Free The Fog by Dennis Etchison Page B

the window as the lawyer droned on, fighting, she could hear, to remain as casual as possible. Maybe he does. Maybe I’m just projecting.
    “The broadcast standards business is something we have to fight them on . . .”
    Ah, he’s warming to that. Business plus a fight. Now you’re talking, right?
    “I think if it keeps on like this, we’ll have to expand. It will become a necessity.
    “You’re going to have to turn the tape over now, so we can go through this incorporation business. It’ll take some time.”
    She stayed by the window, feeling the sun through the double glass, the red staring eye of a man ready to die. And it came to her then that there was something inexplicably sad even about it all; his voice running out against the end of the reel, the endless ebb of the surf below, the gulls flocking past her solitary crow’s nest, the first blue bands of evening coming out on the sand, bleeding with the scarlet of the sky into the base of the lonely lighthouse. She folded her arms and hugged her sides. Even now she was getting a chill. She saw the clock on the wall.
    Yes, yes, I know.
    Nine minutes to six.
    Almost time to go on.
    “Ready?” continued the voice after she had flipped the tape. “I know you can do at least ten things at once, so it shouldn’t be any problem . . .”
    Stevie Wayne, trained juggler, at your service.
    “All right, first the accounting. Try to maintain rights as Station Manager, Business Affairs Manager, and just basically Owner and Operator. Edwards would completely fund you, but would want some sort of accounting privileges. Now, the corporation . . .”
    Her eye was attracted back to the driftwood on the shelf. It really was beautiful in its way, a classic, a survivor of rough weather and stormy seas. Maybe it was an appropriate gift, after all. Thank you, Andy. I’ll have it mounted. If you let me keep it.
    From somewhere behind her a shadow fell over the wood, flickering like a dark flame.
    She jerked around to the window.
    Outside, a blanket spread over the guardrail snapped in the breeze. It was the blanket she kept around her on cold nights in the studio, when the electric heater was not enough.
    Only a blanket, she thought. What did you think it was? Why was she so edgy?
    Eight minutes to six.
    “Pay yourself a salary, use the funds for improvements, bills and operating costs—anything you need for the station. You should also hire someone to help sell air time . . .”
    She sorted her papers and lined up the first hour’s requests.
    “Stevie, I know you’ll object to this idea, but remember, we’re a small station and we need the accounts as well as the support of the local merchants. Edwards Corporation insists that you sell ten minutes of air time per day to help offset your operating costs. I know you really want a commercial-free station, and the move to Antonio Bay was to get away from silly jingles and the narrow-minded formats here . . .”
    Stevie became aware of a new sound behind her as she worked, a regular sound that could have been a dripping. It caught her attention for a moment, but not being able to locate its source, she decided to ignore it. It was probably a mechanical flaw in the tape, one of those cheap Mexican cassettes that were good for about one play. Besides, it wasn’t even raining.
    “But I think ten minutes is a fair compromise. And it most likely will ensure your FCC license. I think it looks like a good idea, if we can retain control. I bumped into Yaeger yesterday and he told me it was all but a certainty . . .”
    She continued checking to be sure all was in order for the show.
    Seven minutes to six.
    Drip. Drip. Drip.
    “. . . A certainty, I told him, a constant, like a stone in the wind . . .”
    She heard a sputtering on the tape. Static.
    Then, along with the dripping—
    She would have sworn it was the sound of ship’s bells.
    “. . . Something that one lives with, like an albatross around the neck . . . No, more like a