David eyes Manning with a glance of approval while making a note.
Zarnik taps his wrist. “It is almost noon, gentlemen. Please position your chairs in front of the desk, facing the large computer monitor. I shall take care of the rest.”
Manning and David move their chairs as instructed, while Zarnik dashes about the room firing up his equipment, adjusting its settings, twiddling dials, taking care not to trip over the fat bundle of cables. David follows every movement with rapt attention, pen poised over his notepad, ready to record details of the demonstration.
Manning sits back pensively in his chair, watching Zarnik fuss. He reaches back to stretch an arm on the desk, drumming his fingers while waiting for Zarnik to finish. His hand brushes the edge of an appointment calendar, the ubiquitous style with the date appearing as a big red number at the top of each page. Manning peers over his shoulder at it. Noted there on the line just before noon are the initials MM. As Zarnik disappears behind some equipment, Manning pulls the calendar to himself, flips back through several pages, and finds that all of Zarnik’s notations are short and cryptic, usually consisting of initials. There, Wednesday afternoon, is another MM, and late Monday there’s a CN, the meeting with Cliff Nolan.
Manning slides the calendar back to its original spot and stares idly at the desktop. There’s a brown paper lunch bag; he recalls the sandwich he moved aside on Wednesday. The messy stack of computer printout has swelled a few inches. The morning edition of the Journal carries Nathan Cain’s page-one tribute to the slain Clifford Nolan, headlined, “Day of Wrath.” The cheap VCR still sits at the far corner, winking midnight with the blue digits of its display. The arrangement of the desk has not changed since his first visit, yet something seems to be missing.
“All is nearly ready,” says Zarnik, reappearing from behind a cabinet, his hair looking frizzier than ever. Manning chuckles to himself, wondering if Mr. Wizard got his finger stuck in a socket back there. “With a little patience,” says Zarnik, “you will both soon join the exclusive ranks of a handful of witnesses to the motion of a new planet.” He directs them to look forward at a large dark computer screen. He explains, “Data are being constantly collected from numerous antennae, then systematically compared in order to detect infinitesimal perturbations in the polar wobble of Pluto. Digitized, the data from these coordinated observations can be translated into a television image, a graphic realization.” He switches on the monitor, then skitters behind Manning and David to the back of the desk, where he sits.
His voice is now hushed. “The image you see before you is a bitsy slice of our solar system, a view as if through the eye of a needle, extending billions of miles into the dead cold darkness.”
“There’s nothing there,” says David, squinting. “Just the crosshairs through the center of the screen.”
“So it seems. So it seems. But I tell you, my young friend, there is indeed something there, hidden beneath the intersection of those lines. It is a tiny planet, a wanderer in the far reaches of space.”
“‘Wanderer,’” repeats Manning. “That’s what ‘planet’ means, doesn’t it?”
“Precisely. That is what the ancients called those bodies that wandered through the seemingly fixed constellations. Stars do not move; planets do. And with patience, you will see one move—in real time—before your very eyes.”
The two reporters peer closer. Then, from under the white lines, into the blackness, emerges a speck of pink. A few moments later, it nudges farther from center, and the computer begins tracing its path along the arc of a giant ellipse. Zarnik tells them, “Behold the tenth planet.”
“It’s awesome,” says David, “that an abstract theory can be proved by such concrete means.”
“That is the elegance of this demonstration,” says Zarnik. “Even the most casual observer, untutored in the rudiments of scientific method, can clearly grasp the evidence of this graphic realization. Not everyone can matriculate in advanced astrophysics, but any idiot can watch TV—no offense, gentlemen.”
Laughing, Manning is reminded of Gordon Smith’s comment in Cain’s office yesterday: Any idiot can push the “play” button on a VCR.
Manning’s laughter stops short. He turns to smile at Zarnik, and while doing so, confirms that something has changed about the desktop—the videocassette that Zarnik plopped there when they arrived is nowhere to be seen. As Manning returns his gaze to the screen, his eyes dip for a blinking instant to glimpse the display panel of the VCR. The clock still flashes midnight, but it has been joined by another symbol, an icon of a rolling tape.
