The Meddlers (9 page)

The leader in the second paper, headed “An Affront to Human Dignity,” was on much the same lines, ending with a demand for a
Royal Commission to look into the “hidden and possibly evil secrets of the laboratories of Britain’s universities” and an appeal to “right-thinking people” to raise their voices against this outrageous treatment of a helpless baby.

Mike pushed the papers back across the desk and looked at the Old Man, who raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Well? What do you think of those leaders?” Sir Daniel asked.

“Not unexpected, I suppose,” Mike said carefully. “With no other big news breaking, it makes a good lead item.”

“Oh, come, Mike! Even if there had been another big story, it would have to be very big indeed to be bigger than this one!”

Mike couldn’t resist it. “I’m not used to science stories making all that much of a splash,” he said, carefully not looking at Graham sitting silently beside him. “Unless there’s a big human story wrapped up in it—like the heart transplant bit—it doesn’t seem to have the interest it might.”

“But where’s your nose, boy, where’s your nose?” Sir Daniel was getting irritable. “How much more of a human angle can there be? A baby, a newborn baby, conceived in a test tube, born in a laboratory, created to be researched like a guinea pig in a cage—how much more human than that can you get?”

“But without access to the infant, it’s a dead angle,” Mike said. “And I can assure you there isn’t a hope in hell of getting access. I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve got as good a nose as any other man on the paper, even if I do specialize in science. But I’ve got the sense to know what I can’t do. And I can’t see anyone getting past Briant to this baby, or to its mother. He’s a pretty formidable man, and he’s got the support of his hospital. Which is why I saw no real point in pushing the human poor-little-baby bit.” He stopped then and after a pause said deliberately, “Even if I held that point of view.”

“Ah!” Sir Daniel leaned forward. “You don’t, I take it?”

Mike looked back at him, trying to calculate the odds, and then with a mental shrug took the risk of alienating the other man. It was a considerable risk; he knew perfectly well that Graham Moloney would certainly disagree with him with some violence.

“No, I don’t. I was trained as a scientist, and there are times
when science matters more than the individual. What Briant is trying to do is… important. More important than this baby. What he’s doing might be considered unfortunate for the baby—though I’m not sure it is—but it could be of immense value to humanity as a whole.”

And how does
that
grab you, chum? he thought with childish venom. Do I start tomorrow looking for a new paper, because the
Echo
can’t be doing with a man who lacks the bloody human touch?

But Sir Daniel was looking at him with a satisfied expression on his face.

“I’m happy to hear it, my boy.” And his voice oozed geniality. “Because it is very relevant to the dilemma in which I find myself. Now you know—everyone on the paper knows—I’m not the sort of proprietor who meddles with editorial policy.” Like hell you don’t, thought Mike viciously. “I hire—employ—the best brains and leave them to do their job. But sometimes—rarely, thank God—sometimes, I feel I have a moral duty to involve myself.”

He seemed to savor the phrase. “Yes. A moral duty. And here is a case in point. Briant’s work throws up considerable ethical problems that must be explored. Explored in the most public manner.” He’s beginning to address us, Mike thought. I feel like a public meeting. “The public at large must give grave consideration to a… a grave matter. And as a prime factor in public discussion, the
Echo
must make a decision about its own views.”

He flicked a finger at the newspaper lying on the desk. “These papers have clearly made their decision. The obvious one, in my opinion. And I have no doubt that their stablemates will come out in the same vein tomorrow morning, together with the rest of them. Now, here is our dilemma—
my
dilemma. I feel the
Echo
should not be obvious. That we should take a more dispassionate view and consider the long-term effects of Briant’s work. And here, I am sad to say, Mr. Moloney and I part company—in terms of points of view, that is.” He smiled at Moloney, who had not moved. “Not, of course, literally! Of course not!”

Well, well, Mike thought. So that’s the way it’s going! Poor old
Graham! He felt himself warm toward the sullenly controlled man as he never had in the three years he had been on the paper. He had many times been reduced to helpless rage by Graham’s attitude to his subjects, by his refusal to give science stories the importance Mike believed they had, but at least he was consistent in his attitudes. If he was prepared to fight the Old Man on it as well as one of his juniors, then there was muscle in the man he had never before recognized. Good for Graham. To risk his job—and Sir Daniel had made it very clear that he did risk it—was a courageous thing to do when you considered how few editors’ chairs there were on the Street.

Graham stirred and spoke with a careful lack of emphasis.

“I would be prepared to write a leader on this project, but I would find it difficult to take the opposing point of view to that given in those two leaders. I’ve read Mike’s copy carefully, and as he tells the story of Briant’s explanation of what he’s doing, I can’t see any other way to treat it. He is using a human child as research material, removing him from what everybody—our readers—must regard as a normal human life. And that… that is not good. And quite apart from my own views, I think we are in real danger of losing readership if we don’t reflect what I am convinced will be the general tenor of public opinion. And I am not here to lose you readers.”

Oh, well played, Graham, Mike thought. That’ll get him where he lives.

“I take your points, and they do you credit,” Sir Daniel said smoothly. “But we don’t only reflect public opinion, you know. We guide it. And anyway, there will be enough public opinion in line with mine and Mike’s here”—he threw a brilliant smile at Mike—“to protect us from too great a loss of circulation. Especially if we are the only paper to reflect the other side of the question. And if we project this other point of view with enough… skill, we may indeed build our figures.”

A nice volley shot, Mike applauded silently. I’m enjoying this. Over to you, Graham.

But Sir Daniel was speaking again. “I would not, quite frankly,
have involved you in this policy disagreement between us, Mike, had it been possible to avoid doing so. But I have put to Graham a way round our dilemma which
does
involve you. He has accepted it in principle, which does him great credit. A man of lesser integrity and lesser… care for the welfare of this paper might have been stubborn and even resigned because of so divergent a set of opinions between himself and his proprietor. But Graham is a better man than that, and can recognize an acceptable compromise when he sees one.”

