A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  "I never batted my eyes!"

  "The hell you didn't. You play with people, Valerie, and you know it. You're spoiled and self-centered and restless—"

  "Why do you want me, then.>" Her eyes blazed at him. "What's wrong with being restless at twenty? When do I get to have fun, if not now? You're right, I like having somebody do things for me, and it was nice that you were older because you weren't always flying off somewhere the way—"

  "The way you do."

  "I don't! Fve been here for five months, with you, remember? I just can't stand it that you're always standing over me, waiting for me to make decisions. I don't want to make any more decisions than I have to, not for a long time, and I wish you'd let me be the way I am and not keep trying to change me!"

  She had reached the door and opened it and instantly Nick was beside her. "I don't want to change you. I love you for what you are; I have from the day I met you."

  "That's not true." She looked at him steadily. "You had an idea of what we'd be like together, or what we ought to be like together, sort of like writing one of your computer programs. You thought you knew what would work best and that's how you wanted us to be. Me especially. You think I spend too much on clothes and go to too many parties and don't pay enough attention to my grades and—"

  "But those are little things that don't matter. What I love about you is your spirit and your—"

  "Oh, spirit. All that means is I'm easier to talk to and better in bed than one of your computers. You've got this image of me, Nick, and I

  can't live up to it. I don't even want to. I want to do my own thing in my own way and I can't do that when I'm with you. I guess I can't I'm not always sure."

  "If you're not sure, then give us time. Why would you destroy what we've built for the past five months?"

  "Because I feel not good enough and guilty and... smothered!" She shook her head sharply. "I'm sorry, Nick, but I don't want to see you anymore."

  "Don't say that!"

  "I have to. I don't want to see you at all. I've thought about it—"

  "You haven't thought about it! Not until today!"

  "I've thought about it for a long time. I just didn't tell you."

  "You thought about it while you were making love to me?"

  "They don't have anything to do with each other. I loved making love to you."

  ^HTou can fake sincerity. That's what you said that day at the television station. That's it, isn't it? Making love to the camera, you called it. Is that like making love to me? You said it wasn't hard, at least for you, because if you knew what people wanted you could make them believe almost anything."

  "Oh, damn it, Nick, I hate it when people tell me what I said a long time ago. I don't even remember it."

  She was fighting her feelings again. She couldn't bear the stunned look on his face; her hands trembled with the desire to hold him so she could kiss him and wipe out everything they had said. But she fought it off. "Goodbye, Nick. I hope"—she made an awkward gesture, trying to find a good word on which to end—"you find somebody better than me."

  She turned and stepped through the door, out of his apartment, for the last time. "Valerie," Nick said quietly. She turned and he touched her cheek with his hand, holding it gently along the length of her face. "Goodbye, my love," he said, very softly, and then he was the one who closed the door.

  Chapter 5

  ^^^^^ veryone beamed, clustering around her with con-

  ^^ gratulations and little pats on her arm. The morn-

  V f^ ) ing after the Ramona Jackson broadcast, Sybille

  ^^ ' y/ felt like a heroine. She was the center of attention,

  the star of the station. She had scooped every

  newspaper and radio and television station in the Bay Area.

  "Hell of a lucky break," said one of the directors, his arm casually

  around Sybille's shoulders.

  "Lucky, hell," scoffed someone else, "Sybille^wwrf that story!" "Well, whatever," the director said. "But how come it didn't leak? A

  ton of money, a nutty old bat like Ramona Jackson, apes in the attic—

  how the hell did they keep it under wraps?"

  The others shrugged; they didn't know. When Terence Beauregard

  the Third heard the question, he dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

  "You never know when or how a story's gonna break. You just have to

  be ready. The way our litde Sybille is. Always ready."

  They drifted back to work, but the story was revived when Laurence

  B. Oldfield, vice-president of the university, issued a statement. "The

  story about an engineering and ape building at Stanford is ridiculous,

  absolutely false, and defamatory. The university is consulting with its attorneys on possible fiiture action."

