Post by Lorpius Prime on Dec 2, 2006 0:18:37 GMT -5
Jay Thomson Blake coughed into his handkerchief. It had rained yesterday, and coal smoke from the factories was hanging heavy in the London air. He returned the handkerchief to his pocket and looked to either side of him. He waited for the clattering noise of a carriage to pass before crossing the street and continuing on his way.
The building that stood on Gray's Inn Road was one of the two largest privately owned structures in London. Unlike the grand and beautiful marble of The City, however, the headquarters of the Times was a jarring patchwork of styles and materials. Why stock traders got to have architectural harmony while the press got an ugly mess of hastily made extension buildings was a mystery to Jay. But it was one he doubted that he would ever solve, so he pushed the thought out of his mind and bounded up the stone steps leading to one of the office wings. This particular section had been built with a red brick façade and was a terrible eyesore.
The guard sitting in a chair just inside nodded, and Jay returned the gesture before sweeping down the narrow hallway to the wrought iron staircase at the back. The mechanical chatter of an army of typewriters followed him up to the second floor, which was the domain of the Times' Europe desk. Jay Thomson turned left, passed a few more typewriters, and made for his office at the back.
Actually, it wasn't exactly his office, since he shared it with a few other correspondents. Jay was merely the only one in town at the moment. Nor was it even strictly an office, but more of a lounge or small conference room. It did have a desk, though, right next to Jay's very own filing cabinet. Jay shut the thin wooden door behind him; that muffled the noise from the typewriters, but only slightly. He hung his jacket and hat on a rack in the corner, and then sighed.
Opening the door again, Jay left to find something to drink. As he walked to the breakfast tray, he picked up a copy of the morning's paper and folded it under his arm. He returned to his office with a cup of lukewarm Turkish coffee and a cold biscuit in his teeth. Then he sat down behind the desk to read over the news he hadn't been writing yesterday.
None of it was very exciting. But then, it never was.
After a little over half an hour without being disturbed, someone tapped on and then opened the office door. A boy Jay didn't recognize stuck his head through the doorway and looked about nervously. Jay put his paper down and cocked his head.
"Yes?" he asked after a moment.
The boy—probably a recent hire—blinked, then gestured over his shoulder, "Uh, Mr. Godwin wants to see you, sir."
"All right, I'll be there presently." The messenger nodded and ducked out. Jay stood up and looked about for something to wipe off the newsprint he'd gotten on his hands. He settled for using the handkerchief in his coat again. Then he drank the last dregs of his coffee—it was awful, but stimulating—and went back into the pool of copy editors and junior reporters.
Barry Godwin was the Chief Editor for the Europe Desk; his office was on the other side of the hallway along with his assistant editors and the senior journalists. The door to his outer office was standing open. Jay walked through it and stopped in front of the large desk that barred the way inside. Barry's secretary, Jeanine, was sitting behind that desk. She finished scribbling something on a notepad before setting her elbows on her desk to look up at him and smile.
"Welcome back, Mr. Blake. How was Sweden?"
Jeanine was nearly twice Jay's age, but she was still a pleasantly attractive woman, the short curls of her hair had never lost their bright orange color. Jay smiled back at her.
"Lively," Jay told her, "I have this nagging suspicion that no one in Sweden actually has a job."
Jeanine chuckled, "And did you meet any pretty Swedish girls?"
"Plenty, each one on the arm of a great big Swedish man," Jay shrugged. He pointed to the door behind Jeanine's desk, "He asked for me?"
"Yeah," Jeanine nodded, losing her smile for a moment. "You can go on back."
"Thanks," Jay walked around her desk.
"It was good to see you again, Mr. Blake."
"Well I'm glad to be back," Jay said over his shoulder. He knocked politely on the door to the inner office, before opening it. The door was much heavier and nicer than Jay's.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
A short, meaty-looking man stood behind a beautiful walnut desk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and his suspenders looked like they were having a difficult time coping with his thick chest. A plump cigar was projecting out of the man's teeth as if he had been about to light it. Barry Godwin plucked the cigar from his mouth and waved Jay inside, "Shut the door."