Oh, you bastard, Mike thought, staring at Sir Daniel’s sleek expression. The sooner I get off this Street and onto the box the better.

He glanced for a brief moment at Graham’s heavy body and closed face, and looked away, feeling a little sick. Graham, well past fifty, with three children still at school, and younger men baying at his heels, pushed into a corner like this. It was obscene.

“What we would suggest is this, Mike,” Sir Daniel went on. “We will use the leader column tomorrow to discuss the question of financing scientific research in this country. I understand Briant has problems in this area, and it will be perfectly possible for Graham to prepare a strong piece on this shocking insufficiency of government support for science, without discussing the pros and cons of this particular piece of science. And you”—he paused, looked at Mike with great solemnity, and then went on weightily—“you will write a feature article which will put the point of view you so fortunately genuinely hold, that the legitimate demands of science must sometimes supersede the welfare of the individual. And I know you will give us an excellent piece.”

I ought to throw it in his teeth. I ought to stand up and shout, My editor, right or wrong, and sod you. Graham sitting there waiting for me to kick him in the teeth. I ought to tell him what to do with his feature article.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck, and the silence dropped clammily on him as he tried to think it through properly. The Old Man’s right, of course. The others
will
come out tomorrow shrieking for Briant’s blood, just as these two have this evening. And I
know what Briant is doing, and why, and though I don’t go all the way with him, I go far enough to want to come in on his side. And there is the money angle, of course. If Graham can write something solid about the lousy deal research gets in this country, it can do nothing but good. And Christ, but it’s an opportunity! A big lead feature with a strong by-line—if that doesn’t get J. J. Gerrard and
Probe
for me, nothing will. Oh, Christ, why did I ever get into this business? Even teaching Boyle’s Law to snotty kids in a secondary modern would be better than this. Wouldn’t it?

“Well?” Sir Daniel’s voice carried a faint rasp of impatience, a hint of warning that Mike heard very clearly, and he raised his head and looked at Graham.

“You’re quite sure that’s the way you want it, Graham? You could square it with yourself?”

Graham looked back at him, and for a moment they sat and stared at each other. Then Graham said, “It’s all right. I can live with it. As long as I don’t have to use my leader column to support Briant, and any
Echo
support for him goes out under your by-line—now and in the future—I can live with it.”

He looked then at Sir Daniel. “But I must stick at that. It’s my right as an editor. You have yours as a proprietor, but I have mine too. As long as you leave me my leader column, I… I’ll be happy enough.”

“Splendid!” Sir Daniel stood up and looked at his watch with some ostentation. “I’m delighted that we’ve settled the matter. For the present.”

Was he still threatening Graham? Mike, beginning to feel some exhilaration as he thought about the piece he would now have to write, and write bloody fast, pushed the thought away. If he does lean on Graham again after tomorrow, then I’ll stand up and be counted. After tomorrow. If necessary.

“I’m late for a meeting at the House now, Mike, so I can’t wait to see your copy. Send it round to me, will you? I’m dining at Stone’s.”

“There won’t be time, sir.” Graham’s voice sounded very loud, contrasting sharply with the heaviness it had held all through the
conversation so far. “I’ll have to lock up the pages before seven, and I doubt Mike will be able to do more than meet the deadline. Will you?”

“What? Oh, Lord, I doubt it. A big feature—no. I’m sorry, I’ll need every minute I’ve got.” It was something to be able to make this much of a gesture of loyalty.

Sir Daniel was already at the door, shrugging into his heavy black overcoat with its expensive sheen and elegantly cut lines, and he looked at them both with only the faintest narrowing of his eyes altering his expression of bland good will.

“Oh. Yes. I see. Well, so be it. I am sure I can rely on you both to carry out my instructions—my wishes. I shall look forward to seeing the first edition, then. You’ll send a copy round by hand to Eaton Square, Moloney? I’ll be home by midnight and eager to see what you produce for me. Good evening, gentlemen—oh, and get your secretary to tell the doorman to make sure my car is waiting, will you? I have to stop off in Personnel on my way down. I’ll be ready in five minutes.” And he went, the door swinging behind him, leaving an embarrassed silence between the two men.

Then Graham switched on his intercom and snapped, “Tell Sam Sir Daniel’s on his way down, wants his car at the front,” before sitting down heavily and sweeping the two newspapers on his blotter into the wastepaper basket beside his desk.

“Look, Graham, I’m bloody sorry,” Mike said awkwardly.

Graham didn’t look up. “Whether that’s an apology or an expression of sympathy, I don’t want it. And you’d better get moving if you’re going to meet the deadline. I want your copy up here by six-thirty at the latest. You can have five ten-inch sticks, and no more, understand? Now get the hell out of here.”

Mike shrugged and moved to the door, and then Graham’s voice pulled him back. “And keep your mouth shut about this, do you understand? It’s my business and no one else’s. Not even yours. Just remember that.”

Mike looked at him silently, and Graham raised his head and stared back. His expression was harsh and defiant, but Mike recognized the appeal the older man was making, and he nodded.

“Sure,” he said and ran down the stairs, back to the newsroom and his desk. The thought of getting into the small shaky enclosure of plaited metal strips which was the lift was suddenly more than he could contemplate.

Isobel stood quietly in front of the cupboard door, her hands clasped on her beige overall, almost melting into her background of buff paint. There was no readable expression on her face, but Marjorie felt an unease as she looked at her, as though the woman were watching her through narrowed lids. Which was a curious sensation, since in fact her eyes were downcast, apparently studying the vinyl squares of the floor.