1
THE MEDIA
Audley Claudine Blackstone
Audley clicked the snap shut on her suitcase,
half-hoping she wouldn't have to go.
"I'm late," she said aloud.
"I'm going to miss that goddamned plane,
I just know it."
Defiantly she ran upstairs to the loft,
checking to see that everything was in good
order.
The bed was unmade.
Catching her reflection in the mirror,
she acknowledged that at least on the surface
everything was in good shape.
The tailored gray traveling pantsuit and
matching suede pumps would hold up well during
the long flight.
Her blouse was wrinkle-resistant; her
deodorant, fail-safe.
"Where did you put your lighter?" she
inquired of the naked green eyes.
Her face, lightly made up, stared back at
her.
"Outdoors?"
Sweeping the air with her long brown
hair, she swiftly turned to scan the eclectic
studio apartment she had designed and created
for herself.
On the redwood deck, running along the
front and east sides of the two-story beach
front structure, freshly watered plants stood
erect, shading smaller bowls of blooms.
Her favorite, the California poppy, held
its bright face to the sun, waved gently in the
ocean breeze.
Audley overlooked the chaise lounge,
barrenly soaking up the sun's piercing rays,
enticing her to come and partake of the Malibu
balm.
She could not, much as she would like to.
The lighter was not outdoors.
From the loft, her eyes descended to the
writing table that faced the high windows to the
front, overlooking the blue Pacific, and holding
ready her briefcase packed with fresh notebooks,
pens and pencils, laptop, tapes and recorder,
snapped tight and lying next to her recent gift
from Brad: a new Nikon and myriad film.
Where was that lighter?
As much as she smoked, it was as
important as air that she find it.
Glancing at her watch, her eyes sped
again, looking for the lighter and lingering in
the apartment that she loved and hated leaving.
In the center of the studio was a French
Provincial sofa; in front of this, an authentic
Chippendale table -- too tall to be a practical
coffee table but aesthetically pleasing and
esthetics were more important to Audley than
practicality.
On the table, in neat array, lay the
latest issues of L'Amour,
Architectural Digest, National
Geographic, Playgirl and The
Silent Majority.
Snuggled next to these she spied the
lighter.
"On the coffee table," she said,
answering her own question.
"Right where you left it."
Grabbing a silk green-Grey paisley scarf
and a last glimpse in the mirror, she descended
almost leisurely, and reached for the lighter
and yet another cigarette, her eye focusing on
the slick glossy monthly for which she wrote:
The Silent Majority.
"At
five bucks a copy," she commanded of the inert
magazine, "this better sell a lot of copies!
How else can I expect to meet my
expenses?"
Audley would not settle for less than
First Class.
In the kitchen, the telephone rang.
"Damn that phone," she muttered,
returning to her inventory and gathering her
paraphernalia, one at a time, at the door …
(1) Suitcase: certainly enough clothes
for a simple
weekend assignment.
… wondering who might be calling.
"Not Dad," she surmised.
"I already talked to him this morning."
(2) Train case: cosmetics, necessary
items of
feminine hygiene, blow dryer.
(3)
Brief case: laptop, cell phone.
(4)
Camera case: batteries, film.
(5)
Purse: checkbook, ID, cash.
"It's probably Weinberger checking up on
me."
(6)
Lighter, cigarettes.
(7)
Jacket.
(“It's too hot for a jacket."
"Take it!")
(8)
Plane ticket.
(9) Keys. (“Where are your keys?" "In
your purse.")
"Well, screw Weinberger," she said as the
telephone continued to ring.
"After being an Ace Reporter for three
years, I can damned well take responsibility for
my own assignments."
What else?
Oh, yes, very important.
Marijuana.
Only two, neatly tucked into a film
cartridge in the camera case.
"That's more than enough.
Brad doesn't like me to smoke, anyway."
The telephone trilled for perhaps the
tenth time.
"Damn that phone!"
She retrieved the receiver.
"Audley Blackstone's residence."
"Aud?
It's me.
Sylvia."
The voice was sultry.
Obviously, Sylvia had just woken up.
Audley automatically looked at her watch:
11:35.
Thirty-five minutes before flight time.
"I'm glad I caught you," Sylvia purred.
"Haven't you gone yet?"
"Oh, yes, Sylvia," she replied dryly.
"I left ten minutes ago, right on
schedule.
You're talking to a recording."
"Oh, Audley, you're too funny.
But seriously, have you got a minute?"
"I've got all day, Sylvia.
I'm not going."
"What?
Why, of course you are!
Listen, I won't keep you."
"Hold on a minute.
Let me get a cigarette."
"You smoke too much," Sylvia said into
the empty receiver.
"You're practically a chain smoker."
"Okay," Audley said, inhaling, "I'm
back."
"I just wanted to remind you to pick up
my dress."
"I'm not going."
"You sound serious."
"I am serious.
The Institute of Futurology can have
their goddamned convention without me."
"But you have an assignment to do!"
Sylvia objected.
"What will you do about Weinberger?"
"Screw Weinberger."
Sylvia overlooked the vulgarity.
"And what about Brad?"
"Screw Brad."
"Now, Audley, is that any way to talk
about your fiancé?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Of course it isn't.
And you haven't even seen him for over a
month."
"I know it, but damn it, I don't like
seeing him when he's involved with his work.
