question of First Amendment rights—”
“It’s kind of you to include me in the ‘we’ of journalists, but I’m actually only a plain citizen without special rank or privilege. I’m just concerned—”
“You know perfectly well they aren’t going to harm anyone. But you do have a point about the police,” she said, abruptly becoming pensive. “They ought to have police here. I’ve never seen one of these nuclear demonstrations come off properly without police.” She frowned, genuinely troubled.
“Look, Anne, rather than having to choose between the ignominy of being police informers and the inconvenience of being innocent victims of a brutal act of terrorism, why don’t we just cut short our stay here? We’ll go in right now, pick up whatever printed material they have, and call a cab. We can rent a car in Princeton and drive—”
“Nick, I’m absolutely going to stay through the press conference and the demonstration. And then we both have appointments with Wachs afterward. After that, I should really get back to New York for—”
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll go in and see Wachs together now. Then we won’t have to hang around afterwards.”
“The press conference is going to begin in twenty minutes. We’ll never get at him before—”
“I’ll get at him.”
I took her decisively by the arm and started across the lawn toward the building to find Wachs. At that moment I believed I was going to get my way with everyone and have the day I wanted, and although my stomach seemed to be having a difficult crossing, and the light, of which there was very little, hurt my eyes, a final wave of euphoria swept over me. It may have been the last benign effect of the alcohol I had consumed the night before, but I felt that I had taken control of the situation.
“We’ll be gone by noon,” I said.
(I would be gone by noon all right.)
As we strode across the lawn, the sky turned almost black, and my jacket was mottled with raindrops. Anne waved cheerfully at the revolutionaries as we passed. They had set up a little metal table on the grass, and behind it they had strung between two poles a hand-lettered banner which read:
THE DESTRUCTION BY NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST OF A GUINEA PIG
REPRESENTING ALL INNOCENT VICTIMS OF
CAPITALIST OPPRESSION AND NUCLEAR DEATH TECHNOLOGY .
WE ARE ALL GUINEA PIGS!
“Good slogan,” I muttered to Anne. “Catchy.”
Other people were arriving, and as they walked past to the entrance, they glanced without concern or even much interest at the demonstrators. Perhaps people expect a few demonstrators everywhere nowadays.
Carillon, sweeping his hand through his long blond hair, called out, “Anne, have you seen any other media here?”
The familiarity annoyed me, and before she could reply, I called back, “I
think
I saw someone from the
Washington Post.
And maybe someone from
Newsweek.
But I haven’t seen any sign of the network crews yet.”
He looked at me blankly at first, unsure of how to take my reply. “Well, let’s hope,” he said coldly.
“I suppose you really shouldn’t begin until the network crews are here—”
Anne had a ferocious grip on my arm and was dragging me in through the entrance door. We found ourselves standing in a small reception room with a couch and a table and, facing us, a large desk with a typing stand to one side. Behind the desk sat a woman in her forties whose natural expression of truculent dissatisfaction had been highlighted with the careful application of great quantities of make-up. She took a brief, disapproving look at Anne, and then fixed her gaze on me.
“Take one press kit and go through the door to your left, then straight down the corridor to the conference room at the end. We’ll be beginning in a few minutes.” Her voice had no warmth in it.
I picked up a press kit. “Thank you. That’s extremely kind. I wonder if you could let Dr. Wachs know that Mr. Halloway of Shipway & Whitman is here.”
“Professor
“It’s kind of you to include me in the ‘we’ of journalists, but I’m actually only a plain citizen without special rank or privilege. I’m just concerned—”
“You know perfectly well they aren’t going to harm anyone. But you do have a point about the police,” she said, abruptly becoming pensive. “They ought to have police here. I’ve never seen one of these nuclear demonstrations come off properly without police.” She frowned, genuinely troubled.
“Look, Anne, rather than having to choose between the ignominy of being police informers and the inconvenience of being innocent victims of a brutal act of terrorism, why don’t we just cut short our stay here? We’ll go in right now, pick up whatever printed material they have, and call a cab. We can rent a car in Princeton and drive—”
“Nick, I’m absolutely going to stay through the press conference and the demonstration. And then we both have appointments with Wachs afterward. After that, I should really get back to New York for—”
“I’ll tell you what. We’ll go in and see Wachs together now. Then we won’t have to hang around afterwards.”
“The press conference is going to begin in twenty minutes. We’ll never get at him before—”
“I’ll get at him.”
I took her decisively by the arm and started across the lawn toward the building to find Wachs. At that moment I believed I was going to get my way with everyone and have the day I wanted, and although my stomach seemed to be having a difficult crossing, and the light, of which there was very little, hurt my eyes, a final wave of euphoria swept over me. It may have been the last benign effect of the alcohol I had consumed the night before, but I felt that I had taken control of the situation.
“We’ll be gone by noon,” I said.
(I would be gone by noon all right.)
As we strode across the lawn, the sky turned almost black, and my jacket was mottled with raindrops. Anne waved cheerfully at the revolutionaries as we passed. They had set up a little metal table on the grass, and behind it they had strung between two poles a hand-lettered banner which read:
THE DESTRUCTION BY NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST OF A GUINEA PIG
REPRESENTING ALL INNOCENT VICTIMS OF
CAPITALIST OPPRESSION AND NUCLEAR DEATH TECHNOLOGY .
WE ARE ALL GUINEA PIGS!
“Good slogan,” I muttered to Anne. “Catchy.”
Other people were arriving, and as they walked past to the entrance, they glanced without concern or even much interest at the demonstrators. Perhaps people expect a few demonstrators everywhere nowadays.
Carillon, sweeping his hand through his long blond hair, called out, “Anne, have you seen any other media here?”
The familiarity annoyed me, and before she could reply, I called back, “I
think
I saw someone from the
Washington Post.
And maybe someone from
Newsweek.
But I haven’t seen any sign of the network crews yet.”
He looked at me blankly at first, unsure of how to take my reply. “Well, let’s hope,” he said coldly.
“I suppose you really shouldn’t begin until the network crews are here—”
Anne had a ferocious grip on my arm and was dragging me in through the entrance door. We found ourselves standing in a small reception room with a couch and a table and, facing us, a large desk with a typing stand to one side. Behind the desk sat a woman in her forties whose natural expression of truculent dissatisfaction had been highlighted with the careful application of great quantities of make-up. She took a brief, disapproving look at Anne, and then fixed her gaze on me.
“Take one press kit and go through the door to your left, then straight down the corridor to the conference room at the end. We’ll be beginning in a few minutes.” Her voice had no warmth in it.
I picked up a press kit. “Thank you. That’s extremely kind. I wonder if you could let Dr. Wachs know that Mr. Halloway of Shipway & Whitman is here.”
“Professor
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