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from the seismic lab came that aftershocks were now occurring one hundred
kilometers above the original tremor.
"Do you think it has something to do with the machine? Maybe they built some
kind of machine that drew energy from the planet's magnetic field and..."
They felt no more shocks.
Annie decided to give up unproductive fantasizing about causes, as she called
it, and work on the larger story that was all around her. Then she saw her
chance. Her first step was to send Elena a formal request to send out a story
on the earthquake, including interviews with seismic researchers and a damage
report on the building. If she had a chance to choose the wording...
To send out her code words would preempt her offer to put the choice in
Carter's hands. She had been serious about the offer. But it couldn't be
helped. The quake had dropped the opportunity into her lap.
Maybe making the offer was gesture enough. Besides, he still had the option of
spilling the beans to
Sturgis.
Elena sent her a preapproved press release.
There was still a chance. She asked for permission to add a paragraph about
lack of damage to the buildings. Elena agreed. She submitted her own innocent
addendum:
In spite of a series of minor tremors, detected only with seismometers at the
South Polar Research
Station, the condition of the facility itself appears to be satisfactory. The
seismic staff continues to evaluate the situation here. Otherwise, conditions
here, five hours after the quake, are normal.
Twenty minutes later, her 'corder confirmed that the bulletin was out on the
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net. All but the last paragraph. The story amounted to only the original press
release, over her byline.
She stormed up to Sturgis's office.
"I was expecting a visit from you."
"Damn it, they cut my story. I suggested it in the first place."
"That's right. Think of this as a war zone. There's a certain amount of
editing that must go on."
"Censoring...."
"It happens. Besides, you don't trust me, and I don't trust you. Think of it
as a sign of mutual respect."
She could not afford to show too much anger. It would make him suspicious. "I
don't do press releases,"
she muttered. With this display of righteous indignation, she left. Sturgis
had won another round.
She would bide her time and strike again, she swore to herself.
She swung through the cafeteria at lunchtime, but it resulted only in a
pointless philosophic argument with
Philippe, which put her in a darker mood and sent her off on her own to
process the story on her own terms.
She decided to hit the halls with her 'corder and minicam, recording
impressions all over the station.
Her real fear was that Sturgis would pretend to give her free rein, but at the
last minute destroy all her video material and supporting notes before he let
her out. So she made her own plans. In public, she projected acceptance of
Sturgis's offer to let her collect notes and break the story, implying she
would suffer through these few weeks with subservient grace. She made a show
of her camera work and took
'corder notes in public, even requesting with no response a taped interview
with Sturgis. Privately, she decided to work in two mediums, electronic and
written. She pulled out a set of small, red, Japanese notebooks Takemitsu had
sent her as a going-away present. "Emergency backup..." his little card had
said. If he only knew.
The writing surprised her. Transcribing her 'corder notes onto paper, she
discovered that they had the advantage of immediacy, of recording
personalities on the spot. She came to enjoy the writing. It was somehow
longer term than the electronic records: it had the advantage of not just
recording, but of synthesizing after reflection. But she wrote in secret, by
hand. Takemitsu had sent a little pencil, too, but she preferred using a
little sketching pen Philippe had given her, only days earlier now so long
ago.
Curly, nineteenth-century letters, ragged and barely legible, from lack of
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