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.