Talking Man

CHAPTER FIVE - GRAFF

"Can you set up the session?"

"What, now?" Lance had only just come back to the cabin. He and the others had been at the virtuals for nine hours. Karl had retired halfway into the session, and now Lance was eager to follow suit.

"Now. I'm ready."

Tired though he was, understanding washed over Lance as Traver sat up in the bed, holding the ream of thoroughly-utilized paper. After understanding, he felt relief. Traver had been writing show segments. Of course. Why hadn't Lance come to that conclusion before? His boss hadn't lost his mind or succumbed to a space fever. He was simply being prepared. Obsessively, disproportionately prepared.

"Sure, Mister Graff. I'll have it ready in a few."

The recording equipment was relatively quick to set up when transmission was not imminent, but it still took an hour or more for Lance to fully disassemble the virtual-reality rig, for which he'd cannibalized many of the sensors.

While he worked, he noticed the eerie silence that had taken over the room. The familiar scratching of pen against paper was a thing of the past, and the engine's purr had taken back its place as the only sound. Traver was letting himself drift near the floor now, maintaining a sitting position, his eyes shut in some sort of contemplation.

"Ready to go." Lance's declaration was made more of sighs than of words. He looked at Karl, saw that he was still sound asleep in his bunk, and felt a twinge of envy.

Traver didn't bother with makeup. He didn't need to look in a mirror to know he looked like the pale rider of death minus the horse, but that was precisely the appearance he wanted. Anything else would have been dishonest.

Lance looked on with a frown, either of disapproval or tragic disappointment, as Traver sat in front of the cameras. The once-great man's hair was greasy and stuck up wildly over his left ear. His face was thin and pale, with dark circles below each eye that reached past his cheekbones. As if his body was aware of its appearance, his shoulders sagged unconsciously, making him look even thinner than he already was. His appearance had been like this for months, of course, but it was never so apparent as when he sat under the lights, face free of makeup, for the purpose of being broadcast to earth. He reminded Lance of the ghostly shells of worn-out celebrities that one often sees posted in the cheap and desperate media outlets. But, Traver was never supposed to be that kind of celebrity. He was never supposed to be worn out.

"Before I start," Traver said, "can you get me a copy of my contract with Aurora?"

It was the very last request Lance had expected, but he obliged. He produced his slidescreen and found the contract (it had been extensively copied and backed-up for legal reasons aplenty) and held it out to Traver.

"Thanks, Lance. Alright. Let's go."

Traver began the hour by reading the clause of his contract stipulating that he should withhold the announcement of his condition until he was outside of the Solar System. "So here I am, fulfilling my end of the contract and telling you all the news." It was a straightforward, no-nonsense revelation that he had Eams and that he was dying. He proceeded to relate the emotional duress that such a discovery entailed, and went into detail about the painful treatments under which he'd been subjected. A lesser speaker would have used this content, knowingly or unknowingly, as a plea for pity – if not for pity, then as a display of strength, to show the world his bravery, all under the guise of offering inspiration for any viewers back on earth who might themselves be suffering from this or any other condemnatory illness. Not Traver. The power of his words lay in their utter coolness, their lack of sentiment. That he was undergoing an unfathomable amount of physical and mental strain was just a fact of life. That he would die was equally factual.