Every time I get near those people and
that damned computer, we end up in the most vile
arguments."
Sylvia could not dispute that.
She could only envision herself at her
party in the dress that lay waiting for her at
Bonwit-Teller in New York.
She took a practiced deep breath.
Audley grinned.
This practiced patience was so like
Sylvia who had never done a stitch of work in
her life -- not labor, anyway, but many
calculated verbal efforts.
Sylvia calculated correctly this time.
"You need the money."
Audley scowled.
Sylvia was right.
"Audley?"
"I hung up."
"No, you didn't.
I can hear you smoking."
"I'm breathing!"
Sylvia knew she had conquered.
She was as good as wearing that dress
already.
It now remained for her to activate the
problem child.
"Alright.
Are you packed?"
"Yes," Audley half pouted.
"Good.
Have you got your ticket?"
"Yes."
"Well," Sylvia paused.
"You know what to do.
I'll see you when you get back."
Audley was still scowling over the
prospects of the next few days.
Regardless of her financial
circumstances, something inside her rebelled
against going.
"And don't forget to stop at
Bonwit-Teller.
It's right on Fifth Avenue."
Audley cracked a grin.
"Fifth Avenue!
I thought it was Times Square!"
"Bitch."
Audley giggled.
"Give my love to Brad."
LOADING LUGGAGE into her tiny green roadster,
Audley took her customary moment to say good-bye
to her home.
She never left it, not even for a run to
the corner grocery store, without giving the
redwood structure a deep smile of appreciation.
It was hers now, free and clear, thanks
to her efforts and a hefty graduation bonus from
her father.
It needed some more fixing -- the
downstairs lavy would expand to a laundry room
-- but that was simple remodeling.
It was shaping up just as she had
imagined it would.
The junipers were growing tall; the
snapdragons were ready to bloom.
She hoped to be home in time to water
them before they suffered from thirst.
Almost simultaneously, she slammed shut
the trunk and the garage door, hating the rush.
Haste was alien to her natural
temperament.
Her father had teased her:
"You were born in slow motion, Audley.
You aren't built for speed beyond first
gear."
She revved the engine and shifted into
second.
In anticipation of the trip, she had left
the top up on the car but now she regretted the
heat; she unwound the window, letting the wind
whip.
She loved to drive and she was a good
driver.
She loved, in fact, her life, for the
most part, and herself, despite her acknowledged
flaws.
She was pretty.
She stood a lithe 5' 7" and bore herself
well.
Her figure, supported by shapely long
legs, was deceptively well proportioned.
She looked equally good in a bikini or a
blazer, an asset her voluptuous friend Sylvia
disdained.
Her tendency toward slow motion gave her
poise and grace, most evident in the beauty of
her aristocratic hands.
Her nails, which she kept at a moderate
length, were manicured in pastels, and to use
this feature to her best advantage she had
developed the habit of gesturing, albeit slowly;
she was not one for exhibitions.
Her skin, inherited from her deceased
mother's French line, was classic and smooth
and, in keeping, her nose was a trifle too long.
Her lips pouted provocatively.
However, her best features, and the one
she guarded most highly, were the luminously
large green eyes, forever hidden behind dark
glasses.
She chuckled, recalling one of her
father's analyses:
"You have a deep-seated fear, my dear, of
being discovered for what you are: Human!
And so you hide your mortality, your
vulnerability, behind dark glasses."
She pooh-poohed his psychiatric sketch at
once but registered every word of it, for she
truly believed everything Doc Will ascribed.
Yes, Audley Claudine Blackstone was a
beauty by anyone's standards.
She was 27 years old, liberated, educated
and engaged, and had carved herself a career
which suited her perfectly.
Many of her friends thought she had sold
out when she refused to continue with her
Masters in Sociology and switched to Journalism.
They thought it beneath her station in
life.
Her schoolmate Sylvia had commented,
"It's such a dirty job, Dahling," but Audley had
a good mind for reporting.
She rarely overlooked important details
and, once assigned to cover a story, either by
Weinberger or by her own choosing, she sleuthed
to the core of the issue, carefully plotting her
emotional appeals.
Audley was doing exactly what she wanted
to do.
Except this time.
She had
an unshakable, eerie feeling about the
convention and she simply did not want to cover
it.
However, the plumber was scheduled to begin the
new laundry room and, besides, she had given
Weinberger her word.
AUDLEY MIRACULOUSLY ARRIVED at the airport in time
to make 'last boarding' and settled into her
seat in the First Class section, attitudinally
barring social contact.
There were few passengers; she consumed
the adjacent seat for herself, setting upon it
her camera case and purse.
While waiting for take-off, she reviewed
her itinerary.
She would arrive at Kennedy Airport at
7:40; the connecting 45-minute flight to
Meadowland was at 9:20.
At least she and Brad could be together
for a few hours before the demands of the
convention took over.
It would be a hectic weekend.
She closed her eyes for several uninterrupted
moments to redistribute her scattered adrenaline
and re-establish her poise.
Adjusting her seat to a reclining
position, she inserted the earphones, leaving
the sound 'off.'
"You can't buy silence like this," she
murmured, letting the reverberations of her
voice lull her into relaxation.
She breathed deeply, holding her breath
for a count of ten, feeling tranquillity come
over her.
The Institute of Futurology was having
its third annual conference.
