Peters put a finger to his lips. 'Security,' he said.
'Sure.'
Peters picked up his raincoat. 'Good-bye.'
'I'll see you tomorrow,' Laski said, smiling broadly.
3
Arthur Cole climbed the steps from the station, his breath rattling unhealthily in his chest. A gust of warm air came up from the bowels of the Underground, wrapped itself snugly around him, and blew away. He shivered slightly as he emerged into the street.
The sunshine took him by surprise-it had hardly been dawn when he boarded the train. The air was chilled and sweet. Later it would become poisonous enough to knock out a policeman on point duty. Cole remembered the first time that had happened: the story had been an Evening Post exclusive.
He walked slowly until his breathing eased. Twenty-five years in newspapers have ruined my health, he thought. In truth, any industry would have done the same, for he was prone to worry and to drink, and his chest was weak; but it comforted him to blame his profession.
Anyway, he had given up smoking. He had been a nonsmoker for-he looked at his watch-one hundred and twenty-eight minutes, unless he counted the night, in which case it was eight hours. He had already passed several moments of risk: immediately after the alarm clock went off at four thirty (he usually smoked one on the WC); driving away from his house, at the moment when he got into top gear and turned on the radio ready for the five o'clock news; accelerating down the first fast stretch of the A12 as his large Ford hit its stride; and waiting on a cold, open-air Tube station in East London for the earliest train of the day.
The BBC's five o'clock bulletin had not cheered him. It had had all his attention as he drove, for the route was so familiar that he negotiated the bends and roundabouts automatically, from memory. The lead story came from Westminster: the latest industrial relations bill had been passed by Parliament, but the majority had been narrow. Cole had caught the story the previous night on television. That meant the morning papers would certainly have it, which in turn meant that the Post could do nothing with it unless there were developments later in the day.
There was a story about the Retail Price Index. The source would be official government statistics, which would have been embargoed until midnight: again, the mornings would have it.
It was no surprise to learn that the car workers' strike was still on-it would hardly have been settled overnight.
Test cricket in Australia solved the sports editor's problem, but the score was not sufficiently sensational for the front page.
Cole began to worry.
He entered the Evening Post building and took the elevator. The newsroom occupied the entire first floor. It was a huge, I-shaped open-plan office. Cole entered at the foot of the I. To his left were the typewriters and telephones of the copytakers, who would type out stories dictated over the phone; to the right, the filing cabinets and bookshelves of specialist writers-political, industrial, crime, defense, and more. Cole walked up the stem of the I, through rows of desks belonging to ordinary common or garden reporters, to the long news desk which divided the room in two. Behind it was the U-shaped subeditors' table, and beyond that, in the crosspiece of the I, was the sports department-a semi-independent kingdom, with its own editor, reporters, and subs. Cole occasionally showed curious relatives around the place: he always told them: 'It's supposed to work like a production line. Usually it's more like a bun fight.' It was an exaggeration, but it always got a laugh.
The room was brightly lit, and empty. As deputy news editor, Cole had a section of the news desk to himself. He opened a drawer and took out a coin, then walked to the vending machine in Sport and punched buttons for instant tea with milk and sugar. A teleprinter chattered to life, breaking the silence.
As Cole walked back to his desk with his paper cup, the far door bumped open. A short, gray-haired figure came in, wearing a bulky parka and cycle clips. Cole waved and called: 'Morning, George.'
'Hello, Arthur. Cold enough for you?' George began to take off his coat. The body inside it was small and thin. Despite his age, George held the title Head Lad: he was chief of the office's team of messengers. He lived in Potters Bar and cycled to work. Arthur thought that an astonishing feat.
Arthur put down his tea, shrugged out of his raincoat, turned on the radio, and sat down. The radio began to murmur. He sipped tea and gazed straight ahead. The newsroom was scruffy-chairs were scattered randomly, newspapers and sheets of copy paper littered the desks, and redecoration had been postponed in last year's economy drive-but the scene was too familiar to register. Cole's mind was on the first edition, which would be on the streets in three hours.
Today's paper would have sixteen pages. Fourteen of the first edition's pages already existed as semicylindrical metal plates on the press downstairs. They contained advertising, features, television programs, and news written in such a way that its age would-it was hoped-be overlooked by the reader. That left the back page for the sports editor and the front page for Arthur Cole.
Parliament, a strike, and inflation-they were all yesterday stories. There was not much he could do with them. Any of them could be dressed up with a today intro, like 'Cabinet Ministers today held an inquest on the Government's narrow escape…' There was one of those for every situation. Yesterday's disaster became today's news story with 'Dawn today revealed the full horror…' Yesterday's murder benefited from 'Detectives today searched London for the man who…' Arthur's problem had given birth to scores of cliche's. In a civilized society, he thought, when there was no news there would be no newspapers. It was an old thought, and he brushed it out of his mind impatiently.
Everyone accepted that the first edition was rubbish three days out of six. But that gave no comfort, because it was the reason Arthur Cole had the job of producing that edition. He had been deputy news editor for five years. Twice during that period the news editor's chair had fallen vacant, and both times a younger man than Cole had been promoted. Someone had decided that the number-two job was the limit of his capabilities. He disagreed.
The only way he could demonstrate his talent was by turning out an excellent first edition. Unfortunately, how good the edition was depended largely upon luck. Cole's strategy was to aim for a paper which was consistently slightly better than the opposition's first edition. He thought he was succeeding: whether anyone upstairs had noticed, he had no idea; and he would not let himself worry about it.
George came up behind him and dumped a pile of newspapers on his desk. 'Young Stephen's reported sick again,' he grumbled.
Arthur smiled. 'What is it-a hangover or a runny nose?'
'Remember what they used to tell us? 'If you can walk, you can work.' Not this lot.'
Arthur nodded.
'Am I right?' George said.
'You're right.' The two of them had been Lads together on the Post. Arthur had got his NUJ card after the war. George, who had not been called up, had remained a messenger.
George said: 'We were keen. We wanted to work.'
Arthur picked up the top newspaper from the pile. This was not the first time George had complained about his staff, nor the first time Arthur had commiserated with him. But Arthur knew what was wrong with the Lads of today. Thirty years ago, a smart Lad could become a reporter; nowadays, that road was closed. The new system had a double impact: bright youngsters stayed at school instead of becoming messengers; and those who did become messengers knew they had no prospects, so they did as little work as they could get away with. But Arthur could not say this to George, because it would call attention to the fact that Arthur had done so much better than his old colleague. So he agreed that the youth of today were rotten.
George seemed disposed to persist with his grouse. Arthur cut him off by saying: 'Anything on the overnight wire?'
'I'll get it. Only I've got to do all the papers myself-'
'I'd better see the wire copy first.' Arthur turned away. He hated to pull rank. He had never learned to do it naturally, perhaps because he took no pleasure in it. He looked at the Morning Star: they had led with the industry