  "Well, what would you expect them to say?" they shrugged in the newsroom of KNEX-TV.

  The news editor of the Palo Alto Times-Crier called and was switched to Sybille's phone. "Details," he begged her. "I haven't got any. Terrific story, if it's true, but Jackson isn't answering her door or her phone, and the university's saying no comment and I'm stuck. What can you give me?"

  "Nothing," Sybille said coolly; she didn't know yet what she would do with the story, but one thing she wouldn't do was give it to anyone else, especially anyone who thought it might not be true. "We're still working on it for a follow-up; I don't have any more than you heard last night." She hung up, but the telephone rang again, and then again and again, throughout the morning, as reporters from newspapers and television stations in San Jose, San Francisco, Oakland, Los Angeles and the wire services called in. Sybille fended them off, while excitement coursed through her. She had her scoop and everyone knew. Everyone thought she was wonderful, and no one was criticizing her for anything.

  Midmorning, Beauregard called Sybille into his office. "Quite a story. Congratulations."

  "Thank you. I owe it to you."

  'Well, yes indeed, some of it you do indeed."

  Sybille's look sharpened. "All of it."

  "vl// of it? The drawing? Where'd that come from?"

  "I found it. But I wouldn't have known anything about it if you hadn't told me. It's because of you, Terry—"

  "Found it where?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "You'U tell me."

  Sybille shook her head. "You wouldn't ask me to reveal my sources."

  He stared at her through narrowed eyes. "And the stuff she teaches them? Sign language and etiquette? Where'd you get that?"

  There was barely a pause. "One of my sources."

  "Who?"

  "I can't tell you, Terry. I can't reveal—^"

  "To me you can."

  "Not even to you."

  He was glaring at her. "Where'd you get the quote fi-om Lyle Wilson about the projects they want to work on?"

  "The LA Times. They did a story on engineering in California."

  "So you did do some research."

  "Of course."

  "And you have reliable sources."

  "As reliable as yours."

  He shot out of his chair. "What the hell does that mean? How the fuck do you know who I talk to?"

  "I don't! I only meant... It doesn't mean anything, Terry; I didn't mean to upset you."

  "Who's upset? I just like to know what's going on. You got that? No games, no surprises. You got that?"

  "Yes."

  "So who told you about sign language and etiquette? Where'd you get the drawing?"

  Sybille shook her head.

  "Okay, litde lady, but you just remember, it's on your head."

  "Not just mine! Terry, I have the station behind me!"

  "As much as we can. As much as we c^w."

  "You told me the station always stands behind its people!"

  "As much as we can.''''

  She sat very still. "You gave me the story, Terry."

  He let out an elaborate sigh. "Sounds like we're bac
k where we started, sweetie. I gave you a cute story I said we couldn't use." His telephone rang and he answered it. "Okay," he said. "Hold him half a minute, then I'll talk to him." He replaced the receiver. "Oldfield," he said to Sybille. "V-p of the university; thinks he's a fucking tiger. Don't worry; I'll cover for you." He shook his head in mock amazement. "What a little wonder you are, shaking Stanford up the way you did. And the network's looking at us, too, I hear." He walked around his desk. "Just keep in touch, okay, before you write about apes anymore." He gave her rear end a firm pinch and scooted her out the door.

  "Okay," he said to his secretary, and picked up his telephone.

  "Where'd it come from?" Oldfield demanded. "Who's this 'high-ranking university official'? There isn't one and you know it. You made it up. It's false, it's damaging to the university, and we want to know where it came fi"om and what you're going to do about it."

  "It came from an impeccably reliable source," Beauregard said easily. He sat back in his chair, prepared to enjoy himself. He closed his eyes and pictured Laurence B. Oldfield's wife Marjorie lying beneath him, making little sounds of excitement, and then, later, chattering away as they lay together and he asked questions about the university, espe-

  cially about the delicious little story she'd gotten from her husband about Ramona Jackson and her apes. ''Impeccably reliable," he repeated to Oldiield. "We're not irresponsible, you know, Larry; we're the best there is." He gave a modest cough. "As for what we're going to do about it, I'd say at the moment not a thing. We might do some poking around for a follow-up, but I'm not even sure of that right now. We're looking into it, of course; that's our job, too."