Jay Thomson did as he was directed, and this time all the noise from the rest of the building was shut out. Godwin looked at his employee, then looked at the cigar in his fingers. He pointed to a box on his desk.
"You want a smoke?"
"Uh, no sir, thank you," Jay declined. His boss hadn't looked happy about the offer, and Jay figured the cigars must be expensive.
Godwin shrugged, then replaced the cigar in his teeth and struck a match to light it. He snuffed the match with a wave and threw it in a garbage pail.
The stocky chief editor enjoyed his cigar for a few moments before speaking.
"It'll be June in a few days," he said.
Jay waited a moment to see if there was more to that statement before asking, "And I can expect to be paid on the first as usual, right?"
Godwin frowned at him, "It'll be the thirteenth of June in a few days."
Jay inclined his head, "I'll ask my landlord to fly the flag extra high this year?" He balled a fist and shook it in a gesture of mock-determination. Jay had nothing against Victory Day celebrations; he just didn't go in for them as enthusiastically as some of his countrymen.
"You'll be doing a special—"
"Oh crap."
"—on the war." Godwin removed his cigar, shook some ashes into the glass tray on his desk, and put it back between his teeth.
"Isn't this kind of thing more suited to a desk jockey?"
The grin on Godwin's face was positively menacing. Jay was a head and a half taller—and probably in better shape—than his boss, but the sight of Godwin's yellowed teeth left him completely unnerved.
"Mills and Reynard are on this too," Godwin continued, "but I want you out in the field. You're going to Germany, son."
"What? I just got back, Barry! I haven't even seen my parents!"
Godwin waved dismissively, "You can see 'em before you go. You've got airship tickets for Saturday. I even booked them from Exeter, so you can thank me."
"It's the 24th of May! Don't you think this is a little short notice for a special? How am I supposed to get anything decent together in time for the holiday?"
Now Godwin wouldn't look him the eye. The editor sat down at his desk, "Well you'll have two weeks to figure that out." He looked abruptly back up at Jay and pointed a finger, "But I want something spectacular, do you hear me?"
Realization dawned on Jay. "The Telegraph is doing something again, aren't they?"
The older man crushed his cigar into the ashtray rather violently, "Dammit, I will not let them catch us with our pants down this time!" He jabbed his finger at Jay's chin again.
Jay raised an eyebrow, "Don't take it so personally, Barry, it was twenty years ago. You couldn't have even been working here then." He frowned, "And the 120th anniversary is hardly the centennial, what's up with them?"
Godwin grimaced, then turned his head towards the windows of his corner office. "It's that new editor of theirs," he growled. "Prick thinks he can shut this whole paper down. Well we won't fall victim to their phony sensationalism, I tell you! Now I don't care what you three have to do, just do it. And it had better be mind-blowing." Barry raised his hands to gesture at his temples in order to demonstrate for Jay the sort of explosive power he wanted.
Jay didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Instead he just sighed; nothing was going to turn Godwin off of this. And Jay had to admit that he couldn't really blame Barry, either. The Daily Telegraph had been acting awful self-righteously lately.
His boss sighed too, "Mills is running this one, you'll correspond with him. Ideally, I'd like to see a running series from you." He shook a hand before Jay could complain, "But I know that's hardly likely now. So, if need be, you'll get your own special section come Victory Day. Just be sure it's great."
Jay nodded. What else could he do?
Godwin made a shooing gesture with the fingers of one hand, "You have your marching orders. Scram. Make sure you're on that airship. Mills has your ticket."
Jay sighed again and turned to walk back out the door.
Sam Reynard was waiting in the outer office beyond. He was only slightly older than Jay, and one of the best writers on the Times' staff. He wore thick glasses and was something of a scatterbrained egghead. The two of them didn't exactly get along, but Jay clapped him on the shoulder and leaned forward to speak in a low voice.