Manning quickly turns toward the monitor again so that Zarnik cannot read the suspicion and mounting anger in his eyes. “Amazing,” he observes. “It truly is a mechanical universe.”
“Truly,” affirms Zarnik.
“Awesome,” says David.
Manning turns to him. “You’re wearing out that word, David. You’re a writer, for God’s sake.”
Taken off-guard by Manning’s sour tone, David tells him, “Sorry, Mark. Thanks for the tip.”
Remembering that he had asked David to act like a kid, he reaches over to pat his knee, a gesture of apology. He wants to lean over and whisper, “I’ll explain later,” but he can’t, not with Zarnik watching, barely two feet behind them. Manning sits as if frozen there, resisting the temptation to steal a glimpse of Zarnik’s hand movements. He strains to hear the mechanism of the tape player disengage the cassette, but the hum of other equipment in the room makes it impossible to detect any telltale clicks.
At that moment, the image of the planet and its ellipse vanishes, leaving only the crosshairs on the screen. “Ah,” says Zarnik, tapping his watch, “we have overstayed our welcome in that pertinent slice of the cosmos. Our transmission is kaput.”
Manning rises from his chair, capping his pen. He looks at the VCR; predictably, its tape icon is no longer lit. He tells Zarnik, “Thank you so much, Professor. That was enlightening—probably more than you realize. And I think it’s safe to say my young assistant was impressed.”
David chimes in. “I’ll say. It was totally aw—impressive. I can’t thank you enough, Professor.” Still seated, David makes some quick additions to his notes.
The astronomer rises from his own chair, approaches Manning, and shakes his hand. “Do please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”
Manning looks to David for a moment, then back at Zarnik. He says, “Actually, Professor, there is something you could help us with. Young David here has never been assigned a story of this scope and has never had the opportunity to interview a celebrity of your stature. If you have the time, could he ask you a few questions and cover the basics of this story on his own?”
Without hesitation, Zarnik says, “My pleasure, Mr. Manning.” Turning to David, he asks, “Well, my friend, how may I help you?”
Standing behind Zarnik, Manning indicates with a jerk of his head that David should get the professor to sit in the chair Manning has just vacated.
David says, “Thanks for your time, Dr. Zarnik. Why not get comfortable?” He gestures toward the chair.
With a bow of assent, Zarnik seats himself, facing David across the corner of the desk, giving Manning free reign to explore the portion of the room behind Zarnik’s back. David asks the astronomer, “What first led you to suspect the existence of a planet beyond Pluto?”
Manning recognizes that David has asked an intelligent opening question, but he doesn’t listen for the answer. Instead, he studies the racks of computer hardware, the fat bundles of cables, the vented metal cabinets, the seemingly purposeless array of video monitors that clutter the cement-floored room. It looks like a movie set—a mad scientist’s laboratory—but what’s the purpose of this sham?
Baffled, he rubs the back of his neck, as if to stimulate clearer thinking. Twisting his head sideways, he notices the chalkboard covering the length of a wall. He remembers that on his first visit, he was disappointed to find no mile-lon
g calculations, only a grocery list and a phone number. The list has grown some—Zarnik must visit the supermarket on weekends. And the phone number has been mostly rubbed out to accommodate the longer list.
Manning removes the pen and notebook from his jacket. He copies the shopping list: TP, PT, TVG, milk, bread, PB, diet, munchies, JD-2L, bowl cleaner, Ban unscented, blades. The first three digits of the phone number are still legible, and Manning notes that they match the Journal’s private exchange. He thinks that the number might have been his own, since he gave it to Zarnik when he first phoned on Wednesday. But then he notices the last two digits, sevens, peeking through the bowl cleaner—it’s not Manning’s number.
Manning eyes his notebook for a moment, glances at the chalkboard, then notices Zarnik, who is rising from his chair. David, also rising, says to him, “Thanks so much, Professor. It’s been a great honor to spend this time with you.”