  "Looking into it," repeated Oldfield furiously "You fticking well might have looked into it before you put it on the air."

  My, my, thought Beauregard, such language from a university official.

  "—legal department," Oldfield was saying. "They're looking at our options. You're all at risk, you know; every damn one of you who worked on that newscast— and whoever broke into my office and stole private papers from my files—but I'm not waiting for the lawyers; I'm telling you right now we're demanding a public retraction and apology. On that same news show, read by the same woman, whafs her name, the blonde, explaining that none of the story was true "

  "None of it?" repeated Beauregard slyly "Larry, did she sav fifty million.^" ^

  "That's not the issue!"

  "Did she say she wanted the university to take care of her apes?"

  "Monkeys. It was a joke."

  "Monkeys? Well, we'll definitely issue a correction on that; we shouldn't have said apes if it was monkeys. But, a joke? You want us to tell our viewing audience that Ms. Jackson joked about monkeys when making her donation to the university? And drew a cute little cartoon?"

  "We're demanding that you tell your viewing audience the story was distorted, parts of it were fabricated, your sources were wrong... you figure out how to say it; you must have had plenty of praaice if this is an example of how you work."

  "Well, now, we think we work pretty well around here," Beauregard said comfortably. 'We'll make diat correction about the apes, Larry, but unless you give me evidence of other errors, thaf s about all we'll do, as far as I can see."

  "In addition," said Oldfield as if Beauregard had not spoken, "we want to know the source of that story, or sources, assuming there are any. I doubt it, but if you don't give us names we'll take it that you made it up. You and this Morgen woman, the producer, and whoever wrote it. We have a right to those names and I want them now. One of

  them broke into my office and I want to know who it was!"

  "Hold on there, Larry. You're throwing around a lot of accusations, and I don't want to hear them. How do you know somebody broke in? Your office is open a lot of the time, right? I don't think you want to accuse my staff of illegalities when you don't have any facts. As for your rights, with all due respect, you have no right to any names, not one. We couldn't put on a responsible newscast—"

  "There was nothing responsible about that newscast!"

  "—if we couldn't promise confidentiality to our sources to protect them from frivolous lawsuits, for God's sake, just because they're courageous enough to tell the truth—"

  "It was a He!"

  "—so of course you understand that as a dedicated journalist, I could never even consider—"

  "Bullshit."

  "Well." There was a silence. "I won't give you those names, Larry; you didn't really expect me to. What the hell would you do with them anyway? The story's out."

  "Get them to retract it. You know damn well that's what we'd do with them."

  '*Well, maybe they would and maybe they wouldn't. Come on, Larry, what the hell, this is a little story, a wrinkle; it doesn't hurt you a damn bit. It maybe shook up your stuffy academics, but that's—"

  "She's talking about withdrawing the money!" Oldfield sucked in his breath. "Thafs off the record, God damn it, if you use it I'll nail you on it."

  "I don't believe it. Why would she? What's she going to do with all that dough, for Chrisfs sake?"

  "Give it to Cal Tech or Berkeley. They were on her list from the beginning, until Lyle Wilson talked her out of it."

  "Why?"

  "Because some people don't have your thick hide, you bastard! She didn't like being made a fool of!"

  "Well, what the hell, she was sweet-talked once, she can be again. Talk to your guy Wilson. Maybe he's screwing her; he can do it in bed."

  There was a silence. "I want a retraction," said Oldfield tighdy. "Tonight. On that same newscast."

  "Sorry, Larry, you won't get it."

  "Then you'll hear from our lawyers," Oldfield snapped, and slammed down the telephone.

