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
“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
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