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bays, Mr. Justice, where the shows are technically pieced together.”
    “I’ll make you a deal, Mr. Graff. If you’ll call me Ben—”
    Peter Graff grinned: dazzling white teeth, healthy pink gums. “You won’t call me Mr. Graff. It’s a deal.”
    We stuck our heads through the door of a room the size of a large closet, with the lone window sealed off against the sunlight. An electronic control panel stretched nearly the width of the room on the window side, with two video monitors positioned above rows of buttons and dials. Near the door was a small table with another video display monitor sitting atop a machine that resembled a VCR but was more elaborate, with big knobs and lots of calibrations.
    “I don’t see any editing machines.”
    The dazzling grin again. “You mean, like a Moviola?”
    “Right, something to cut and splice the film with.”
    “Mr. Justice—I mean, Ben—that kind of editing went out a couple of decades ago. Today, it’s all done electronically.”
    I suddenly felt forty, times two. “Oh.”
    “It’s not even linear any longer. It’s all digital now.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know linear from digital.”
    “Let me see if I can lay it out simply for you.”
    “Please, the simpler the better.”
    “As a writer, working with a producer, you select the shots you want to tell your story. Film, videotape, photographs, whatever picture elements you need, within budgetary limitations and clearance constraints. Once those elements are chosen, they’re noted in your script in the order you want them, corresponding to the words you’ve written. Words, or voice-over, on one side, and visual elements on the other.”
    “That part seems comprehensible.”
    “The videotape of all the visual elements you think you’ll need, including sound bites from taped interviews, is then put through a digitizing process. That enables the videotape editor to assemble them on the computerized AVID composer system—the digital editing system you see here. Even basic special effects, like fades and dissolves, are done from the digital board, electronically. That’s called the off-line process. When your show is finished, and meets the requirements of the timing sheet, and Cecile’s approval, it goes to on-line, for final technical processing. What they call air quality.”
    “Whew.”
    I felt his hand on my shoulder.
    “Don’t worry. Everyone’s very helpful here.” His eyes roved the room. “This is where Tommy Callahan taught me the basics of the AVID system. He kind of took me under his wing.”
    “The guy who’s late with his script.”
    “Right. He’s been an editor for almost thirty years. Wanted to get into the production end. He’s not the greatest writer, but he was coming along.” Graff chewed his lip. “I wonder what’s going on with him. There are a lot of details in putting a show together. Normally, he and I talk several times a day. Five days ago, I suddenly stopped hearing from him.”
    “You sound pretty concerned.”
    “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but Tommy has a drinking problem. I’m worried that he might be off on a binge or something. He’s been really good to me. I’d hate to see him get fired.”
    A young black woman with long hair braided the way Templeton used to wear hers slipped between us, into the room. Woven into the braids were colorful African-style beads. She set a stack of tapes on a side table, all bearing a set of letters and numbers.
    “You need the room, ltabari?”
    She glanced over at Graff.
    “In a few minutes. We’re booked from four to midnight. Going on-line Friday, if I can get my ass in gear.”
    “We’ll get out of your way, then.”
    She smiled and started out.
    “You haven’t seen Tommy Callahan, have you?”
    “’Fraid I haven’t, Peter.”
    She left us. Graff glanced at his watch, biting his lip again.
    “He was doing so good. With his drinking, I mean. Cecile took a chance when she hired him. A lot of people