The kitchen staff whispered and hissed their amazement and anger. Even the waiters were upset; the fruit cup and consomme had been cleared away practically untouched and now seventy-odd servings of prime rib, asparagus, and baked potato lay uneaten on the tables in the Adams Room. The staff had been trained, of course, to cater under solemn circumstances, even melancholy, but never to this disconsolate extent; an extent that moved the head waiter to observe to his captain, “This is the first time I’ve ever seen grief without liquor.”
The diners at each of the dozen tables—most of them men—sat in committee-like attitudes; focusing their remarks and attention on the seemingly senior member of their party who in turn watched the solitary guest at the dais table, Commodore William Sanders, president of the Federal Network. Or, perhaps, it might have been the portrait above the Commodore’s head, draped in black, that these table leaders were watching.
The portrait was of a man not yet middle-aged; his face was formed by a small oval subordinate to the greater circle of his head. His lips were thin and seemed unwillingly compressed into repose, hornrimmed glasses rested on a round peg nose and magnified dark restless eyes behind. His hair was black, straight, and short like a snug cap, his forehead low and convoluted to accommodate its contents; in fact, his face seemed to be just that, a slight accommodation for his great head.
The Commodore rose—the dozen table chiefs released their attendants’ attention, the waiters were signaled to leave, and six husky young men stationed themselves at the exits—and spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen . . . good afternoon. . . . I see that in beginning I’m somewhat at a loss. Availing myself of the most inelegant salutation. But, after all, I suppose it really doesn’t matter as we all recognize each other and the urgent need for gathering together. An urgency, I’m sorry to say, it’s my unpleasant task to magnify and multiply, today.
“At the outset, I’d like to anticipate any objection to what might have seemed like an overbearing. . . or heavy-handed manner on my part. In the way I arranged this affair. I beg pardon for any offense, excusing myself on the grounds of dire necessity and, frankly, to atone in some measure for my role . . . in our current difficulties.
“And, as an accessory to these difficulties . . . contrary to what I’m pleased to note as a minority dissent, I saw no other course than to insist on the security measures taken. I’m also confident that before we adjourn today even that small opposition will evaporate.
“So, to set the scene precisely . . . the press and public have been informed that this luncheon is to be a private tribute to Martin Goldkorn. And in a sense it will be, unavoidably so. But, the privacy we seek is the kind a family seeks to discuss its own. Unfortunately, the only way we can obtain it is by a bit of subterfuge. Anyway, we have it and I hope we’re wise enough to use it well.
“While I’m making apologies I should include one for this talk of mine. It’ll probably be somewhat disorganized as I couldn’t permit myself written preparation in view of the security preparations.
“Let me correct that. There are a few things I will read. Among his papers was a manuscript and I have a few passages from it. Incidentally, the manuscript has been destroyed and at the risk of being criticized for melodramatic staging, I will destroy these notes when we conclude.
“Well, then, to make a start. Left to my own ad lib devices one opening gambit suggested itself especially. To employ the cliched lines from Caesar. Obviously, there were strong overtones of a Caesar about Goldkorn and burying Caesar meant to praise him. Likewise for Goldkorn. Except, that I, unlike Antony or Brutus, do not speak for myself. Rather, I hope I speak for us, the industry, our medium. Not to eulogize as some would have . . . or to damn as I expect most would have, but to examine. To examine . . . so as to recoup. So as to survive.
“Now, where should this investigation begin? At what point? There are so many legitimate and pertinent questions . . . questions I’d have to plead ignorance to. Where did he come from? Who really knew him as a man?
“I’m sorry I can’t reveal a dramatic story. There’s no legend I know. He didn’t appear suddenly from nowhere . . . or from some infernal somewhere. The closest I can take you to his antecedents is to make a simple statement of fact. A statement that amounts to a recitation of his personnel file. It’s simply that Federal, like any corporation, must raise an army of junior officers for executive details. In the hope that a few of the many, a few of the too many will promote the welfare of the corporation . . . and themselves. This may seem to be a strange summation to offer after working with a man for years but honestly, that’s the limit of my accurate knowledge. Most everything else I know—or you might know—has an aura of press release about it.
“Actually, the best record we have is his public biography . . . which, together with these notes I have from his manuscript, suit our purposes infinitely better than personal recollections.
“His public biography opened . . . how many years ago was it? Only four. Four years ago. It seems like a lifetime. I didn’t mean to pun at his expense but it does seem like an age . . . and if we appreciate the brief life of our industry, it has been an age. At that time, back in those prehistoric days, if any of you can conceive of a meeting like the one we’re holding today, could you likewise conceive of inviting him? And today, an age later, we’re all here because of him.
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“So, we begin there, four years ago. When he began producing a sustaining local half hour. Thursday night, six-thirty. Then, in a matter of five weeks . . . network, sponsored. Sunday night, nine o’clock. Ratings indicating an audience of between fifty and sixty millions. The unparalleled success of our time and he refused to renew the following year.