"If you have to kill him, don't worry, you can hide at my place while we arrange for a ship to Constantinople." He patted the writer on the back while Sam looked at him in bewilderment.
"You can go in now, Mr. Reynard," Jeanine said sweetly. Sam nodded slowly and pushed open Godwin's door while still staring at Jay over his shoulder.
Jay watched the door close and then chuckled.
"I think John's waiting for you in his office," Jeanine said. She smiled at him again, a little sadly this time, "I hope you enjoyed your vacation."
"Thanks, Jeanine," Jay said with a sigh. He didn't know why she worked for Barry, but was glad she did. Without her around to soften the blow, someone probably would have killed Barry Godwin by now.
Jay left the office with a little wave and went left down the hallway to John Mills' door. Mills' office didn't occupy the prestigious corner position, but it was still almost as luxurious as Barry Godwin's. Jay walked through the open doorway and found the senior journalist leaning back in his padded leather chair. He was thumbing through the contents of a manila folder.
"Got the bad news, I see," Mills said without looking up. He took a sip from a mug of coffee, then set it aside and continued to flip through the folder.
"You mean you don't enjoy doing half a year's work in two weeks?" Jay asked. He sat down in one of the small chairs in front of Mills' desk.
Mills smiled. Everyone liked him. Mills was a quiet and good-natured man who contrasted dramatically with the hot-tempered loudmouths that made up most of the Times' writing staff. Even Jay himself had to admit that he was one of those loudmouths. John Mills was something else.
"I've got your ticket here," the journalist said. Jay heard a drawer open and Mills slid a sheet of stiff paper across the desk. "You fly out Saturday morning."
Saturday morning… Jay picked up the ticket. "Thank him my ass," he muttered. "I bet he didn't bother to buy me a train ticket over to Exeter did he?"
Mills shook his head. Of course he didn't, Jay thought. And by this time Jay probably wouldn't be able to get a sleeper car for a ride tonight.
There was a knock on the door frame, and Jay shifted his chair to watch Sam Reynard walk enter the office. The bespectacled man was shaking his head in disbelief.
"Two weeks? For a knockout special?" Sam shook his head, "Does he expect me to just make stuff up?"
Mills set the folder and his coffee down now, and looked over at the two younger men from his seat.
"I get the feeling Barry wouldn't mind if you did, so long as it read well," Mills smirked. He tapped his chest, "I, however, do intend to get a story that is both true and interesting. We have got a late start, gentleman. But even so, we won't be letting those hacks on Fleet Street get the better of us."
Reynard didn't look like he believed it; he dropped into the chair next to Jay, still shaking his head.
Mills was undeterred. He took a little black book from the folder and tossed it towards Jay: a passport. "You're going to Bavaria, Jay. I want you getting the Germans' perspective on the war and on Ludwig himself. It'd be a journalistic coup if you could find out what actually happened to him," Mills didn't look terribly hopeful on that count, and rightly so, "but do what you can in the way of local opinion and history."
Jay nodded and flipped through the passport. It had a new picture of him that was not the Times' normal file photo of him, which had been used on his last—now ragged worn—passport. Jay tried to remember when the picture had been taken, but couldn't.
The senior journalist was talking to Reynard now. Jay put the travel document in his pocket and leaned on one fist to look at Sam, who was nodding wearily at his instructions.
"…get back to me tomorrow if you think of anything else," Mills said. "Now, I myself am going to head over to the National Archives to do some more digging on our part of this." He turned his head, "I'll send you a telegram, Jay, if I find anything to help you out, or if there's something interesting you can look into over there. I expect you to be sending regular reports back to Sam and me with material, at least every other day."
He paused for a moment and looked between the two younger men, "Questions or concerns, either of you?"
Jay hoped that John Mills would succeed Barry Godwin as Chief Editor. Godwin didn't ask for concerns, he just passed them out.
