smith wants me working on Nolan’s murder.”

  “If anyone can handle it”—David cuffs Manning’s shoulder, that jock gesture of his—“Mark Manning can. Besides, he’s got an assistant now.”

  Manning laughs. “Good thing, too. He needs an assistant now.”

  They get out of the car, and because of the heat (it is midafternoon during a week that has turned sultry) they leave their jackets locked inside. Manning feeds the meter and double-checks that his bumper isn’t hanging into a yellow zone—the very thought of a police wrecker towing the car is enough to make him cringe.

  As they walk the few yards to the door of the building, Manning tells David, “Actually, now that I’ve given it some thought, I’m sort of glad they’ve assigned me both stories. What if they’re related?”

  David looks at him with blank astonishment.

  Manning stops in the shade of the building’s canopy and turns to face David, their eyes only a few inches apart. Speaking softly, as though someone might overhear, he says, “Think about it: Cliff was murdered mere hours after meeting with Zarnik. Zarnik made it plain to us that he was miffed that Cliff was skeptical of his discovery. Cliff was killed while working on something at his desk, which might have been a story debunking Zarnik’s planet.”

  David is wide-eyed. “Professor Zarnik is a suspect?”

  Manning shrugs. “A potential suspect. It’s a stretch, I admit, but at this point, I’m at a loss to think of anyone else who had even the slightest reason to want Cliff dead.” He steps up to the row of door buzzers. “That’s why we’re here.”

  He squints at the labels above the buttons, but other than Nolan’s, the names mean nothing to him. They seem to be arranged by floor, in the order of each apartment along the hall, and Manning locates the button that would logically belong to Nolan’s nosy neighbor, the one who opened her door to check on Manning in the hall last night. The label above the buzzer reads, D. L. Fields. Manning presses the button, then waits.

  “Who’s there?” croaks a voice through a small, raspy speaker in the wall.

  “Hello, Miss Fields?” asks Manning.

  “Mrs. Fields,” she corrects him.

  “Mrs. Fields, my name is Mark Manning. I’m a reporter for the Journal. I wonder if you could spare a few minutes to talk about your neighbor, Cliff Nolan.”

  “Police were here already. Here all night. Talked to ever’body.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Fields, but Cliff was a friend of mine. You might say I have a personal interest in this case. Would you mind?”

  There’s a pause. “What the hell. Come on up.” The door lock is already buzzing.

  Manning grabs the knob before she changes her mind, then opens the door and enters with David. Manning tells him, “Top floor,” and they start up, David bounding ahead, taking the stairs by twos.

  When Manning meets him at the top, he first notices that the door to Nolan’s apartment has been yellow-taped off-limits by the police. There’s been a lot of activity up here, and the hallway furniture looks askew. The dim lighting has been replaced with brighter bulbs, there are carpet tracks from the door to the stairs, and the floor is generally littered with scraps of the investigation. Manning just stands there, taking it all in—it seems so different from the scene he stumbled into last night. Then he notices that the neighbor’s door is cracked open, just an inch or two, so she can spy on him as she did last night.

  Her burly voice tells him through the crack, “Didn’t say there was two of you.”

  “Sorry,” he says, stepping quickly to the door, hoping it won’t snap shut on him. “I should have mentioned that my colleague, David Bosch, is with me.”

  The door opens a bit wider so she can get a better look at David. “’Nother reporter? Damn fine specimen, I’ll say that!” She belts out a laugh, but it’s aborted by a coughing spasm. She tells Manning, “You were alone last night. You f
ind him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought it was mighty quiet over there. Not that I didn’t enjoy it—for a change.” She swings the door wide open. “Come on in, boys.”

  They enter the apartment, and Manning is struck by the contrast to Cliff Nolan’s place. It’s hard to believe the two dwellings are in the same building. While Clifford’s apartment was a showplace of genteel refinement, these digs are packed with a hodgepodge of junk furniture and gaudy bric-a-brac. Cheap gilt-framed Bible scenes are centered high on nicotine-beiged walls, and a spangled jumpsuit—it looks for all the world like an Elvis costume—hangs from a hook on the door to a bedroom. The television Manning heard last night is still on, still tuned to a religious channel. A preacher drawls, “With God’s help, and with your support, my dear friends, we plan to expand the television ministry of the Christian Family Crusade, bringing the good news of Jesus, twenty-four hours a day, to every nook and cranny of this great land of ours, now riddled, as it is, by the forces of perversion.”

  As for Mrs. Fields herself, she’s a husky woman, but not fat—in fact, she wears a kimono-style bathrobe cinched tight at the waist, strutting a good figure. She has a big, lacquered hairdo, but wears no makeup at this hour. Her years of smoking have taken their toll on her face, and Manning would guess she’s fifty-five. She asks, “Won’t you sit down?”—affecting an air of decorum. Then she laughs at her feigned manners. The laugh triggers another coughing jag. “Excuse me.” She primps.

  Manning and David sit, taking chairs that flank a small table, facing the TV. Mrs. Fields mutes the evangelist, but leaves the picture on. Though there are several other chairs in the crowded room, she remains standing, planting both palms on her broad hips. “Now what can I do for you gents? Getcha something?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Fields,” says Manning.

  She tells him, “You can call me Dora Lee. You said your name was Mark, right, honey? And David—my, what a sweet child.”

  David is accustomed to flattery, but not from the likes of Dora Lee. He blushes, telling her, “Thank you, ma’am.”