Her smile was all teeth. “I’m a spy, Tommy. A plant. A deep agent. I’ve been working for the Feds since I was a little girl, rescued from the slums of Chicago by the Rehabilitation Corps from what would have undoubtedly been a life of gang violence and prostitution.”

“And they planted you here?”

“They planted me in Cable News when I was a fresh young thing just off the Rehab Farm. It’s taken me eleven years to work my way up to the CCC. We always suspected some organization like this was manipulating the news, but we never had the proof  . . . .”

“Manipulating!” I was shocked at the word. “We don’t manipulate.”

“Oh?” She seemed amused at my rightful ire. “Then what do you do?”

“We select. We focus. We manage the news for the benefit of the public.”

“In my book, Tommy old pal, that is manipulation. And it’s illegal.”

“It’s  . . . out of the ordinary channels,” I granted.

Mary shook her pretty chestnut-brown tresses. “It’s a violation of FCC regulations, it makes a mockery of the antitrust laws, to say nothing of the SEC, OSHA, ICC, WARK and a half a dozen other regulatory agencies.”

“So you’re going to blow the whistle on us.”

She straightened up and sat on the edge of my desk. “I can’t do that, Tommy. I’m a government agent. An agent provocateur, I’m sure Mr. Armstrong’s lawyers will call me.”

“Then, what  . . . .”

“You can blow the whistle,” she said smilingly. “You’re a faithful employee. Your testimony would stand up in court.”

“Destroy,” I spread my arms in righteous indignation, “all this?”

“It’s illegal as hell, Tom,” said Mary. “Besides, the rewards for being a good citizen can be very great. Lifetime pension. Twice what you’re making here. Uncle Sam is very generous, you know. We’ll fix you up with a new identity. We’ll move you to wherever you want to live: Samoa, Santa Barbara, St. Thomas, even Schenectady. You could live like a retired financier.”

I had to admit, “That is  . . . generous.”

“And,” she added, shyly lowering her eyes, “of course I’ll have to retire too, once the publicity of the trial blows my cover. I won’t have the same kind of super pension that you’ll get, but maybe  . . . .”

My throat went dry.

Before I could respond, though, the air-raid siren went off, signaling that the meeting was reconvening.

I got up from my chair, but Mary stepped between me and the door.

“What’s your answer, Thomas?” she asked, resting her lovely hands on my lapels.

“I  . . . ” gulping for air,”  . . . don’t know.”

She kissed me lightly on the lips. “Think it over, Thomas dear. Think hard.”

It wasn’t my thoughts that were hardening. She left me standing in the cubicle, alone except for my swirling thoughts, spinning through my head like a tornado. I could hear the roaring in my ears. Or was that simply high blood pressure?

The siren howled again, and I bolted to the conference room and took my seat at the end of the table. Mary smiled at my and patted my knee, under the table.

“Very well,” said Jack Armstrong, checking his display screen, “gentleman and ladies. I have come to the conclusion that if we cannot find a crisis anywhere in the news,” and he glared at us, as if he didn’t believe there wasn’t a crisis out there somewhere, probably right under our noses, “then we must manufacture a crisis.”

I had expected that. So had most of the other board members, I could see. What went around the table was not surprise but resignation.

Cosby shook his head wearily, “We did that last month, and it was a real dud. The Anguish of Kindergarten. Audience response was a negative four point four. Negative!”

“Then we’ve got to be more creative!” snapped The All-American Boy.

I glanced at Mary. She was looking at me, smiling her sunniest smile, the one that could allegedly turn the world on. And the answer to the whole problem came to me with that blinding flash that marks true inspiration and minor epileptic seizures.

This wasn’t epilepsy. I jumped to my feet. “Mr. Armstrong! Fellow board members!”

“What is it, Mr. James?” Boss Jack replied, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes.

The words almost froze in my throat. I looked down at Mary, still turning out megawatts of smile at me, and nearly choked because my heart had jumped into my mouth.

But only figuratively. “Ladies and gentlemen,” (I had kept track, too), “there is a spy among us from the Federal Regulatory Commissions.”

A hideous gasp arose, as if they had heard the tinkling bell of a leper.

“This is no time for levity, Mr. James,” snapped the Boss. “On the other hand, if this is an attempt at shock therapy to stir the creative juices  . . . .”

“It’s real!” I insisted. Pointing at the smileless Mary Richards, I said, “This woman is a plant from the Feds. She solicited my cooperation. She tried to bribe me to blow the whistle on the CCC!”

They stared. They snarled. They hissed at Mary. She rose coolly from her chair, made a little bow, blew me a kiss, and left the conference room.

Armstrong was already on the intercom phone. “Have security detain her and get our legal staff to interrogate her. Do it now!”

Then the Boss got to his feet, way down there at the other end of the table, and fixed me with his steeliest gaze. He said not a word, but clapped his hands together, once, twice  . . .

And the entire board stood up for me and applauded. I felt myself blushing, but it felt good. Warming. My first real moment in the sun.

The moment ended too soon. We all sat down and the gloom began to gray over my sunshine once more.

“It’s too bad, Mr. James, that you didn’t find a solution to our problem rather than a pretty government mole.”

“Ah, but sir,” I replied, savoring the opportunity for le mot just, “I have done exactly that.”

“What?”

“You mean  . . . ?”

“Are you saying that you’ve done it?”

I rose once more, without even glancing at the empty chair at my left.

“I have a crisis, sir.” I announced quietly, humbly.

Not a word from any of them. They all leaned forward, expectantly, hopefully, yearningly.