Sam leaned forward. "Yeah, is it really just the three of us?" he asked. "Sort of a big project, even for, um," he glanced between Mills and Jay, "well, us." Jay's eyes narrowed slightly. Reynard and Mills were both excellent writers—among the Times' most popular. But Sam was clearly uncomfortable putting Jay in the same league with himself.
Mills nodded before Jay could say anything. "I'm going to talk to Barry about getting some help from the printing staff, since it looks like we're getting our own special issue," he said. "But we will be the only writers, yes. Of course, if you'd like to borrow one of the interns as a gopher or for research, then feel free." He turned to Jay, "I'm afraid you'll be on your own. I would send Pete along for pictures, but his father's sick with black lung, so he's gone off home. He said the letters didn't sound good," Mills frowned for a moment, "I don't think any of the other photographers would be good for this, so just the one ticket."
Jay nodded gravely. It was a shame about old man Kendrick, but coal miners got black lung; it was the price Britain paid for its wealth. "I guess I'll get to play amateur shutterbug, then."
Mills waved a hand, "Don't worry about it. We've got more than enough material on file for this."
He rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking, then shrugged. "Well, if that's all..." he looked around, but neither Jay nor Sam had anything more to say, "...then I think we can break." He stood up and took a watch from his pants pocket, "I guess you and I can go find some lunch, Sam. I know you probably want to grab the first train out of here, Jay, so you're free to go. I think there's one heading your way in a couple hours. Give my regards to the Baron and the rest."
Jay grinned, "Dad hates your stuff, you know? He thinks you're too soft on the Frogs." Jay frowned, "Come to think of it, he hates my stuff too." Baron Blake did like Sam Reynard, but Jay wasn't about to tell his colleague that.
Mills laughed, "Send him my regards anyway. Now get out of here."
Jay nodded, smiling. He offered his hand to Reynard, who shook it absentmindedly. "I'll see you two sorry bastards in a few weeks," Jay told them. "That is, if I don't decide I like the Alps better than Barry Godwin."
Reynard hung his head and groaned while Mills laughed again. Jay headed back to his office to retrieve his belongings. He had a train to catch.
>>2>>
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-
The building that stood on Gray's Inn Road was one of the two largest privately owned structures in London. Unlike the grand and beautiful marble of The City, however, the headquarters of the Times was a jarring patchwork of styles and materials. Why stock traders got to have architectural harmony while the press got an ugly mess of hastily made extension buildings was a mystery to Jay. But it was one he doubted that he would ever solve, so he pushed the thought out of his mind and bounded up the stone steps leading to one of the office wings. This particular section had been built with a red brick façade and was a terrible eyesore.
The guard sitting in a chair just inside nodded, and Jay returned the gesture before sweeping down the narrow hallway to the wrought iron staircase at the back. The mechanical chatter of an army of typewriters followed him up to the second floor, which was the domain of the Times' Europe desk. Jay Thomson turned left, passed a few more typewriters, and made for his office at the back.
Actually, it wasn't exactly his office, since he shared it with a few other correspondents. Jay was merely the only one in town at the moment. Nor was it even strictly an office, but more of a lounge or small conference room. It did have a desk, though, right next to Jay's very own filing cabinet. Jay shut the thin wooden door behind him; that muffled the noise from the typewriters, but only slightly. He hung his jacket and hat on a rack in the corner, and then sighed.
Opening the door again, Jay left to find something to drink. As he walked to the breakfast tray, he picked up a copy of the morning's paper and folded it under his arm. He returned to his office with a cup of lukewarm Turkish coffee and a cold biscuit in his teeth. Then he sat down behind the desk to read over the news he hadn't been writing yesterday.
None of it was very exciting. But then, it never was.
After a little over half an hour without being disturbed, someone tapped on and then opened the office door. A boy Jay didn't recognize stuck his head through the doorway and looked about nervously. Jay put his paper down and cocked his head.
"Yes?" he asked after a moment.
The boy—probably a recent hire—blinked, then gestured over his shoulder, "Uh, Mr. Godwin wants to see you, sir."