She scowled.
There would be a review of the
Institute's accomplishments and unending
speeches, all cordially academic, on what they
had expected to do, what they had actually done,
where their goals had fallen short and why.
The 'why' was usually because they lacked
the necessary funds.
There was never, ever, quite enough
money.
"They could begin by cutting salaries!"
She thought of Brad's enormous income,
realizing ironically that his enormous income
would one day be hers to enjoy.
All too soon, the outside world
penetrated, even here, into the silence.
She felt the presence of someone too
close and begrudgingly opened her eyes to see
the flight attendant standing over her.
"Yes, Miss?
Did you need something?" he asked.
"Oh, was I talking to myself?
Sorry,” she said, sitting upright.
"I think better when I can hear what I'm
thinking."
"How can you hear what you're thinking
with earphones in your ears?"
How could people not know of such simple
techniques?
"It's all in the vibrations," she stated
flatly.
"Well, I’m sorry if I disturbed your
vibrations.
Just let me know if you need anything."
Audley stopped his departure for an order
of Galleon.
"On the rocks, please.
And make it a double."
Might as well enjoy what was available.
Audley had long since learned to enjoy
what was available!
God knew it would not be long before work
and worry, haste and hypocrisy would enter in.
It was better to enjoy what was presented
when it was presented.
Didn't Sylvia?
Yes, except that Sylvia was more
particular, more specific in what she would and
would not enjoy, no matter how available it was.
The women had met in college in their
first semester at UCLA with little in common
except famous fathers.
Sylvia's father, Hiram P. Chandler, owned
the most widely distributed newspaper in the
Western States, while Audley's father, Dr.
Wilhelm Blackstone, was a renowned Doctor of
Mindal Sciences.
Sylvia, for example, always seemed to
preface her decisions by asking, "Is this
something Daddy would like to see in his
newspaper?"
Because of this cautious attitude, Sylvia
did little that Daddy might disapprove of and,
therefore, did little that endeared her to her
peers.
Audley's father, on the other hand, had
always encouraged his daughter to experiment
with life.
To Dr. Blackstone, life was comprised of
experiments and experiences; the more of which
he was made aware, the more he could contribute
to his field.
Audley thus experimented with life at
large, delving into role-playing, drugs, sex, or
whatever happened to be the current vogue.
She usually discussed her adventures with
her roommate Sylvia who was half-scandalized and
half-envious of Audley's free encounters with
life, but always interested.
Thus Sylvia lived vicariously through
Audley and was in a better position to select
available diversions, already having privy
knowledge of the outcome.
Sylvia would never indulge in the drug
culture activities, nor would she imbibe in any
intoxicating drink.
When Audley discovered that Sylvia
intended to keep her hymen intact for her
husband, she teased her, imagining the headline:
"Chandler's Daughter Loses Virginity!"
Nevertheless, Sylvia was adamant; it was
important to Daddy.
So throughout their freshman and
sophomore years, Audley spoon-fed Sylvia tidbits
of her sexual excursions, Sylvia kept her hymen,
and Audley put off for yet another year the
awesome inevitable: sexual involvement with
emotional commitment.
AUDLEY SURVEYED THE CLOUDS, listening to the ice
cubes clunk in the plastic cup.
There was no reason for her to attend
this conference.
Through Brad, she knew more than enough
of what was going on to fabricate a story for
The Silent Majority.
After all, wasn't her fiancé, Dr.
Bradford Spencer, the Head Systems Analyst for
the multi-million-dollar computer system, the
technical heart of the Institute?
Did he not, when they had time to spend
together, divulge all of the details and aspects
of his work?
Through Brad, she already knew more than
the public, and more than the press.
This, of course, was one reason Weinberger was
so happy to have her on his staff.
She had inside access to one of the
hottest topics in modern history.
This, too, was one reason he allowed her
to remain so independent.
She might go for weeks without checking
into the office, but she turned in her stories
before deadline.
He was always diplomatic when he had to
edit her work.
No, Weinberger was not a problem.
He did not need to know if she had or had
not physically attended the conference.
From her purse, a large one with many
organizational pockets, she withdrew the
conference program.
Perusing it, she saw plenty to weave into
an article.
The format was familiar to her.
Besides, she knew most of the bigwigs
personally and their wives, more than
enough to add the necessary personal touches.
"No," she concluded aloud.
"I don't really have to go."
The assignment was not the problem, she
sensed, but something was interfering
with her usual investigative verve.
Was it Brad?
According to Sylvia, Brad was 'a fine
catch'.
Audley snickered, "a fine catch," as
though Brad were a fish.
Well, perhaps Sylvia's opinion was not
very accurate, but it was valuable because it
was yet another opinion and, God knew, Audley
had few confidants.
Her father's opinion in the matter was
useless to her.
Doc Will and Brad were thick cohorts.
Her father, in fact, had introduced her
to Brad three years ago when the two scientists
were working together setting up a new program
for the Institute.
In saying, "Here, daughter, I want you to
meet someone," he as much as blessed the union
at that moment.
Dr. Bradford Spencer was equally
impressed with Doc Will.
Their relationship developed to a point
that superseded the blossoming romance between
the young lovers.
The two men remained in constant
communication long after Blackstone's job with
the IOF had terminated.
Audley sipped a fresh Galliano and
thought of Brad, and, as usual, her first
Bradford thought generated from her pelvic area.
