As Zarnik begins explaining some of the intricacies of his research, David stands listening and Manning sits at a desk to take notes. The professor rambles on about vector points, magnetic fields, and polar wobble. Manning struggles to follow, dutifully transcribing Zarnik’s verbal minutiae, but his mind begins to drift, and his eyes are soon exploring the room again. There’s a fire cabinet in a wall near the door, stocked with an ax, extinguisher, and folded hose. On the floor, a foot-thick bundle of cables snakes between the towering racks of high-tech electronic gear. From the desktop where Manning writes, a stack of green-bar printout spills over the edge and into a wastebasket. He pushes aside a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich to make more room for his notebook, and at the corner of the desk, he notices a no-frills Radio Shack VCR.
Finding it difficult to concentrate, Manning loosens his tie. “Excuse me, Professor, but let me bring this discussion back to planet Earth for now. I’d like to cover a few basic facts and figures. For instance, the theoretical basis of your research—Who has been your key influence? Which methodology have you followed?”
For the first time, the astronomer’s tone shows signs of annoyance, as if perturbed by this direction of the interview. “I would be loath to sound egotistical in such matters, and I hope you will afford me the courtesy of not printing these words, but my research is truly revolutionary, grossly more sophisticated than methods of radio astronomy employed in the past. There is no precedent for what has been accomplished in this room. If you insist upon labeling my method, however, it should rightly be termed the Zarnikal Model.”
Both Manning and David are now making copious notes. Manning asks, “Can you tell me how much computer power is at work here?”
“Pfroobst!”
says Zarnik, waving both arms about the room, as though the answer should be self-evident. “
All
of it.”
“No,” says Manning with a laugh, “I’m talking about gigabytes and such.”
Zarnik pauses, weighing his words. “I am ashamed to admit that I do not know. The battery of computers was installed in phases, designed as we progressed. We are charting new territory here—unknown worlds—and to devise a comprehensive plan at the outset would be rash. So the computer power required by this project has been left as an open-ended variable. I have no accurate numbers at this moment, but if you care to check back, I shall compile them for you.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’ll do that.”
Zarnik dons a pair of reading glasses and makes a note of his own. The easy manner of his pencil strokes shows his satisfaction in having successfully dodged the question. Just when he’s feeling off the hook, though, Manning asks, “And what about funding?”
Zarnik’s pencil stumbles on the pad. “Funding?”
Manning borrows Zarnik’s earlier gesture encompassing the entire room. “This stuff doesn’t come cheap. What did it cost, and who paid for it?”
“I am a scientist”—he clears phlegm from his throat—“not a bookkeeper. The pursuit of science, the gleaning of knowledge purely for its own sake, is among man’s highest callings. Man’s curiosity, his thirst to
know,
defines his very humanity. My role in this noble endeavor is to supply the vision and, I daresay, the brains. What it costs and where it comes from is of no concern to me. I find myself in the happy position of—what is the expression?—not losing sleep over it.”
“You came to Chicago from Switzerland with the help of our State Department. Can we assume that your work here is backed by federal dollars?”
Zarnik takes off his glasses, thinking. “I presume so, yes.”
“Which agency do you presume provides the funding?”
Zarnik chews the ends of his glasses. “I do not know.”
“The funding for this project must amount to many millions of dollars. Can you hazard a guess as to how many?”
Zarnik tucks the glasses into a pocket. “No, I cannot.”
Manning says, “Excuse me, Professor, if this question sounds too personal, but who signs your paycheck?”
Zarnik tells him, “I am paid by the Chicago Civic Planetarium. I do not recall that anyone signs it—a computer spits it out.”
Sensing that he has pushed as far as he dare, Manning says, “Thank you, Dr. Zarnik. This has been helpful. Please understand that I didn’t intend to ‘grill’ you this afternoon. By the nature of my job, I need to dig for hard facts—you can surely appreciate that, being a man of science. We’ll let these issues slide for now in favor of the central question.”
Zarnik asks. “That being what?”
“I write for a very general readership, what we used to call, in less peevish times, ‘the common man.’ Those readers don’t care about vectors. They just want an answer: Is there really a tenth planet out there? If you can prove your claim to my satisfaction, I’ll let them know.”