"All right, I'll be there presently." The messenger nodded and ducked out. Jay stood up and looked about for something to wipe off the newsprint he'd gotten on his hands. He settled for using the handkerchief in his coat again. Then he drank the last dregs of his coffee—it was awful, but stimulating—and went back into the pool of copy editors and junior reporters.
Barry Godwin was the Chief Editor for the Europe Desk; his office was on the other side of the hallway along with his assistant editors and the senior journalists. The door to his outer office was standing open. Jay walked through it and stopped in front of the large desk that barred the way inside. Barry's secretary, Jeanine, was sitting behind that desk. She finished scribbling something on a notepad before setting her elbows on her desk to look up at him and smile.
"Welcome back, Mr. Blake. How was Sweden?"
Jeanine was nearly twice Jay's age, but she was still a pleasantly attractive woman, the short curls of her hair had never lost their bright orange color. Jay smiled back at her.
"Lively," Jay told her, "I have this nagging suspicion that no one in Sweden actually has a job."
Jeanine chuckled, "And did you meet any pretty Swedish girls?"
"Plenty, each one on the arm of a great big Swedish man," Jay shrugged. He pointed to the door behind Jeanine's desk, "He asked for me?"
"Yeah," Jeanine nodded, losing her smile for a moment. "You can go on back."
"Thanks," Jay walked around her desk.
"It was good to see you again, Mr. Blake."
"Well I'm glad to be back," Jay said over his shoulder. He knocked politely on the door to the inner office, before opening it. The door was much heavier and nicer than Jay's.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
A short, meaty-looking man stood behind a beautiful walnut desk. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and his suspenders looked like they were having a difficult time coping with his thick chest. A plump cigar was projecting out of the man's teeth as if he had been about to light it. Barry Godwin plucked the cigar from his mouth and waved Jay inside, "Shut the door."
Jay Thomson did as he was directed, and this time all the noise from the rest of the building was shut out. Godwin looked at his employee, then looked at the cigar in his fingers. He pointed to a box on his desk.
"You want a smoke?"
"Uh, no sir, thank you," Jay declined. His boss hadn't looked happy about the offer, and Jay figured the cigars must be expensive.
Godwin shrugged, then replaced the cigar in his teeth and struck a match to light it. He snuffed the match with a wave and threw it in a garbage pail.
The stocky chief editor enjoyed his cigar for a few moments before speaking.
"It'll be June in a few days," he said.
Jay waited a moment to see if there was more to that statement before asking, "And I can expect to be paid on the first as usual, right?"
Godwin frowned at him, "It'll be the thirteenth of June in a few days."
Jay inclined his head, "I'll ask my landlord to fly the flag extra high this year?" He balled a fist and shook it in a gesture of mock-determination. Jay had nothing against Victory Day celebrations; he just didn't go in for them as enthusiastically as some of his countrymen.
"You'll be doing a special—"
"Oh crap."
"—on the war." Godwin removed his cigar, shook some ashes into the glass tray on his desk, and put it back between his teeth.
"Isn't this kind of thing more suited to a desk jockey?"
The grin on Godwin's face was positively menacing. Jay was a head and a half taller—and probably in better shape—than his boss, but the sight of Godwin's yellowed teeth left him completely unnerved.
"Mills and Reynard are on this too," Godwin continued, "but I want you out in the field. You're going to Germany, son."
"What? I just got back, Barry! I haven't even seen my parents!"
Godwin waved dismissively, "You can see 'em before you go. You've got airship tickets for Saturday. I even booked them from Exeter, so you can thank me."
"It's the 24th of May! Don't you think this is a little short notice for a special? How am I supposed to get anything decent together in time for the holiday?"
Now Godwin wouldn't look him the eye. The editor sat down at his desk, "Well you'll have two weeks to figure that out." He looked abruptly back up at Jay and pointed a finger, "But I want something spectacular, do you hear me?"
Realization dawned on Jay. "The Telegraph is doing something again, aren't they?"
