Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

Dead Air

Wednesday, 6 Sh'vat, 5693

It was evening when Francis arrived at the doorstep of The Commodore, a radio station which had serviced the people of Bevel for a little over a decade. The sky was clear, the stars shining, and the soft light from the station an enticing invitation to warmth.

"Doctor LaPorte?" asked the slightly disheveled man who met him with his hands in his pockets.

Francis looked at him and smiled, removing his hat out of courtesy. "Yes."

"I'm Erik Kendrick, one of the producers here at The Commodore. Thank you for coming," said the radio man with the rolled up sleeves and loose corduroy trousers.

The man offered out his hand for a shake and Francis took it, his grip welcoming yet firm.

"Now, if you would follow me, please, I'll show you where we'll be recording," Kendrick said, turning to lead the young man down the hall.

Erik Kendrick was a warm sort of person with a friendly smile and the same pair of small, rounded spectacles which seemed to be worn by everyone, and he led LaPorte in meandering stride down the cramped, carpeted corridor of the small broadcasting station.

"Your building is very efficient," Francis remarked, admiring the good use of space.

"It's compact, but it does its job," Erik replied with a passive shrug of his shoulders. "We've been advertising your topic all week," he went on, moving more to the subject at hand. "We're all very excited to hear what a man of your insights has to say about The Younger Generation's Altered View of a Leader. It's sure to be quite a treat, especially coming from a budding professor at one of Bevel's finest universities. I understand you have quite the future ahead of you, Doctor."

Francis's eyes strayed over to the fair skinned producer, still happily rambling his flatteries, and he offered a humble smile in return for the entirely unnecessary embellishment of his own standing. "I am no better than the present moment, Mr. Kendrick, and I admit, this is a nervous one for me."

"Oh!" the man laughed. "Well, there's no need to worry. You're accustomed to speaking to your students and the Kingsmen on occasion, I'm sure. This is just the same. Only, instead of having the people before you, the audience is much greater and much less visible. Imagine: speaking to people scattered all across Bevel, tucked away in their homes after a long day's work, gathered around their radios just to hear you. That's what we've done here for eleven years now without incident."

They came to another door on the right and Erik opened it with an inviting gesture. The room was plain with a desk and chair at its center. The desk itself was relatively vacant, brandishing only a small glass of water and a carbon microphone.

"So, what do you think of the recording studio?" Kendrick asked, leaning against the wooden doorframe proudly.

"It's much simpler than I was expecting," Francis admitted, putting his briefcase down on the dark wooden desk and unlocking the metal latches.

"That's because most of the equipment is kept in with us," Erik told him, pointing towards the large glass window in front of him.

Francis looked in to see the room on the other side of the glass. It was well furnished with seating and equipment, and he marveled at the many blinking lights, buttons, and knobs. But there was something else there, also: the man in front of him, his own image caught in the clear reflection of the glass, and he blinked at the spectral vision staring back at him.

"We'll be monitoring things and handling the technical stuff from in there," Erik said, smiling. "So, make yourself comfortable. I'll count you down when we're ready, and the red light next to the microphone will tell you when we're live."

"Thank you," Francis said, collecting his notes and removing the briefcase from the desk.

Erik left the room, closing the door behind him, and quickly appeared on the other side of the glass, arranging things for the evening broadcast while Francis took his place at the desk and began to read over his meticulously arranged talk. Every syllable was accounted for and each word was chosen with careful timing. He would leave nothing to chance.

It wasn't long before Erik's voice came over the speakers into the room where Francis waited.

"Ready?" Erik asked, having given a brief introduction of his guest before throwing to a sponsor break.

Francis nodded.

"All right, then... we're live in three, two, one..." his voice trailed off as his fingers counted down along with it, and he pointed to LaPorte with a nod as the red light illuminated.

"The Younger Generation's Altered View of Leader: What is it that the youth so desire in a leader? What is it that has brought them to a place of such remarkable infatuation?" Francis began, speaking into the microphone with his voice conveying significantly more confidence than he actually felt.

He continued on with his speech, his words measured and elegant. It was a much shorter script than many of his lectures, but one of which he was particularly proud.

He spoke of the youth, of their goals, perceptions, and ambitions. What was it about Daniel Freitag that appealed to them so completely and inspired in them such unrivaled enthusiasm? That, he was convinced, was his willingness to comply with their longing for a savior, for a bold leader to come and save them from their present state of bitter circumstance. It was the communality between them, the mutual desire of the youth, the bonafide guarantee of the bright and successful future which they all so zealously hoped for and jealously guarded. It wasn't an ideal situation for their society, and it certainly wasn't a healthy one for the individual, either.

There was a strange cult of personality which had begun to develop around the person of Daniel Freitag, and LaPorte would have nothing of it. Every Kingsman should be well aware that all Caldorian government derives its authority from Himmel's government, from higher government, and the leader who refuses to acknowledge the limitations of his power or the source of his authority and fails to direct the gaze of his followers accordingly is not a leader at all but a misleader.

That was the very point which he was preparing to make when, inexplicably, the red light on the microphone went out and the door to the studio opened.

Francis nearly jumped from his chair, startled by the unsettling sight of the unfamiliar man who stood silently in the doorway. The man was slim with fair skin, sunken cheeks, a sharp nose, and blue eyes like ice. His presence was cold and intimidating. He wore a wide brimmed fedora and black, imported shoes accompanied by a grey suit with white pinstripes and an equally monochrome tie.

Francis turned to look back into the other room and saw that Erik Kendrick was no longer standing on the other side of the glass. The room was unexpectedly dark. All of the recording lights in the studio were suddenly off and all had turned to an eerie silence.

"I'm sorry, sir, can I help you?" Francis asked, standing shakily to his feet and keeping firm hold of his notes.

"Francis LaPorte?" the man asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes," Francis replied hesitantly.

"The National Association of Good Fellows strongly suggests that you not finish your thoughts on the leadership subject," the man said, staring menacingly at him. "We have concluded this evening's broadcast and would greatly encourage you to return home."