Now she impatiently dismissed these
normally pleasant remembrances.
The past few months had brought about a
disagreeable change in Brad, sexually and
socially.
In every way, he had changed.
It had been so lovely in the beginning.
She had been twenty-four, just out of
college and making her first waves in the
journalistic world when they met.
Brad was ten years her senior and that
impressed her.
Everything about him had impressed her
then -- his self-containment, his good looks,
his mind, and potential -- all were attractive
by comparison to the younger men she had known
and discarded.
Moreover, Brad was so completely taken
with her!
He was charmed by her flights of fancy in
the face of his underdeveloped imagination.
He was captivated by her fresh approach
to life and enchanted by her idealism.
Almost immediately, he looked at her as
his future wife, so much more attractive than
the wives of his IOF associates.
Moreover,
being the daughter of the world's authority on
Mindal Sciences was an attribute not to be
overlooked.
They made a handsome couple: Brad --
tall, fair and boyish; and Audley -- slight,
feminine and elusive.
It was conjectured they would have
beautiful children.
Even Brad's mother had to allow to her
son that Audley looked right.
Yet, Audley had not been able to fix the
date of the wedding.
"You're pushing thirty, Audley!" Doc
cajoled.
"You want to have children, don't you?"
"Probably not as much as you want to have
grandchildren.
Anyway, I have plenty of time.
After all, when I was born, Mom was over
forty and you were over fifty!"
Doc would sigh resignedly and bide time
until another opportunity arose for him to
encourage marriage and motherhood, but no matter
how creatively he addressed the subject, Audley
would maneuver her way clear.
To Brad, however, she was less
considerate.
She adroitly avoided the subject
entirely, taking Brad instead to art shows,
tennis matches, political conventions, and to
bed.
"You've got bride's jitters, Audley,"
Sylvia would say.
"That's all it is and you'll get over it
as soon as you see 'Mrs. Bradford Spencer' on
your checkbook."
Audley wished she could be so sure.
Sometimes she peered into the future that
had once looked so enticing, and imagined only
stuffy, dowdy IOF wives hostessing one boring
bridge party after another.
Surely, there was more to being Mrs.
Bradford Spencer than that!
None the less, she was hard pressed to
decipher what that might be, since, during the
last six months Brad had given himself over
entirely to his work, and the idea of being
systematically screwed following every Thursday
night’s bridge game was abhorrent to her.
She shook her head, trying to shake away
her misgivings.
He would be waiting for her at the
airport in Meadowland.
His firm hand would clutch her arm.
His cool mouth would press briefly
against her face.
The picture was enticing but not entirely
convincing.
UNITED’S FLIGHT NO. 373 set down on schedule at the
Kennedy International Airport.
The flight to Meadowland, Connecticut,
Eastern's Flight No. 203, departed from Gate #27
in a little less than two hours.
She realized with little dismay that it
would be impossible for her to take a cab to
Bonwit-Teller and get back in time to catch her
connection.
Maybe she would drive down tomorrow, or
maybe she would just miss her flight.
A surge of nausea hit Audley as she
stepped off the liner and into the airport
terminal.
The energy levels of the people coming
and going, bumping into each other, struggling
with luggage, tickets, embraces, and tears --
these were too much for her.
The environment represented chaos to her,
not excitement.
Not one face stood out in the crowd, not
one that bore a semblance of reality.
The ticket-takers and porters presented
some kind of order, but not reality.
"Why would anybody of right mind want to
live in New York?" she questioned, bull-dozing
her way through the throng.
"Brad couldn't pay me enough to live
here!" she said angrily.
Manhattan, his home, was alien territory
to her.
She sought sanctuary in the ladies’
restroom and calmed herself with a light sponge
bath.
Even if meeting Brad wasn’t what she
wanted to do, she would see it through as far as
she could and she might as well smell nice.
Studying the menu in the coffee shop, she
heard her name spewing over the loud speaker:
"Audley Blackstone, come to the
Information Desk, please."
The 'please' was pronounced in two
syllables.
Muttering complaints, she located the
Information Desk and presented herself and her
ID in exchange for a parcel from Bonwit-Teller.
Was that not just like Sylvia?
She would get her dress.
She would get her way.
Another calculated verbal effort, a
telephone call, a large tip, a special delivery.
Sylvia amazed Audley for no important
reason.
Like, on the package it read: Mrs. Roger
Watergate.
Audley could not remember a time when
Sylvia was simply Sylvia.
She was always Sylvia Chandler, daughter
of the newspaper magnate, or Sylvia Watergate,
wife of Roger Watergate of the Prince, Damon &
Watergate, P.A., law firm.
Sylvia was always supported by someone or
something.
But not Audley.
Huh-uh!
Audley was Audley Blackstone now and
forevermore.
All her identification testified to that
fact.
If she married Brad, (If she
married Brad?
No, no.
Erase. When she married Brad!) she
would keep her own name.
The idea of being Mrs. Bradford Spencer,
even on a checkbook, appalled her.
Could Brad deal with that?
How would he explain it to his parents
and peers?
"This is my wife, Audley Blackstone."
No.
It was too preposterous.
Brad might let her write under her
own name, but for all other purposes....
She sighed impatiently.
Sylvia always got her own way.