Zarnik sighs, clapping his palms to his cheeks. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Manning. You are truly a godsend.” He plants himself in a chair to face Manning squarely, rolling so close that their knees touch. He explains, “Though I am new here, your repute has spread far beyond this city. You are known to be scrupulous, insightful, and fair”—Zarnik punctuates each adjective by tapping his index finger on Manning’s khaki-clad leg. “It is important that you understand this discovery, that you
know
it,
believe
it. Then you can tell the world.”
“You mentioned on the phone that you’ve developed a simple demonstration that makes the validity of your discovery apparent to any layman. I believe you called it”—Manning checks his notes—“a ‘graphic realization.’”
David interjects, “Cool.”
Zarnik stands and turns toward David. Smiling, he tells him, “Indeed it is, my young friend. But alas, it is now too late. The demonstration, which depends on the simultaneous gathering and comparison of data transmissions, can be made only during a narrow astronomical oculus, for a few fleeting moments at noon.”
David frowns, “I wish we’d seen it.”
“And you surely shall,” Zarnik tells him. He explains, “There will be another prime oculus in two days, Friday at noon. Can you return then?”
David turns to Manning, who stands, answering, “Absolutely, Professor. I’ll need to see the demonstration before I can draw any conclusions in print.” He notes the appointment in his date book. “That will leave me just enough time to finish the story for the weekend editions.”
Zarnik reaches to shake Manning’s hand. “Thank you so much. That is all I ask. You will not be disappointed. But please take care to arrive a few minutes early, or the opportunity may be missed.” He also extends his hand to David, escorting both reporters to the door, which he opens for them.
Preparing to leave the lab, Manning turns and says, “Excuse me, Professor, but something’s troubling me. You’ve just announced the biggest astronomical news since the thirties, when Pluto was discovered, and your claim has been met by the skepticism of your peers. Reporters everywhere, including the scientific press, are now clamoring to get to you. But when I phoned earlier, you said that you were eager to speak to me alone. I appreciate the exclusive—but why me?”
Zarnik answers flatly, “Because you are known to be the best in your field.”
David concurs, nudging Manning with his elbow, flashing him a thumbs-up.
“I’m flattered,” Manning tells Zarnik, “but any science writer would be far better qualified to judge your research and interpret it for the public.”
“Those hacks are mere leeches on the carcass of science, sucking the blood of knowledge from the work of others. Besides, they are read by no one, excepting other—how do you say?—eggheads.”
Manning laughs. “You have a point, Professor. Even so, I’d be much more comfortable if Clifford Nolan, the
Journal’s
science editor, could witness your demonstration as well. He’s far more qualified than I.”
“To the contrary,” scoffs Zarnik, “he struck me as a mere dilettante whose mind is ruled by crude skepticism.”
Manning blinks. “You’ve met him?”
“Of course,” Zarnik answers, as if Manning should have known. “He came here on Monday, shortly after my press release was issued. We discussed my discovery at length, but he left unconvinced. Fortunately, your paper had both the taste not to print his worthless words and the intelligence to remove him from this story.”
Manning assures him, “The
Journal
did nothing of the kind. Cliff Nolan never delivered a story—that’s the only reason I’m on this assignment now.”
The astronomer shrugs. “It matters not. As the great bard of your native tongue so aptly observed: ‘All is well which ends well.’” With a curt nod of his head, he dismisses the two reporters from his lab, closing the door with a thump.
Working at home that evening on his notes for the Zarnik story, Manning taps a code into his laptop computer, sending the file by modem to his directory at the
Journal.
He wants to get a fresh start on a draft tomorrow, Thursday, even though he must wait till Friday to see the graphic realization of Zarnik’s discovery. The story will first run in the Saturday-afternoon “bulldog” edition of the Sunday paper.
Manning closes the laptop, disconnects it from the modem, and begins stowing it in a carryall case. He turns in his chair to face Neil, continuing their conversation. “Nathan Cain is so hepped up about this story, they’re promoting it with a TV blitz.”
