Chapter 2: Breaking News

“RELAX, PEOPLE!” President says, “We’re not at war.”

President Malkin Muffley came on the air early this morning to reassure the American people after the spectacular show of outer space fireworks that the display was neither a hostile act nor an end sign of the world nor an alien invasion.

“I’ve had a lot of calls ... a huge number of calls from important people ... very important people ... some of the most important people in the world ... who called me begging me not to push the button that would destroy all our enemies. That would mean a world war and there would be a lot of big explosions ... I mean bigger than anything you can imagine ... all over the world, including here in the great US of A. Through the miracles of the internet and social media, I sat with these chiefs and smoked a peace pipe of prime Mayan Gold. I’m still a little high ... very high ... and very peaceful. I tell you all, the great people ... very greatest people of the United States ... go out and fill your bowls with happiness and have a puff with me. It’s all good.”

I tossed the paper aside shortly after it landed on my desk. I’d been up all night after the spectacular fireworks in the sky and we’d brought out a special edition at ten this morning after the first edition at five-thirty. I’d been tuned in remotely to the President’s address, so I knew what he had said. I was still digging through layers of government bureaucracy trying to find a clerk low enough in the government hierarchy that he’d actually know what was going on. I finally managed to reach Tim Titus—an undersecretary’s assistant’s administrator’s support staff’s flunky—who could tell me what happened.

“Yeah, Ramsey, I can tell you. Did you see it? Pretty spectacular. Anyway, you know there’s a lot of space junk and derelicts up in orbit. One of the old pieces—I’m talking fifty years old, you know?—somehow got its targeting beacon tripped. This was put up there back in the Star Wars era when everybody was throwing some kind of floating trashcan into orbit to compete with everyone else’s space junk. They were all supposed to be defense against each other so when one lit up, all the others out there lit up and had their own little pissing match.”

“So, Tim, you’re telling me an entire world war was fought in space in one night.” This wasn’t going to go over well with my editor.

“That’s pretty much it, Ramsey. A bunch of unmanned tin cans shooting at each other until there were none left standing. End of war. No winners.”

“That’s not much of a story. I need to fill twenty column inches for tomorrow morning’s paper. They expect in-depth reporting. Isn’t there anything else you can give me?” I flipped my pencil around through my fingers. I seldom wrote with it but had figured out how to type while still holding a pencil. It made me feel like a real reporter.

“Geez, Ramsey! You sure you’ve got tickets for the Superbowl for me? Seems like I’m giving a lot away here.”

“On the fifty-yard line. My publisher authorized me to give them to the person who could get me the most information.” The tickets were on the fifty-yard line in row ZZZ. If Tim could give me a little more info I’d toss in a pair of binoculars with the tickets.

“Well, this is all hush-hush, you know?” I grabbed a tablet and started to scratch notes. “But Admiral Thornby is having an affair with Senator Beal’s wife. From what she says, it’s a pretty small torpedo but it has a big explosion. I got that direct from the senator’s daughter who’s dating the guy in the next cubicle over from me. So anyway, Admiral Thornby says there might have been some minor spill-over into the atmosphere but no one was really hurt. It was mostly stray particles. There are probably some cell phones in Africa that aren’t working anymore.”

“Well, no real harm in that. Who are they going to call? Their cousin in Nigeria who’s trying to give away a hundred million dollars from a dead investor’s bank account? Tim, I’m dropping the tickets in a courier envelope to send to you right now. Thanks for being a reliable source.”

“Any time, Ramsey.”

I hung up the phone and started writing.

I filled my twenty inches for the morning edition with ‘reliable sources’ and finally headed home. Over the past few years there’s been a resurgence in the newspaper industry. Print is considered more dependable than electronic bits. As one pundit commented, “I’d believe a wrinkled pamphlet handed to me by a homeless man on a street corner before I’d believe anything I read on the internet.”

Of course, people still used the internet, but it was placed at the same level as supermarket tabloids. A step lower, actually, because the tabloids were real paper and ink.

“Honey, I’m home!” I called as I closed the connecting door from the garage.

“I’m in my office grading papers. Be a dear and bring me a drink before you make dinner?” Don’t go thinking that was a callous response by the wife of a man who’d been up for the past thirty some hours breaking the news of the century to the world. My wife, Dr. Elizabeth Smith, held a far more important and intellectually taxing job than I did. To Elizabeth, the kitchen is the room where ice for our drinks is kept. Me? I love to cook. I’m quite domestic and dinner was in the refrigerator and ready to heat. I’d given away six tickets to the Superbowl from the newspaper’s stock, but the story I wrote earned me an attaboy from Ed and permission to finally go home. I poured a gin and tonic for Elizabeth and made myself a martini.