Whatever it was she wanted, be it a new
dress, a new car, a trip to Europe, whatever!
She got it.
Very simple.
Not Audley.
No.
Whatever Audley got, she got because she
worked for it.
Like her house.
Her lovely Malibu studio.
Why had she left it?
She shouldn't have.
Why was she even going to this stupid
conference?
She didn't want to.
Now, if Sylvia didn't want something she
just said, "No, thank you," but if Audley didn't
want something, she had to consider everything
and everybody else before herself.
Suddenly she knew how it was that Sylvia
managed to pull it off.
Sylvia knew what she wanted.
Audley didn't.
Audley did know, however, what she
didn't want, and she knew she shouldn't have
come.
SOMNAMBULISTICALLY Audley worked her way through
the oppressive crowd of the John F. Kennedy
Airport.
Stumbled into an aisle seat for the
45-minute flight to Meadowland, Connecticut,
muttering, "Why anybody of right mind would go
to such a God-forsaken place as Meadowland is
beyond me!"
Obviously many people would, for the
small plane filled with passengers, en route at
least in part to the IOF convention.
Ahead of her in the small section that
constituted First Class were the Governor of New
York and the First Lady.
Audley also immediately recognized
several IOF men, all resembling IBM salesmen
with their uncluttered Madison Avenue suits.
The two opposite her pored over
mathematical equations and spoke the language
Brad used when talking about the Institute.
Phrases such as 'system stages', 'gravity
circuits' and 'unrevealed energy' infiltrated
their dialogue.
Tucking the Bonwit-Teller package under
the seat, Audley registered a mental note to
compliment Sylvia on her perspicacity, a trait
few people gave her credit as having.
As the coach gradually filled, Audley was
forced to move into the window seat to make way
for a very large man to sit down.
He was nondescript except for his size.
Although absorbed in himself, he was not
of the IOF caliber.
He immediately grunted, fastened his
seatbelt, and went to sleep, oozing a strong
smell of stale liquor.
He was softly snoring into his shoulder
before the engines started.
In her impatience, Audley instinctively
reached for a cigarette but was reminded by the
overhead sign: No Smoking.
She begrudgingly obeyed, sliding the
cigarette back into its pack and finding solace
only in the scent of her own perfume.
The engines were purring now.
The constant surging reminded her of a
high-powered vacuum cleaner, pumping and sucking
back and forth over the same soiled spot.
"Damn!" she complained loudly, acknowledging the
eyes that turned furtively in her direction.
"Won't this plane ever get off the
ground?" she asked no one in particular.
"It'll be midnight before we get there!"
Uncommunicative eyes slipped back into
Wall Street Journals and paperback novels.
Her mood, since alighting in New York,
had grown increasingly more negative but by now,
she had ceased to fight it.
By now, she didn't care about her poise
and sense of well being.
There was just something about this
entire trip
The
man next to her slumped inward, pressing on her.
His presence represented to Audley the
epitome of the entire mass of humankind: dense,
unkempt and, over-all, asleep.
At last, she could feel the runway move
and ultimately slip out from beneath her.
Spiraling upward, she craned for a view
of the city lights below.
Her stomach swirled as she looked at the
great and awesome array.
As much as she detested the City, she was
in awe of its immensity.
Below her, she knew, were millions of
people swarming and sweating in the August heat.
Night would bring little relief.
New York would swelter for weeks yet,
like a young and imperfect planet: confused, hot
and unsettled.
From her perch, she could see the energy
of the millions of air conditioners and electric
pumping stations straining to bring some
surcease to the hapless hordes below.
She ordered another Galliano; it was
served to her across the sleeping hulk.
She wanted a cigarette.
She was hungry and in a foul mood.
Aggravated, she ate the fat man’s peanuts
and her own.
Her bad attitude spread its tentacles
outward and touched everyone around her,
everyone she knew, everyone she did not know --
even herself.
So, what are you bitching about, Audley?
she asked.
Why blame them?
Your father, Sylvia, Brad, these fellow
passengers?
Why blame anybody but yourself?
It's your decision; it's your life.
She swirled the drink absently.
Why even blame yourself?
Why blame anyone?
You have no will of your own.
So what?
No fault, no blame.
Status quo.
She sipped the sweet liquor easily. No
high purpose, no Silver Grail.
No momentum, no reserve tank.
No anticipation.
Accept it and grow up.
The Galliano in the bottom of the plastic
cup looked like pee.
The large man slavered on her Grey-green
scarf.
"What if I had to go to the bathroom?" she
demanded of him.
"How would I get out?"
He, of course, did not answer.
She bared her teeth at him and turned her
head toward the black window, seeing her face
reflected.
"There' is the problem," she
acknowledged.
She pulled the shade and closed her eyes.
She lacked the courage of her own
convictions.
She had no convictions.
If she didn't want to cover the
convention, she shouldn't have come.
If she didn't want to marry Brad, she
should break it off.
The next time, the very next time,
she would act the way she wanted to, and not to
please somebody else.
She would do something, even if it turned
out to be wrong.
She leaned back into the seat.
The faint smell of stale whiskey drowned
out the pleasant smell of her own body.
Her legs felt cramped.
Her throat clogged with frustration.
The man was crowding her.
Everyone was crowding her.
She should not have come.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The intercom crackled with imperative
authority.
"This is your Captain speaking.