“Nonsense,” says Zarnik with an air of modesty, nonetheless enjoying the praise. “It is I who must thank you two gentlemen for your efforts on behalf of promoting this momentous discovery.” He has turned and begins escorting both reporters toward the door.
“I almost forgot,” says Manning. “The party Saturday. My … loftmate and I have just finished fixing up our place, and we’re throwing sort of a housewarming tomorrow night—David will be there. I wonder if you’d care to join us, Dr. Zarnik?”
“Perfection!” says the astronomer. “I have the good fortune to be at liberty.”
Manning recalls from his peek at Zarnik’s calendar that there was nothing initialed for Saturday night. He says, “Anytime after seven. Would you care to make note of the address?” He folds open his steno pad and offers it to Zarnik.
“Thank you, yes.” Zarnik picks one of several mechanical pencils from his lab coat’s pocket protector, clicks out a length of lead, and transcribes the directions.
“That was seven o’clock,” Manning reminds him, watching as he writes.
“Yes, seven.” Zarnik makes note of the time, removes the page, folds it, and returns the pad to Manning.
“We’ll look forward to seeing you,” says Manning, extending his hand, which Zarnik shakes.
David extends his own hand. “Good luck with your research, Professor.”
“Pfroobst!” says Zarnik, recoiling a step, raising his hands as if at gunpoint. He explains, “In my homeland, it is considered a curse to wish one luck while shaking hands. Instead, offer me your little finger.” David does so. “Now hook it with mine.” They do. “And shake. There. Good luck for both of us, fully protected, no curses.” He laughs. “Mr. Manning?”
Manning obliges, engaging Zarnik in the pinkie-shake. “Not very scientific, Professor.”
“No,” he admits. “But hey—whatever works.”
They all share a laugh as Zarnik opens the door for them and ushers them into the hall. While walking toward the stairs with Manning, David turns back to say, “Till tomorrow, Professor.”
“Farewell, my friends!” Zarnik waves, toots his chrome police whistle, then disappears behind the security door. It closes with a thud, locks with a clank.
Making their way out of the building and through the parking lot toward the car, Manning doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to—David gabs on and on, still heady from his taste of big-time journalism. “God, this is exactly the kind of assignment I’ve been hoping for, but I never dreamed it would come this quickly. What a rush! Thank you, Mark.”
Manning opens the car, and they get in. From the passenger seat, David says, “You know what would make this day complete? Getting behind that wheel.”
“Dream on,” says Manning. As they pull out of the lot and into traffic, he asks David, “Could you grab that file from the backseat?”
David reaches for the manila folder and opens it in his lap. Flipping through the pile of photos, he says, “It’s Zarnik—from the Journal’s morgue.”
“Look closely at them. Notice anything?”
David adjusts his glasses and lifts the pictures one by one, scrutinizing them at varying distances from his face. “It’s him. So what?”
Manning’s eyes are focused on the road, his brows wrung in thought. He can’t examine the pictures while he’s driving, so he’s left with David’s appraisal of them. “Hmm.” Lost in this musing, he doesn’t notice that David has returned the file to the backseat. Nor does he notice that David has reached across the console to put his hand on Manning’s knee.
Then David gives a little squeeze, catching Manning’s attention fast.
“David,” says Manning through a nervous laugh, “when I touched you back at the observatory, it was meant as an apology—for my brusque reaction to your overuse of ‘awesome.’ I don’t know what you’re doing, but it doesn’t feel like an apology.”
“No, sir.” His voice has an unmistakably suggestive lilt.
Manning grips the wheel with both hands. “David, don’t. Not now. We’ve got other issues to deal with. There’s work to do—digging.”
“What do you mean?” asks David, unwilling to remove his hand. “Your story’s all but written. You’re sitting on a page-one exclusive detailing the biggest scientific news of the year, maybe the decade.”
“David,” says Manning, brushing away the kid’s hand, “Zarnik’s a fraud.”
