Free A Voice in the Wilderness by John Scalzi Page A

match,” Birnbaum said.
    “Your kid’s soccer match doesn’t start until four thirty, Al,” Smart said. “You need to lie better to someone who has your calendar up on her screen. You’re going off to meet the groupie you met at the Broadcasters Association meeting, aren’t you?”
    “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Birnbaum said.
    Smart sighed, and then Birnbaum heard her count to five, quietly. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not your mother,” she said. “You want to bang some groupie, again, fine with me. Just bear in mind that Walter is not going to be as free with the hush money when you’re two quarters in the red as he was when you were his top earner. And remember that you have no prenup, and Judith, unlike your second wife, is not stupid, but you might be, which is how she maneuvered you into not having a prenup. I hope the validation of your middle-aged ego and three minutes of exercise is worth it.”
    “I treasure these calls, Louisa,” Birnbaum said. “Especially your subtle digs at my sexual technique.”
    “Spend less time banging groupies and more time on your show, Al,” Smart said. “You’re not fading because your politics have suddenly gotten unpopular. You’re fading because you’re getting lazy and bored. You get lazy and bored in this business, and guess what? You’re out of the business. And then the groupies dry up.”
    “Thanks for that image,” Birnbaum said.
    “I’m not kidding, Al,” Smart said. “You got a quarter to turn it around. You know it and so do I. You better get to work.” She disconnected.

    They caught up to him as he was heading out of the lobby of the hotel. “Mr. Birnbaum,” the young man said to him.
    Birnbaum held up his hand and tried to keep walking. “Can’t sign autographs now,” he said. “I’m going to be late for my kid’s soccer match.”
    “I’m not here for an autograph,” the young man said to him. “I’m here with a business proposition.”
    “You can direct those to my manager,” Birnbaum said, yelling back to the young man as he blew past. “That’s what I pay Chad to do: field business propositions.”
    “Down twelve percent this month, Mr. Birnbaum?” the young man called out to him as he headed into the revolving door.
    Birnbaum took the entire circuit of the revolving door and came back to the young man. “Excuse me?” he said.
    “I said, ‘Down twelve percent?’” the young man said.
    “How do you know about my numbers?” Birnbaum said. “That’s proprietary information.”
    “A talk show host who spends as much time as you do linking to leaked documents and video shouldn’t need to ask a question like that,” the young man said. “How I know your numbers isn’t really the important thing here, Mr. Birnbaum. The important thing here is how I can help you get those numbers up.”
    “I’m sorry, I have no idea who you are,” Birnbaum said. “As a corollary to that, I have no idea why I should care about or listen to you.”
    “My name is Michael Washington,” the young man said. “On my own, I am no one you should particularly care about. The people who I represent, you might want to listen to.”
    “And who are they?” Birnbaum said.
    “A group who knows the advantage of a mutually beneficial relationship,” Washington said.
    Birnbaum smiled. “That’s it? Are you serious? A shadowy, mysterious group? Look, Michael, I may get traction on conspiracy theories from time to time—they’re fun and the listeners love ’em. It doesn’t mean I think they actually exist.”
    “They’re neither shadowy nor mysterious,” Washington said. “They simply prefer to remain anonymous at this point.”
    “How nice for them,” Birnbaum said. “When they’re serious about whatever thing it is they want, and they have names, they can talk to Chad. Otherwise you’re wasting my time and theirs.”
    Washington offered Birnbaum his card. “I understand entirely, Mr. Birnbaum,