We have just received word that
Meadowland Field has suffered a power failure."
Audley alerted her senses and gathered all her
capacities to the fore.
She held her thin frame erect, placing
her long legs beneath the seat while maintaining
a firm grip on her Galliano.
Her free hand automatically shot up to
secure the sunglasses.
The Captain’s reassuring voice continued,
calm but firm.
"There is no cause for alarm. The
instruments are out and we will not be able to
see the air field until the emergency generators
are activated."
Audley looked at her fellow passengers
and was not surprised to see confusion and
inconvenience registered on their faces.
"We are going to decrease our air speed
and circle until further notice.
I repeat: there is no cause for alarm.
The flight attendants will continue to
see to your needs and, due to the inconvenience,
all beverages will be compliments of Eastern
Airlines.
Please observe the 'No Smoking' and
'Fasten your Seatbelt' signs."
The intercom clicked off as a murmur went
through the aircraft.
Audley was aware that the predominant
attitude among the passengers was one of
confusion.
She dismissed them, letting them be
confused. She had a reporter's detachment.
The attendants were instantly busy
filling drink orders and at the first
opportunity Audley ordered another double
Galliano, wishing she had sufficient courage to
light up a cigarette.
At least she could enjoy the free drinks.
Would she love to get smashed!
She liked to drink.
It enabled her, at least for a while, to
get properly hostile.
She would love to be pissing drunk when
Brad met her!
He had never seen this side of her!
She had never felt the need to expose it
to him.
From the start, she had assumed a role
for him, a role that her father enjoyed, but one
with which she was bored.
No, she affirmed.
She had done enough role-playing.
Let him see Audley for once through a new
looking glass.
Maybe he would become more human.
Behind her, someone turned on a battery
operated police radio, the volume set very low.
She gave the crackling instrument her
full attention and at length the reception
cleared enough for her to hear, "... black-out
covering the entire City of New York, extending
into the New England states and as far south
as...."
"Sir!" a flight attendant shrilled.
"I'm sorry, Sir, but that's against FCC
regulations.
I must ask you to turn it off at once!"
"Turn it off!?" the man objected.
"Why?
This is an emergency!
It's something we have a right to know
about!
Our lives are in danger!"
Heads began to turn toward the commotion.
Audley carefully observed the expressions
on their faces.
Confusion was giving way to fear.
"The entire East Coast is blacked out!"
the man announced to every ear.
"Sir, please," the stewardess said,
trying to control the rising sense of panic.
"You heard the Captain.
There is nothing to be alarmed about.
We are simply waiting for the emergency
generators to activate.
We’ll be on the ground in a matter of
minutes.
The Captain will see to it that we all
get safely down." These were rehearsed lines,
spoken now out of a sense of duty, but every
paranoid ear heard anxiety in her tone of voice.
Even so, she stood staunchly by the
provocateur, calmly commanding him to put the
radio back into its case.
The man acquiesced at last, and the
flight attendant disappeared into the cockpit.
The atmosphere fascinated Audley.
There was fear in the coach, hanging
heavy.
It was the kind of fear that revealed
itself in the eyes, but no one looked at each
other lest their own fear would be exposed to
others and reflected back at themselves. Audley,
however, had her sunglasses on.
Protected thus from her vulnerability,
from her mortality, she could think, and think
she must.
She finished the Galliano and took a
fresh note pad and pen from her purse, jotting
hurried notes on the behavior patterns of the
passengers.
Dr. Blackstone would appreciate it, if
only for entertaining reading, and, too, she
might be able to use it in an article, and what
an article!
Too good for Weinberger!
"August 14th," she wrote, "10:03 P.M.
Eastern Standard Time.
Eastern Airlines, Flight No. 203,
somewhere over Connecticut, craft temporarily
suspended."
A fresh Galliano appeared.
"Power failure reported by Captain.
Apparently spread over entire East Coast.
Plane is circling, waiting for emergency
generators.
What's going on?"
The two IOF men pored intently over their
equations, their dialogue now interspersed with
'default', 'over control' and 'transition
difficulties'.
“Over control”?
Was that the same thing as
predestination?
Was this the reason for her not wanting
to come on this trip?
She didn’t want anybody trying to control
her!
Doc Will would say this experience was
for a reason.
What would she learn, then, from this
experience?
Her programming rescued her.
At once, she felt relief, as if an
unconscious burden had been lifted, for she had
just been chiding herself about her lack of
courage.
Now she could see that if she had
succumbed to her fears and stayed home or turned
back from New York, she would have missed this!
Missed what?
Whatever!
She smiled a deep, satisfied smile.
How good she felt now.
How she loved the unknown.
Every other person on the aircraft was
dealing with the possibility of death or
disaster, and their terribly fragile mortality,
but not Audley.
Audley was not afraid of dying.
The sunglasses rested poignantly on her
nose.
It was nearly an hour now since the plane
began circling.
The smell of fear was strong and Audley
hated fear.
She hated even, for the moment, tears and
prayers.
Where was their sense of adventure?
Where was the love of life?
"Why didn't Brad warn me?" she scribbled
absently.
Why didn't he?
He had to know it was coming.
Surely the computer had predicted it.
At least he must have known of the
possibility of a power failure!
Why didn't he warn her?
“Damn!”
Why did she have to do everything alone?
She felt tired suddenly, and depressed.
