go with it. Extinctions.”
Artie looked up, suspicious. Connie shook her head, her expression gray. “It’s still me.” She cleared her throat. “Extinctions,” she repeated.
“What about them?”
She hunched forward over the desk, as if she were about to confide a secret. “Whole species are dying, Artie, and more of them are endangered. More extinctions are happening now than since the dinosaurs vanished. There’ve been five big extinctions before this—this is the sixth.” She hesitated a moment, trying to read the expression on his face, then continued, a little defensive. “People are the cause; there’re too many of us. Nobody’s covered it except the science shows. And it gives us an overall view.”
Even though Connie sounded like the old Connie, it still wasn’t quite her, Artie thought. The old Connie would go for the immediate: the spotted owl, the whatever-you-call-it frog. Not for the philosophy of it, not for the big picture. She usually went for the little things that could give the viewer a perspective on the whole. Like the image of a child rooting around in a Dumpster for a feature on hunger among the homeless.
“You have been boning up, haven’t you, Connie?”
She looked blank. “I don’t follow you.”
“When did you first think of ‘extinctions’?”
She put her pad down on the table and looked out at the newsroom. “When I was talking to you yesterday,” she said slowly. “I was going to bring it up but you were getting angry and I didn’t want to push it.” She turned back to Artie. “But whether I thought of it or … somebody gave me the idea, I thought it was worth following up on. So I had the Grub search the Internet.”
Her voice started to trail off and Artie looked at her sharply. Connie was preoccupied with the idea. Normal enough.
“They’re dying out there, Artie. Four thousand plants, five thousand animals at fifty to a hundred times the expected rate. Shit, we’re not fishing these days, we’re sifting the sea with filament nets. We don’t catch many dolphins anymore but that’s because so few are out there—”
“Throw your pad over, Connie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He was halfway through her notes when Jerry Gottlieb knocked on the door and opened it. “The assignment desk says to get your ass over there, Connie—we’ve got a breaker.” He stood to one side to let her out, then handed Artie a sheaf of paper with a heavy binder clip at the top. “You were off by thirty pages, Artie—came to seventy-three, single-spaced.”
Artie casually riffled through the pages. Text and diagrams and formulas, very little straightforward exposition—so far as he could see. It wasn’t easy to read—gaps in a lot of the lines, pages with no paragraphing, type characters he’d never seen before.
“What the hell’s wrong with it, Jerry?”
“Some sort of oddball format. When I get a chance tomorrow, I’ll go back in and try and clean up the disk, print out a decent copy.”
“You read it?”
Jerry shrugged. “I didn’t get very far. The first few pages were grisly and after that, the writer lost me. What’s your interest in it?”
“Favor for a friend of mine.”
Jerry looked offended. “Always willing to help a friend of a friend, Artie. But don’t ever make it a friend of a friend of a friend.”
“So I owe you one.”
Just before closing the door, Jerry turned, frowning. “That was bullshit about your friend, right? If you want it deciphered, I’d try one of the anthropologists at the science museum in the park—they’re more user-friendly than the ones at UC Berkeley.”
Artie raised an eyebrow.
“Then you read it through?”
“Are you kidding? It was hard to read and I only understood every fifth word anyway—your secret’s safe with me.”
After he’d left, Artie spread the pages out in front of him and glanced through them. The details of the accident, sketches and photographs that Shea must have
Artie looked up, suspicious. Connie shook her head, her expression gray. “It’s still me.” She cleared her throat. “Extinctions,” she repeated.
“What about them?”
She hunched forward over the desk, as if she were about to confide a secret. “Whole species are dying, Artie, and more of them are endangered. More extinctions are happening now than since the dinosaurs vanished. There’ve been five big extinctions before this—this is the sixth.” She hesitated a moment, trying to read the expression on his face, then continued, a little defensive. “People are the cause; there’re too many of us. Nobody’s covered it except the science shows. And it gives us an overall view.”
Even though Connie sounded like the old Connie, it still wasn’t quite her, Artie thought. The old Connie would go for the immediate: the spotted owl, the whatever-you-call-it frog. Not for the philosophy of it, not for the big picture. She usually went for the little things that could give the viewer a perspective on the whole. Like the image of a child rooting around in a Dumpster for a feature on hunger among the homeless.
“You have been boning up, haven’t you, Connie?”
She looked blank. “I don’t follow you.”
“When did you first think of ‘extinctions’?”
She put her pad down on the table and looked out at the newsroom. “When I was talking to you yesterday,” she said slowly. “I was going to bring it up but you were getting angry and I didn’t want to push it.” She turned back to Artie. “But whether I thought of it or … somebody gave me the idea, I thought it was worth following up on. So I had the Grub search the Internet.”
Her voice started to trail off and Artie looked at her sharply. Connie was preoccupied with the idea. Normal enough.
“They’re dying out there, Artie. Four thousand plants, five thousand animals at fifty to a hundred times the expected rate. Shit, we’re not fishing these days, we’re sifting the sea with filament nets. We don’t catch many dolphins anymore but that’s because so few are out there—”
“Throw your pad over, Connie. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He was halfway through her notes when Jerry Gottlieb knocked on the door and opened it. “The assignment desk says to get your ass over there, Connie—we’ve got a breaker.” He stood to one side to let her out, then handed Artie a sheaf of paper with a heavy binder clip at the top. “You were off by thirty pages, Artie—came to seventy-three, single-spaced.”
Artie casually riffled through the pages. Text and diagrams and formulas, very little straightforward exposition—so far as he could see. It wasn’t easy to read—gaps in a lot of the lines, pages with no paragraphing, type characters he’d never seen before.
“What the hell’s wrong with it, Jerry?”
“Some sort of oddball format. When I get a chance tomorrow, I’ll go back in and try and clean up the disk, print out a decent copy.”
“You read it?”
Jerry shrugged. “I didn’t get very far. The first few pages were grisly and after that, the writer lost me. What’s your interest in it?”
“Favor for a friend of mine.”
Jerry looked offended. “Always willing to help a friend of a friend, Artie. But don’t ever make it a friend of a friend of a friend.”
“So I owe you one.”
Just before closing the door, Jerry turned, frowning. “That was bullshit about your friend, right? If you want it deciphered, I’d try one of the anthropologists at the science museum in the park—they’re more user-friendly than the ones at UC Berkeley.”
Artie raised an eyebrow.
“Then you read it through?”
“Are you kidding? It was hard to read and I only understood every fifth word anyway—your secret’s safe with me.”
After he’d left, Artie spread the pages out in front of him and glanced through them. The details of the accident, sketches and photographs that Shea must have
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