Neil is on a step stool, barefoot, wearing only running shorts, pulling liquor bottles from a corrugated box and arranging them in glass-doored cupboards above a granite-topped bar. He says to Manning, “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you invite the big cheese himself to our shindig?”
Manning contemplates the unthinkable. “Nathan Cain—
in our home
?” Then he breaks into a grin. “Hell, why not? All he can do is say no.”
Neil plucks the last bottle from the box. “I didn’t think Cain took much interest in day-to-day stuff at the paper.”
“He
doesn’t,
which makes this assignment all the more intriguing. Maybe he’s a closet astronomy buff.”
“Speaking of closets, could you put this carton away, please, and bring me the next? God—seventy-two hours, and we’ll have
guests
pounding on the door.”
“Everything will be fine,” says Manning, rising from the desk and crossing to him. “I, for one, can’t
wait
till the guests arrive. You’ve done a magnificent job with this place—people won’t recognize it—and I’m eager to show off your talents.” He hugs Neil’s legs, nuzzling his hips, then grabs the empty box and carries it toward the storeroom.
The loft was little more than raw space three years ago when Manning bought it, one huge room with concrete floors and a semblance of a kitchen along the back wall. While the urban aesthetic had a certain appeal, it was anything but comfortable, and Manning’s challenge to “fix things up” became an uncharacteristic exercise in procrastination. Every attempt to sketch his ideas on paper ended in mindless doodles or fretful crosshatching.
Then he met Neil, an architect who would eventually fill the void of Manning’s unfinished loft. He would also fill the void of Manning’s confusion, his long-repressed need to love another man.
Neil’s detailed plans for the loft, a surprise Christmas gift a few weeks after they met, first struck Manning as overly ambitious, well beyond his reporter’s means. But Neil also surprised him by noting on the plans, “Together, I’ll bet we could swing it.” And so both of their lives, to say nothing of the loft, changed.
They had met while Manning was embroiled in a high-profile investigation that brought a measure of celebrity to his career. His efforts were further recognized with a half-million-dollar reward for solving the case.
Within months, his good fortune more than doubled when a gay uncle, whom he barely knew, met his demise and left to his handsome nephew a magnificent Prairie School house in central Wisconsin. Manning cherished childhood memories of the place, but he didn’t think twice about selling it.
Acknowledging to Neil that “a million doesn’t go as far as it used to,” he was nonetheless able to forge ahead with the loft project, buy exactly the car he had always wanted (that big Bavarian V-8), and still have plenty left earning interest—monthly bills don’t seem to matter anymore.
Now, after more than a year’s upheaval, the loft is finished, transformed into a sculptural network of platforms and balconies, a complex interplay of masses and voids. While the overall composition of the room is boldly artful, it is also functional, divided into distinct areas for conversation and reading, cooking and eating, sleeping and bathing. The aesthetic is modern but not sterile. To the contrary, rich detailing and Neil’s playful allusions to styles of the past lend an inviting, livable atmosphere to the design.
Manning carries the empty box past the outer wall of the loft, where a double-high row of windows looks east onto a still-bright summer evening. The loft’s shadow rises like a black slab against brick walls glowing orange across the street. Between the other buildings, green wedges of Lincoln Park swarm with the after-office games of earnest young professionals. Beyond, Lake Michigan spills to the horizon.
“Let’s take a run along the lake,” says Manning. “I’ll help with the bar later.”
Neil protests, “Mark, I …”
“Get your shoes,” Manning tells him. “It’ll take me only a minute to change.”
Outdoors, along the concrete embankment at the water’s edge, Manning and Neil find their stride and fall into a comfortable gait, side by side. Their arms brush. Their breathing adjusts to the pace. In this shared act, a nightly habit during decent weather, there is a physical communion, vaguely erotic—often sufficient to inspire lovemaking upon their return home, though not recently. The pressures of finishing the loft, to say nothing of Neil’s various commitments to Celebration Two Thousand, have taken a temporary toll on their passions. During these runs, they usually pass the miles in silence. Sometimes they talk.
“Cain told Gordon Smith to assign me an ‘assistant’ for this story,” says Manning. “Can you imagine?”
The question has a rhetorical ring, and Neil doesn’t answer.