“Fine, I’ll hang on.
Garrison cupped the receiver with his hand, held it out to Gold.
“Frank Norton is on the other end,” he said. “He’s owner and editor of a weekly paper at Lone Pine. An old friend of mine. We went to school together. He says something fell out of the sky up there. One man’s been killed. Fell just fifteen minutes or so ago. You get down what he has to tell you and then ask him to hold for me. I want to talk with him again.”
“I’ll get it here,” said Gold. He picked up his phone. “Mr. Norton,” he said, “I’m Jim Gold. I’m assistant city editor
Garrison swung around in his chair, spoke to Annie Dutton, city desk secretary.
“Annie,” he said, “get a hold of the plane charter people. See if they can have a plane standing by for us. To fly to—what the hell town with an airstrip is closest to Lone Pine?”
“Bemidji,” said Annie. “That would be the closest.”
“All right. Then get hold of a ear rental outfit in Bemidji and arrange for a car to be waiting for us. We’ll phone them later and tell them when we’ll be getting in.”
Annie picked up her phone and started dialing.
Garrison stood up and looked over the newsroom, flinching at what he saw.
Finley over in one corner, peeking away at a story—but Finley was the rankest cub, still wet behind the ears. Sanderson, but she was not much better and had the unfailing habit of writing a bit too cutely. Some day, by God, he thought, she would have to mend her ways or be out the door. Jamison, but Jamison took forever. All right on an in-depth story, but too slow and deliberate for a story that was breaking fast.
“Kathy!” he bawled.
Startled, Kathy Foster stopped her typing, got up and started for the city desk, fighting down her anger. Jerry hadn’t called as yet and her story, as she wrote it, seemed sillier and sillier. If she had to miss the concert
Gold was on one phone, listening, speaking only now and then, his fingers stabbing at the typewriter, making notes. Annie was busy on another phone. Garrison had sat down again and was dialing.
“This is Garrison,” he said into the phone. “We need a good photographer. Who you got back there? Where is Allen? This is an out-of-town assignment. Important. Top priority.”
He listened. “Oh, hell,” he said. “You mean Allen isn’t there. He’s the man for the job we have. Where is he? Can you reach him?”
A wait, then, “Yes, I forgot. I do remember now. Allen’s on vacation. All right, then. Send him up.”
He hung up the phone and turned to Kathy. “I have something for you,” he said.
“Not now,” she said. “Not tonight. Not overtime. I’m almost through for the day. And I have tickets for the symphony tonight.”
“But, good God, girl, this could be important. The most important assignment you have ever had. Maybe our first space visitor. .
“First space visitor?”
“Well, maybe yes, maybe no. We don’t know quite yet. . Gold was holding out the phone to him. He took it and spoke into it. “Just a minute, Frank. I’ll be right with you.” ~
Annie said, “There’ll be a plane waiting, ready to go. There’ll be a ear at Bemidji.”
“Thanks,” said Garrison. He asked Gold, “What have you got?”
“Good story, far as it goes,” said Gold. “Solid. Lots of facts. Loads of detail. Sounds exciting. Something did fall out of the sky up there.”
“Solid enough to go after?”
“I’d say so,” said Gold.
Garrison swung around to Kathy. “I hate to ask this of you,” he said. “But there’s no one else. No one I can reach out and grab quite fast enough. Everyone is working. You and White fly up to Bemidji. There’ll be a car there, waiting for you. Play story. I’ll guarantee you that. Byline. The works. You ought to be in Lone Pine by six or before. Phone before eight. We can make the first edition that way, with what you have.”
“All right,” she said. “If you’ll buy this pair of tickets. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be out the price of these tickets.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll buy them. I’ll work them into my expense account somehow.” He dug his wallet out of his pocket. “How much?”
“Thirty bucks.”
“That’s too much. That’s more than you paid for them.”
“They’re good seats. Anyhow, that’s what you’ll have to pay for them.”
“All right. All right,” he said, stripping out bills.
“And if Jerry Conklin calls, be sure someone tells him happened. He was to be my date tonight. Promise.”
“I promise,” said Garrison, handing her the money.
He lifted the receiver and said, “Some last minute details, Frank, that needed taking care of. You heard? I’ll have someone up there by six o’clock or so. I’ll ask them to look you up. But how come? You have a paper of your own. Why give this all to us?”
“Today was my press day,” said Norton. “Won’t publish again until this time next week. This kind of news doesn’t wait. I wanted to give you a jump on it. A couple of state patrol cars came roaring into town just a few minutes ago. Otherwise everything’s the same.”
“I wonder if you’d mind keeping us filled in,” asked Garrison, “until our people get there. Something happens, just give us a call.”
“Be glad to,” Norton said.
4. WASHINGTON, D.C.
It had been a rough day. The press, at the early afternoon briefing, had been out for blood. Principally, the questions had had to do with the movement by the Native American Association for the return to the federated tribes of the Black Hills of South Dakota and the Montana Bighorn region, although there had been considerable sniping about the energy situation, centered on the administration’s proposal to develop a southwestern desert solar energy system and its advocacy of substantial funds for research into a cryogenic transmission system. The press had stormed out considerably indignant at his unsatisfactory answers, but, David Porter told himself, that was not unusual. For the past several months, the press, in general, had been either enraged or disgusted at him. Any day now, he felt sure, there would be a move by some factions of the media to get him canned.
A hush hung over the pressroom office, scarcely broken by the teletype machines ranged against the wall, chuckling among themselves as they continued to spew out the doings of the world. Marcia Langley, his assistant, was gathering up and putting away, getting ready to leave for the day. The telephone console on Marcia’s desk was quiet; for the first time in the day no lights were blinking, signaling incoming calls. This was the ~aim of the news-gathering period. The last afternoon editions had gone to press, the morning editions were being readied for the presses.
Shadows were beginning to creep into the room. Porter put out a hand and turned on his desk lamp. The light revealed the clutter of papers. Looking at them, he groaned. The clock on the wall said it was almost 5:30. He bad promised to pick up Alice at 7:30 and that left him little time to get through with his paperwork. There was a new eating place out in Maryland that some of Alice’s friends had been recommending, with Alice mentioning it off and on for the past several weeks. Tonight, they planned to go there. He relaxed in his chair and thought about Alice Davenport. Her old man, the senator, and Porter had never gotten along too well, but, so far, the old man had raised no objection to their seeing one another. Which, Porter thought, was rather decent of the old buzzard. Despite her parentage, however, Alice was all right. She was a lot of fun, bright and cheerful, well-informed, a good conversationalist. Except that, at times, she had the unfortunate tendency to engage in long and partisan discussion of her currently favorite social enthusiasm. Right at the moment, it was the Indian claim to the Black Hills and the Bighorn, which she passionately believed should be returned to the federated tribes. A few months earlier, it had been the blacks of South Africa. Which all came, Porter told himself dourly, from too good an education in exactly the wrong disciplines. She didn’t always talk about these things and tonight perhaps she wouldn’t. In the last few months, they had spent some happy times together, for Alice, when she left off her crusader togs, was a good companion.
It wouldn’t take more than half an hour or so, he estimated, if he really applied himself, to get his desk at least haphazardly cleared off. That would give him time to get home, get showered and shaved, and change his clothes. For once, he promised himself, he’d pick Alice up on time. But, first, he needed a cup of coffee.