  My, my, thought Beauregard, a little excitement around here for a change. But his face was thoughtful as he hung up and swiveled his chair to look through the glass wall of his office at the newsroom, and Sybille, at her desk. She'd sounded convincing. She probably had her sources; she knew it was one thing to jazz up a story and a whole different ball game to make something up out of whole cloth, or to steal a document. She'd done a nice job, produced a nice litde story; she'd just better be covered. She was damn good; he'd hate to have to get rid of her.

  Valerie and Rob Segal left the theater building and walked across the quadrangle. He took her hand, enthusiastically squeezing her fingers until she jerked them away. "Hey!" he exclaimed as she quickened her stride. "Something I said.>"

  She shook her head. "I don't want to be late for class."

  "Well, neither do I, but we can be friendly while we walk, okay?"

  "I just don't feel like it," Valerie said shordy and kept walking.

  "Jesus," he muttered. "How'm I supposed to know what's coming next with you..." They walked in silence to a long, low classroom building fronted by wide steps where students sprawled, reading, eating, and talking in small groups. Valerie threaded her way among them and Rob followed, glowering. "We still on for tonight?"

  "I suppose," she said and walked into the cool dimness of the building.

  "Jesus," said Rob again, louder this time, but before he could say more Valerie had darted ahead.

  "Sybille!" she cried. "I haven't seen you for so long! How are you?"

  Sybille's eyes brightened as Valerie ran to her. "Oh, Valerie, I was hoping I'd see you. So many things have been happening... yesterday was the most incredible day of my life, practically..."

  "Good, you can tell me all about it. I'm so bored I'd love to hear about something happening. What was it?"

  Sybille looked curiously at Rob, hovering nearby. "If you're busy I can tell you another time."

  "Of course I'm not busy." Valerie turned to Rob. "Six-thirty?"

  He nodded. "Right."

  "I'll see you then." She took Sybille's arm. "How about a lemonade, or something?"

  "You have a class," Rob blurted.

  "Well, actually, not for an hour," Valerie said calmly. "Do you have a cla
ss?" she asked Sybille.

  "No," Sybille said, erasing her history class from her thoughts.

  "Then lefs go."

  Ignoring Rob as easily as Valerie did, Sybille turned and they walked back across the square and past a quadrangle to the Student Union. "It's too beautiful to go inside," Valerie said, and they took a table on the terrace. "Now tell me about your incredible day. I need a fun story; everything is so dull lately."

  "I didn't know you were dating other boys," Sybille said.

  "Well, now you know."

  "But you're still dating Nick."

  "No." Valerie was rummaging in her book bag for her wallet, so Sybille could not see her face. "I decided marriage wasn't for me."

  SybiUe gasped. "You were married^ I didn't know... when were you..."

  "No, of course not." She paused. Oh, what the hell, she thought; she's so awfully anxious, and she's harmless. "But going with Nick is about as close to being married as you can get. He doesn't date; the word isn't in his vocabulary. He mates. It got to be too much and I broke it off. Lemonade," she said to the waitress, then stared moodily at her spoon. "I wish people weren't so busy,'''' she said. "They're always doing and planning and working, and then talking about what they're doing and planning and working on. It makes me nerv^ous. And they always expect me to listen and nod and look enthusiastic, as if I'm a cheering section or crew on a boat ... or a wife."

  "Well," Sybille said after a moment of silence. "I guess I shouldn't tell you what I've been doing and working on."

  "Oh." Valerie looked up and smiled, the warm, generous smile that always made others forget how wrapped up in herself she had been only a moment before. "That wasn't nice of me; I totally ignored you and you were so excited about your incredible day. Say you forgive me, and then tell me all about it."

  "Of course I forgive you, don't be silly. If you really want to hear what happened..." Valerie nodded, so intent on her now that Sybille felt as if she were the only person in the world Valerie cared about. "It's something that happened at the station, just yesterday, well, actually the day before but everything sort of developed yesterday; everybody made it seem so terrific..."