The older man crushed his cigar into the ashtray rather violently, "Dammit, I will not let them catch us with our pants down this time!" He jabbed his finger at Jay's chin again.
Jay raised an eyebrow, "Don't take it so personally, Barry, it was twenty years ago. You couldn't have even been working here then." He frowned, "And the 120th anniversary is hardly the centennial, what's up with them?"
Godwin grimaced, then turned his head towards the windows of his corner office. "It's that new editor of theirs," he growled. "Prick thinks he can shut this whole paper down. Well we won't fall victim to their phony sensationalism, I tell you! Now I don't care what you three have to do, just do it. And it had better be mind-blowing." Barry raised his hands to gesture at his temples in order to demonstrate for Jay the sort of explosive power he wanted.
Jay didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Instead he just sighed; nothing was going to turn Godwin off of this. And Jay had to admit that he couldn't really blame Barry, either. The Daily Telegraph had been acting awful self-righteously lately.
His boss sighed too, "Mills is running this one, you'll correspond with him. Ideally, I'd like to see a running series from you." He shook a hand before Jay could complain, "But I know that's hardly likely now. So, if need be, you'll get your own special section come Victory Day. Just be sure it's great."
Jay nodded. What else could he do?
Godwin made a shooing gesture with the fingers of one hand, "You have your marching orders. Scram. Make sure you're on that airship. Mills has your ticket."
Jay sighed again and turned to walk back out the door.
Sam Reynard was waiting in the outer office beyond. He was only slightly older than Jay, and one of the best writers on the Times' staff. He wore thick glasses and was something of a scatterbrained egghead. The two of them didn't exactly get along, but Jay clapped him on the shoulder and leaned forward to speak in a low voice.
"If you have to kill him, don't worry, you can hide at my place while we arrange for a ship to Constantinople." He patted the writer on the back while Sam looked at him in bewilderment.
"You can go in now, Mr. Reynard," Jeanine said sweetly. Sam nodded slowly and pushed open Godwin's door while still staring at Jay over his shoulder.
Jay watched the door close and then chuckled.
"I think John's waiting for you in his office," Jeanine said. She smiled at him again, a little sadly this time, "I hope you enjoyed your vacation."
"Thanks, Jeanine," Jay said with a sigh. He didn't know why she worked for Barry, but was glad she did. Without her around to soften the blow, someone probably would have killed Barry Godwin by now.
Jay left the office with a little wave and went left down the hallway to John Mills' door. Mills' office didn't occupy the prestigious corner position, but it was still almost as luxurious as Barry Godwin's. Jay walked through the open doorway and found the senior journalist leaning back in his padded leather chair. He was thumbing through the contents of a manila folder.
"Got the bad news, I see," Mills said without looking up. He took a sip from a mug of coffee, then set it aside and continued to flip through the folder.
"You mean you don't enjoy doing half a year's work in two weeks?" Jay asked. He sat down in one of the small chairs in front of Mills' desk.
Mills smiled. Everyone liked him. Mills was a quiet and good-natured man who contrasted dramatically with the hot-tempered loudmouths that made up most of the Times' writing staff. Even Jay himself had to admit that he was one of those loudmouths. John Mills was something else.
"I've got your ticket here," the journalist said. Jay heard a drawer open and Mills slid a sheet of stiff paper across the desk. "You fly out Saturday morning."
Saturday morning… Jay picked up the ticket. "Thank him my ass," he muttered. "I bet he didn't bother to buy me a train ticket over to Exeter did he?"
Mills shook his head. Of course he didn't, Jay thought. And by this time Jay probably wouldn't be able to get a sleeper car for a ride tonight.
There was a knock on the door frame, and Jay shifted his chair to watch Sam Reynard walk enter the office. The bespectacled man was shaking his head in disbelief.
"Two weeks? For a knockout special?" Sam shook his head, "Does he expect me to just make stuff up?"
Mills set the folder and his coffee down now, and looked over at the two younger men from his seat.
