Free Eye Contact by Michael Craft Page B

opening a steno pad and uncapping his Montblanc.
    “Make yourself comfortable,” says Zarnik. “You too, Mr. Bosch.”
    David pulls a chair to a corner of the desk and takes out his own notebook, uncapping a ballpoint with his teeth.
    Manning says, “Dr. Zarnik, I wonder if you’d be willing to speculate about the physical characteristics of this new planet. I want my readers to feel that this story ‘takes them there,’ that they have actually set foot on planet Zarnik. For instance, if I were standing on its surface, what would I see looking up to the sky as the Zarnikal day reaches high noon?”
    The astronomer looks at him with a blank expression, as though he’s never tried to visualize the environment of the far-flung world he has found. With hands behind his back, he paces to the center of the room, suggesting, “It would not really matter whether it were day or night. The sky would be black, punctured everywhere by an intense display of stars.”
    “If the sky is black, that implies there is no atmosphere. Is that the case—no clouds, no vapors, nothing?”
    Zarnik crosses his arms, then brings the fingers of one hand to his chin. “That would be pure speculation, Mr. Manning, although I appreciate your attempt to draw a more vivid picture for your readers.”
    The disappointment in Manning’s voice is unmistakable as he reads aloud the note he has written: “Black sky, just stars, nothing else.”
    Zarnik shrugs. “If you’re looking for a little excitement, you could throw in some meteorites, an asteroid belt.”
    Manning perks up. “Asteroids?”
    “Cosmic litter. Hunks of something that blew up in eons past.” He simulates an explosion with his hands. “Pesky space rocks.” His fingers waggle like falling debris. “Unpredictable complications that could spoil one’s day out there.” A chipper laugh reveals that he has enjoyed this brief foray into the more poetic aspects of his science.
    David eyes Manning with a glance of approval while making a note.
    Zarnik taps his wrist. “It is almost noon, gentlemen. Please position your chairs in front of the desk, facing the large computer monitor. I shall take care of the rest.”
    Manning and David move their chairs as instructed, while Zarnik dashes about the room firing up his equipment, adjusting its settings, twiddling dials, taking care not to trip over the fat bundle of cables. David follows every movement with rapt attention, pen poised over his notepad, ready to record details of the demonstration.
    Manning sits back pensively in his chair, watching Zarnik fuss. He reaches back to stretch an arm on the desk, drumming his fingers while waiting for Zarnik to finish. His hand brushes the edge of an appointment calendar, the ubiquitous style with the date appearing as a big red number at the top of each page. Manning peers over his shoulder at it. Noted there on the line just before noon are the initials MM. As Zarnik disappears behind some equipment, Manning pulls the calendar to himself, flips back through several pages, and finds that all of Zarnik’s notations are short and cryptic, usually consisting of initials. There, Wednesday afternoon, is another MM, and late Monday there’s a CN, the meeting with Cliff Nolan.
    Manning slides the calendar back to its original spot and stares idly at the desktop. There’s a brown paper lunch bag; he recalls the sandwich he moved aside on Wednesday. The messy stack of computer printout has swelled a few inches. The morning edition of the Journal carries Nathan Cain’s page-one tribute to the slain Clifford Nolan, headlined, “Day of Wrath.” The cheap VCR still sits at the far corner, winking midnight with the blue digits of its display. The arrangement of the desk has not changed since his first visit, yet something seems to be missing.
    “All is nearly ready,” says Zarnik, reappearing from behind a cabinet, his hair looking frizzier than ever. Manning chuckles to himself, wondering if Mr.