With one exception, it didn’t require action. The frozen-frame face that appeared on the screen was one he didn’t know: a young Asian male. The WebWorld address meant nothing to Cochran, but the geoaddress did: Henrys Hat, Colorado. He wondered if Millennium was going to complain about something in the published interview. All he’d done was tidy up the language a bit.
“Roll and record, now,” he said. The mouth began to move, a voice issuing from the speakers in precise American English, the written words crawling quickly across the bottom of the screen.
“Mr. Cochran, my name is Lor Lu. I am Mr. Aran’s administrative assistant. Millennium has a business proposal you may be interested in. If you’d care to know more about it, please call me before 1150 or after 1310 Mountain Daylight Time, before October 6th. Thank you.”
“Hmm.” Cochran looked at his wall clock, then went into his bedroom and wakened Adrielle. Her nubile body caused a pulse of desire, but he tuned it down. He had business to take care of. “Time to greet the day,” he said. “You told me you had classes this afternoon. Cereal and sugar are on the table; juice, milk, jam and margarine are in the fridge. Bread’s in the bread drawer. Put your dishes on the counter. I’ll be on the Web. On visual part of the time, so don’t come in before you leave.”
She mustured a sleepy affirmative. He took her chin in a hand. “I’ll try to call you this evening,” he added, his voice soft now. He kissed her lingeringly, almost changing his mind about calling Ngunda’s administrative assistant that day. “Or you can call me,” he added. He watched her round firm rear sway through the door of the bedroom bath. Normally he discouraged women from phoning, but Adrielle was the best he’d bedded in a year. Enthusiastic, talented, creative, and not into power games like a lot of college girls.
In the kitchen he skinned a banana, poking the peel into the “Tasmanian Eats-All.” Then he dialed a tall coffee with fat-free creamer and three spoonfuls of honey—his default setting—and ate a mini-breakfast over the comics in the morning paper. He’d never found the comics as entertaining on the WebWorld or fax.
You’re a fogey, he told himself.
He left the kitchen, taking his electrothermal coffee mug with him, and at the computer, dialed Lor Lu. A receptionist cleared the call, and the brown face appeared again on Cochran’s screen, an unfocused fragment of office in the background.
“Mr. Cochran! I’m Lor Lu. Thank you for calling.”
“You said you had a business proposal to discuss.”
“Right. Mr. Aran liked both your interview and your style. And of course you have an established reputation. He’d like to have you cover his activities in a Millennium context. Regularly that is. You would accompany him on his tours, and spend part of the non-tour time here at the Ranch, learning and writing about Millennium.”
“If you’re offering me a job, I already have one.”
“Not a job. Access. We’re offering you access that other journalists don’t have, for columns and articles. And for a book, should you decide to write one.”
Cochran felt an electric jolt of excitement: Ngunda was becoming a very major figure, a superstar in the American public eye. “I might be interested,” he said, “if I’d be free to write as I please. No censorship, no sweetheart treatment. And I’ll still be with American Scene.”
“Of course. If you were an actual employee of Millennium, your public acceptance would be seriously compromised, no matter how much freedom we gave you. No, a fair-minded, independent skeptic is what we’re looking for. Anything less would be recognized and devalued. Shall we discuss it further? Or do you want to talk to your editor first?”
“My initial reaction is guardedly favorable, Mr. Lu, but I need to think about it, and talk it over with Mr. Nidringham. He may want to put limits on my involvement. May I call you back about four your time?”
“Four Mountain Time. Good. Are we done for now, Mr. Cochran?”
“So far as I’m concerned.”
“Well then, I look forward to your next call.”