"I get the feeling Barry wouldn't mind if you did, so long as it read well," Mills smirked. He tapped his chest, "I, however, do intend to get a story that is both true and interesting. We have got a late start, gentleman. But even so, we won't be letting those hacks on Fleet Street get the better of us."
Reynard didn't look like he believed it; he dropped into the chair next to Jay, still shaking his head.
Mills was undeterred. He took a little black book from the folder and tossed it towards Jay: a passport. "You're going to Bavaria, Jay. I want you getting the Germans' perspective on the war and on Ludwig himself. It'd be a journalistic coup if you could find out what actually happened to him," Mills didn't look terribly hopeful on that count, and rightly so, "but do what you can in the way of local opinion and history."
Jay nodded and flipped through the passport. It had a new picture of him that was not the Times' normal file photo of him, which had been used on his last—now ragged worn—passport. Jay tried to remember when the picture had been taken, but couldn't.
The senior journalist was talking to Reynard now. Jay put the travel document in his pocket and leaned on one fist to look at Sam, who was nodding wearily at his instructions.
"…get back to me tomorrow if you think of anything else," Mills said. "Now, I myself am going to head over to the National Archives to do some more digging on our part of this." He turned his head, "I'll send you a telegram, Jay, if I find anything to help you out, or if there's something interesting you can look into over there. I expect you to be sending regular reports back to Sam and me with material, at least every other day."
He paused for a moment and looked between the two younger men, "Questions or concerns, either of you?"
Jay hoped that John Mills would succeed Barry Godwin as Chief Editor. Godwin didn't ask for concerns, he just passed them out.
Sam leaned forward. "Yeah, is it really just the three of us?" he asked. "Sort of a big project, even for, um," he glanced between Mills and Jay, "well, us." Jay's eyes narrowed slightly. Reynard and Mills were both excellent writers—among the Times' most popular. But Sam was clearly uncomfortable putting Jay in the same league with himself.
Mills nodded before Jay could say anything. "I'm going to talk to Barry about getting some help from the printing staff, since it looks like we're getting our own special issue," he said. "But we will be the only writers, yes. Of course, if you'd like to borrow one of the interns as a gopher or for research, then feel free." He turned to Jay, "I'm afraid you'll be on your own. I would send Pete along for pictures, but his father's sick with black lung, so he's gone off home. He said the letters didn't sound good," Mills frowned for a moment, "I don't think any of the other photographers would be good for this, so just the one ticket."
Jay nodded gravely. It was a shame about old man Kendrick, but coal miners got black lung; it was the price Britain paid for its wealth. "I guess I'll get to play amateur shutterbug, then."
Mills waved a hand, "Don't worry about it. We've got more than enough material on file for this."
He rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking, then shrugged. "Well, if that's all..." he looked around, but neither Jay nor Sam had anything more to say, "...then I think we can break." He stood up and took a watch from his pants pocket, "I guess you and I can go find some lunch, Sam. I know you probably want to grab the first train out of here, Jay, so you're free to go. I think there's one heading your way in a couple hours. Give my regards to the Baron and the rest."
Jay grinned, "Dad hates your stuff, you know? He thinks you're too soft on the Frogs." Jay frowned, "Come to think of it, he hates my stuff too." Baron Blake did like Sam Reynard, but Jay wasn't about to tell his colleague that.
Mills laughed, "Send him my regards anyway. Now get out of here."
Jay nodded, smiling. He offered his hand to Reynard, who shook it absentmindedly. "I'll see you two sorry bastards in a few weeks," Jay told them. "That is, if I don't decide I like the Alps better than Barry Godwin."
Reynard hung his head and groaned while Mills laughed again. Jay headed back to his office to retrieve his belongings. He had a train to catch.
>>2>>
Book One, Chapter:
-1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12-13-14-15-16-17-18-19-20-21-
-22-23-24-25-26-27-28-29-30-31-32-33-34-35-36-37-38-39-40-41-42-
-43-44-45-46-47-48-49-50-51-52-53-54-55-56-57-58-59-60-61-62-
Appendix: -A-B-C-