The Unnatural Inquirer by Simon R. Green

insurance against assassination attempts.
    There was a prominent sign on one wall. YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE VICIOUS, PETTY-MINDED, AND MEAN-SPIRITED TO WORK HERE; BUT IT HELPS. Anywhere else, this would have been a joke.
    Jimmy the copy-boy finally brought me to the Sub-Editor’s office, knocked on the door like he was announcing the imminent arrival of the barbarian hordes, and pushed the door open without waiting for a reply. I followed him in, shutting the door carefully behind me, and Scoop Malloy himself stood up from behind his paper-scattered desk to greet me. He was a short, dumpy figure, with a sad face and a prematurely bald head, wearing a pullover with the phrase SMILE WHEN YOU CALL ME THAT embroidered over his chest. He popped a handful of little purple pills from a handy bottle, dry-swallowed them in one, and came out from behind his desk to give me a limp, almost apologetic handshake. I shook his hand gingerly. Partly because I was remembering where his nickname came from, and partly because his hand felt like it might come off in mine.
    He glared at the copy-boy. “What are you still doing here? Isn’t there some important tea you should be making?”
    “Fascist!” Jimmy hissed, slamming the door behind him on his way out. Then he opened it again, shouted, “I’m nineteen! Nineteen!” and disappeared again.
    Scoop Malloy sighed deeply, sat down behind his desk, and gestured for me to take the visitor’s chair. Which was, of course, hard and uncomfortable, as visitor’s chairs always are. I think it’s supposed to imply you’re only there on sufferance.
    “Puberty’s a terrible thing,” said Scoop. “Particularly for other people. I’d fire him if he wasn’t someone’s nephew…Wish I knew whose…Welcome to the salt mines, Mr. Taylor. Sorry to drag you all the way in here, but you see how it is. The price of freedom of the Press is eternal vigilance and constant access to heavy-duty armaments.”
    “I was given to understand that the matter was urgent,” I said. “And that the pay would be quite staggeringly good.”
    “Oh, quite,” said Scoop. “Quite.” He looked at me searchingly. “I understand you’ve done some work for Julien Advent, at the Night Times.”
    “On occasion,” I said. “I approve of Julien.”
    Scoop smirked unpleasantly. “I could tell you some things about him…”
    “Don’t,” I said firmly. “First, I wouldn’t believe them; and second, if you were to insult my good friend Julien Advent, I would then find it necessary to beat you severely about the head and shoulders. Quite probably until your head came off, after which I would play football with it up and down the inner offices.”
    “I never believed those stories anyway,” Scoop said firmly. He leaned forward across his desk, trying hard to look business-like. “Mr. Taylor, here at the Unnatural Inquirer we are not in the news business, as such. No. We print stories, entertainment, a moment’s diversion. We employ a manic depressive to write the Horoscopes; to keep our readers on their toes, we run competitions with really big prizes, like Guess where the next Timeslip’s going to appear; and we’re always first with news about what the rich and famous are up to. Even if that news isn’t exactly accurate. We print the stories people want to read.”
    “And to Hell with whether they’re true?” I said.
    Scoop shrugged, smiling his unpleasant smile again. “Oh, you’d be surprised how close to the truth we get, even if it is by accident.”
    There was a knock at the door. Scoop looked up with a certain amount of relief that he wouldn’t have to face me alone any more. He called for the new arrival to enter, the door opened, and both Scoop and I stood up to greet the newcomer. She was tall and athletic-looking, and drop-dead gorgeous. Long jet-black hair framed a heart-shaped face, with high cheek-bones, sparkling eyes, and one of those old-fashioned pouting rosebud mouths. She wore a