“Huh?”
“While you were running him through your interview—”
David interrupts, “I got some really great quotes, too. You may want to work them in.”
Manning glances sideways to tell David, “Listen to me. The planet’s a sham.”
“But he proved it. You saw it yourself.”
Manning explains, “He was playing a videotape for us. It was a baby-simple setup. I should have seen it coming.”
Dumbstruck, David asks, “But why would he try to fake something like that? Even if he could manage to jerk us around, he’d be proven wrong eventually.”
“I have no idea what he’s up to, but the deception runs deeper. Not only is his planet bunk, but the man himself is phony. That’s not Zarnik.”
“Whoa, Mark,” says David, edging to the far side of his seat. “Don’t blow me away here. That has to be Zarnik.”
“He doesn’t add up,” insists Manning, pulling the notepad from his jacket. “Look at this. I copied a grocery list he was keeping on the blackboard.”
David reads through it, then turns to Manning with a quizzical look. “Doesn’t cook much, does he?”
“That’s not the point. The man who made this list is not from Eastern Europe. He’s a homegrown corn-fed American.”
Incredulous, David asks, “How can you tell that? I can’t even make sense of this. For instance, what’s TP, PT, TVG?”
“Toilet paper, paper towels, TV Guide—simple.”
“How’d you figure that out?”
“Don’t you keep a grocery list? The stuff you need every week ends up at the top, usually in some sort of shorthand. Everybody does it that way. Well, I do.”
“Okay,” says David, “makes sense. Milk, bread—weekly stuff. What’s PB?”
“Peanut butter.”
David’s eyes widen with astonishment.
Manning explains, “It goes with bread, and there was a sandwich on his desk the other day. Even then, it struck me as odd. Europeans don’t eat peanut butter for lunch—no more than we’d eat kippers for breakfast.”
David runs his finger down the list. “Next items, diet and munchies.”
“Vernacular,” says Manning. “American vernacular. I have no idea how much Diet Coke and Cheetos is consumed in Eastern Europe—very little, I imagine—but I’ll bet a week’s pay they wouldn’t refer to it as diet and munchies.”
“Here’s a good one. What’s JD-2L?”
Manning frowns. “That one’s got me stumped.”
“Then it ends up with bowl cleaner, Ban unscented, blades. Last-aisle stuff.”
“Right. This guy’s awfully tidy, and while I hate
to cast aspersions on the personal hygiene of an entire continent, it’s a fact that I’ve known few if any European men of Zarnik’s generation who use deodorant.”
“Fine,” says David, handing the notepad back to Manning, “this is an American shopping list. But how can you be sure that Zarnik wrote it?”
Manning tucks away the pad, explaining, “I looked at his desk calendar. His appointments were written in the same hand, usually noted with no more than initials. Then I had him copy the directions to tomorrow’s party, and I watched. He didn’t write in that tortured style Europeans take such pride in. It was Palmer Method all the way. And here’s the corker: He didn’t cross his sevens. David, that man has either managed to change a heap of lifelong habits in the last three weeks, or he’s not who he claims to be.”
David flumps back in his seat, exhaling a heavy sigh, convinced by Manning’s argument. “Who is he, then?”
“Beats me. But the State Department helped bring him here, and I doubt if he could bluff them. What’s more, he didn’t even mention Cliff Nolan’s murder, which has been all over the headlines for the past two days. He met Cliff, remember, only hours before the murder, and he made no secret of not liking the man. I smell something very fishy here.”
David tells Manning, “I smell a major exposé.”
PART TWO
Asteroids
PFROOBST POSITIVE!
Zarnik’s computers demonstrate that his far-flung planet exists
by Mark Manning
Journal Investigative Reporter
JUNE 26, 1999, CHICAGO IL—Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the renowned Eastern European astrophysicist who stunned the scientific world on Monday with his claimed discovery of a tenth planet in the Earth’s solar system, has demonstrated the verity of his claim by means of a sophisticated “graphic realization,” a computer-generated television image.
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