Tired of holding her end up when everyone
else hung suspended, wavered, pulled her down.
How nice it would be, she thought, to
move from place to place for once without having
to make an effort, like perennially riding on an
escalator.
There was too much effort involved in
everything!
She had to do everything herself.
No one helped make life easier, more
comfortable, or more meaningful.
She felt her eyes sting.
She slammed the notebook shut and
defiantly lit a cigarette.
"Vulnerable!"
She spat the word.
She had been trusting.
She drank deeply of the Galliano, piling
defenses around her.
The bastard!
If he really loved me, he would have told
me.
He would at least have let me be prepared!
Her father would have prepared her.
In this thought she felt an overwhelming
appreciation for her father and the things he
had taught her, the way he had urged her to
teach herself, always supportive, always
encouraging.
He prepared Audley for life!
She lived it fully, aware of it.
She knew clearly that she had a destiny.
If nothing were ever to happen to her
that was worthwhile, if she was to live out a
life as uselessly as the snoring hulk beside
her, she would deliberately and consciously and
quickly put an end to it.
She was fated to live, and fated for
something exclusively her own.
Brad had no sensitivity toward fate.
She realized this abruptly, angrily.
Obviously, Brad would be of no help to
her in her life.
He was in the way.
She must be rid of him.
She felt sorry for him, and with that
came a creeping compassion for her anxious
fellow passengers, even for the hulk next to her
who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of
what was happening to him and around him.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
The intercom captured every ear.
"This is your Captain speaking."
To Audley the voice sounded relieved.
"We have just received radio contact with
Meadowland Field.
Their emergency generators have been
activated and we are now cleared for landing."
Audley blurted, "It's about time!"
"There will be light on the field," the
Captain continued, "however, I regret to say
that we have not heard anything additional
regarding the blackout.
Those of you who are going on to New
Haven, Waterbury and Hartford, please remain on
board during refueling.
Please continue to observe the 'No
Smoking' and 'Fasten Your Seatbelt' signs.
Again, we are sorry for any inconvenience
you may have experienced, and we thank you for
flying Eastern Airlines."
The tension broke.
Suddenly half the passengers were
laughing and the other half, drunk.
"Praise the Lord," the Governor’s wife
murmured.
Audley directed her comment to the First
Lady's ear, "No thanks to you!"
Her own tongue sounded thick.
"What?"
It was the hulk, waking from his nap.
"Wake up," Audley ordered.
"We're here."
"Already?"
She was one of the last passengers to
leave.
She refreshed her make-up, brushed her
hair, smoothed her suit and donned the jacket.
The purse and camera case slid easily
over her shoulder, leaving her arms free, to be
available for Brad's initial greeting.
She intended to get an explanation from
him and then return at once to California.
She had no intention of attending the
conference, if indeed there would still be one,
nor of attending to Brad.
When she stood, she discovered, to her
delight, that she was very tipsy.
In this condition, her mouth had a mind
of its own and she enjoyed hearing what she had
to say.
A pale and exhausted flight attendant
came along, clearing out the stragglers.
"You alright, Miss?"
"Damned if I know!" she said.
"I thought so 'til I stood up."
"You had quite a bit to drink."
"Did I?"
She didn't remember drinking much.
"Do you have someone here to meet you?"
"Damned if I know that either!"
She laughed, but she knew he would be
there.
He didn't dare not be there after
what he had just put her through.
The steward guided her to the door.
The fresh air caught her off guard.
She fell into it, reeling slightly.
MORE THAN TALL ENOUGH to be a basketball center,
Brad loomed up through the darkness at the
bottom of the ramp.
"Cheerio!" Audley flipped to the steward,
cautious of her footing.
She didn't want to slip and inadvertently
fall into his arms lest he get the misguided
impression she had come to marry him at last.
She did not want that to happen, nor did
she want a nasty confrontation.
Brad took her arm and her package, kissed
her quickly on the cheek and directed her away
from the plane and toward his waiting car, with
a glance at his watch.
He always managed to impart the attitude
of 'time's a wasting!'
Audley stopped abruptly.
"I'd have been here sooner, Brad, except
that we thought we'd take a little joy ride."
He said, very gently, "Seems we've had a
power failure."
She glared at him.
"Do tell!"
He
shrugged, helpless against her mood.
He would let her relax, calm down, have a
bath maybe.
Then they could talk.
He didn't want to try and reason with her
while she was in this mood.
She exuded Galliano and adrenaline.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"No!" she fairly shrieked.
"I'm not alright!"
"Well," he said, trying to be delicate, "I guess
it was probably pretty frightening."
He took her arm to lead her on but she
tore herself loose and planted her feet firmly
on the ground.
"No, Brad. It wasn't frightening.
You are frightening!"
"What?"
He would have to think fast.
"You!
Why didn't you warn me?"
"I didn't know it was going to happen,"
he lied.
"Oh," Audley grunted, heading for the
car.
He had expected her to be shaken, but not
like this!
He had anticipated something else.
The Audley he knew should have rushed
into his arms, glad to be alive, glad to be safe
with him.
This woman, and perhaps understandably
so, was someone he didn't know.
He had to run to catch up with her.
"Would you calm down?"
"Why should I?" she demanded.
"Aren't I entitled to a little hysteria?
I could have been killed up there."
He blushed.
