Eye Contact by Michael Craft Read Free Book Online Page A

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,