"The odds were a million to one."
"But you took it," she snapped.
She allowed her venom to reach him, then
she assumed a reporter's calm.
"Didn't your computer predict it, Brad?"
He was relieved by her sudden composure.
"Off the record?"
"For Christ's sake, Brad.
This is not an interview!"
He blushed again.
He couldn't find her.
There was no point on which he could fix
her attention to assuage her.
Impulsively he reached up and took off
her sunglasses.
She nearly slapped him. "Brad!"
"Audley," he said, appealing to her.
"Let me look at you!"
She heard his tone but recoiled from it.
"I haven't changed, Brad."
Her voice was cold, impersonal; her eyes
were deadly.
Brad's face twitched.
It didn't escape Audley's notice but she
would not relent.
"I'm not so sure," he said.
"Well, never mind about me.
Just answer my question."
So demanding!
Such a different person!
He was hurt and confused.
"Please," she added.
"Off the record."
Reluctantly he handed her the glasses and
she put them back on.
They walked singly.
"Okay," he sighed.
"Sam told us."
"Sam!" she spat.
He looked at her.
"Why must you call that damned machine
'Sam'?"
He ignored this and went on.
"Sam told us months ago.
I knew it was on the way when I saw you
in California last month.
And, yes, we did meet with General
Lassater and his boys and we gave them our
recommendations and opinions. But we never
received official response to our contracts,
reports, warnings or entreaties so we had to
assume it was taken care of."
His body sagged under the apparent
failure.
"To my knowledge the Commission on
Natural Resources is in session right now, Brad.
Why aren't you up there with them?"
"I'm not the one to do that, Audley.
You know that.
That's Ernie's job and he's been whipping
them for weeks, but still it happened.
Now, come on.
Let's get out of here.
I'm tired.
You're tired."
He took her arm and opened the passenger
door.
"No, Brad.
I'm not going."
She wrenched free.
"I'm not going with you.
I'm going home."
She was no longer drunk nor angry.
"You aren't serious."
What she proposed was insanity.
"I'm very serious," she said, and her
voice held the necessary conviction.
"Let's just say that I intuitively knew
the Feds were going to muzzle the conference.
Now, I'm sure of it.
You boys are only going to discuss those
issues which are safe, non-provocative and
politically unembarrassing.
I'm not interested in covering a tea,
Brad."
She extended her hand and for a second he
thought she might want him to shake it, so
callous was her mood, but instead she said, "May
I please have the keys to your car?"
All he could think of was: What about us!
As he hesitated, she tossed her purse and
camera case onto the passenger seat.
"Audley!"
She went around to the driver's side.
"Audley, for Christ's sakes, I'm holding
up an emergency meeting at the Institute.
What are you doing?"
"I'm lighting a cigarette," she answered
literally.
"You know I like to smoke while I drive."
"You're serious."
"Yes, sir."
"You want to drive now?
To California?"
"That's right, Brad," she said, smiling
up at him.
"And in your nice Maxum, too."
She slid behind the wheel.
"Keys, please."
"No, Audley, I can't let you do it.
It isn't safe. There's a national
emergency on."
She dismissed it.
"I'll be alright."
Uncomfortably he knew she would be.
"But we haven't had any time together,
and what little time we have had this evening,
all we've done is argue!
Listen.
Let's go to my place and have a drink.
We can relax and talk this over.
Then, if you still want to, you can drive
home tomorrow when it's daylight and things are
safer."
She puffed contentedly on the cigarette.
"Audley, damn it!
I love
you!"
She didn't budge.
"I'll skip the meeting."
"Yes, you should," she agreed amiably.
"You've been working much too hard.
It's not good for you."
He
felt miserable.
For a moment he thought that if he were
to open the door, drag her out bodily, give her
an impassioned and desperate embrace, she would
change her mind.
Then he realized sickly that it would
probably only make matters worse.
"You're not making much sense tonight,
Audley."
He groped for an explanation outside of
himself.
"Is everything okay at home?
Is Doc Will alright?"
"Yes, thank you."
Then suddenly she, too, sounded tired.
She took off the glasses.
"He's fine.
Everything is fine.
I just want to go home, that's all."
He shook his head.
"There's nothing here for me, Brad!"
She looked up at him, but he couldn't
meet her eyes.
"No story."
She spoke automatically now.
"We won't be able to spend any time
together, not with the convention and the
emergency.
You'll be needed.
When....
If you want to see me, all you
have to do is catch the first flight out when
it's over."
She put the glasses on and snubbed out
the half-smoked Spring.
"It's that simple."
He handed her the keys.
"Do you realize how much fuel energy
you'll use up driving this tank across the
country?"
"About as much fuel energy as it takes
for that freak computer you so affectionately
call Sam to operate for about two minutes!
And a lot of good it's done any of us!"
He cringed while she smiled brightly up
at him.
"Thanks, Brad.
And, please, get some rest.
You look beat.
Don't let them do this to you."
He nodded.
"Keep your doors locked.
Don't pick up any hitchhikers.
It'll be a mess out there."
"I'll be fine!
Don't worry."
"Watch out for the roadblocks."
"Yes.
Come and see me when you can."
"I will, dear.
Be careful."
"Bye."
Maneuvering the Maxum across the runway,
Audley felt a bittersweet triumph.
They hadn't even shared a kiss.
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