“Before going any further, I want to make it clear that my relationships with my producers are very precious things to me. They’re based on trust and respect. We have common goals. Creative expression, public service, and entertainment on the level prescribed by the Board. I want it understood that even our present circumstances cannot bring me to violate this trust. What I shall disclose is, rather, our common property. Goldkorn intended, from the nature of his manuscript, to leave us these papers as a monument. . . as a last will and testament. Though not so prematurely, I’m sure.
“I have a few lines here from his introduction. The work itself was entitled, Light the Night. He commences like this,
In the laboratory of our minds and under the microscope of reason the night is exposed as the original source, from which all things came and to which all things return, after brief revelation.
“Then, he goes on,
. . . one can seek, against the night, the refuge of light or the asylum of love; but the former is frail and the latter rare.
“Now . . . of course you’re surprised. Or perhaps, astonished is a better description. I was, too. I expected a text dealing in methods . . . in analysis. A how-to-do-it book. A kind of do-it-yourself handbook for limitless ambitions. Instead, and more importantly, we have a why-he-did-it.
“I could go on and read off the rest of these notes and in a very few minutes we’d have a startling insight . . . no, a shocking new perspective on the last four years. But, I think the wiser course would be for us to review these last years. A simple, straightforward recapitulation. And, at the end of each chapter. . . I’ll give you a verse from Goldkorn’s Light the night. I hope, I sincerely hope that in this manner we can begin to write for ourselves . . . a primer, a definitive primer for our industry. I guess the phrase is a trifle inflated, but not so much so when you realize that we have none.
“So, let’s begin our book. Chapter one. His initial success, Resurrection. I mentioned its . . . metamorphosis from the no man’s land of Thursday evening to the . . . pinnacle of Sunday night. From local-sustaining to network-sponsored. And its audience figures. Now, to examine the what and why of it. I mean beneath the superlatives. Simply, Resurrection presented each week a man or woman who’d come back to life. Come back to life in defiance of fact, in defiance of hope. Thirty-nine weeks, thirty-nine ex-corpses. People like Mrs. Justenson who was recalled by the earth falling on her coffin. There was Charles Angus, returning to life on an autopsy table.
“And . . . each and every one of them with some recollection, some impression of what exists on the other side of the vale. A stark . . . documentary style, no organ music, no lugubrious baritones yet as inspirational as. . . . Pardon me, I should try to prune the nostalgia from my . . . recollections.
“There were awards, ratings, everything . . . and he refused to renew the following year. My first thoughts were, when he came to me, either that he was insane or that he was trying to fox out of his contract. My arguments were, based on his responsibilities to the network, both legal and ethical. And the agency that staked him. His obligation in return for public acceptance.
“It was all useless. I couldn’t reach him. I didn’t nearly understand him . . . then. He insisted there was something else he had to do and he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.
“At this point, I no longer feel bound by the . . . boundaries of a confidence to which the interested parties are now indifferent. I pass this confidence on to illustrate the extent Goldkorn was involved . . . I should say, driven on. The formal end to Resurrection came on terms he suggested. He volunteered to forfeit all claim and title to the show if he didn’t better his audience ratings by ten million with his new project after thirteen weeks. On those terms we, the agency included, made the bargain confident we were only dealing with . . . a case of cerebral swelling and that in the end we’d have the whole pie. And, frankly, with more and bigger pieces for the fewer concerned.
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“Do I have to add that we lost. . . and that we didn’t have to wait thirteen weeks. Enemies of the Week polled more than seventy-five million in its fourth week.
“But, wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.
“The Resurrection chapter needs closing. I should say, rather, that it requires another part. The other side of the coin. Not the one visible to us but the side Goldkorn saw. He writes about Resurrection,
Resurrection was conceived and executed to destroy the interview program; working on the principle that even a temporary triumph over the inevitable darkness renders all other human commentary insipid.
“And, is there the slightest doubt that it’s been accomplished? Ruined, for all intents and purposes beyond repair.
“The paradox is, of course, what seemed to be a great construction for us . . . an advance, was for him premeditated destruction. Why? What purpose would it serve? To set out and deliberately wreak the act of examining personalities?
“I promise you an answer, but I can’t guarantee your believing it.
“Well, to continue . . . chapter two, Enemies of the Week.
“Actually, I do feel kind of uneasy recounting events that barely qualify themselves for the past tense. And I have to keep reminding myself that they are incompletely known, incompletely recorded . . . and possess a nature. . . . Oh, well, I guess all I’m proving is that a self-conscious mood is everything except self-conscious.
“Getting back to Enemies, and how we received it. I remember particularly well the conference when the plan for Enemies was presented. My press chief . . . at the time, was ecstatic. Raving that it was a pure entity, unique, but at the same time a synthesis of the basic elements responsible for every other successful enterprise. It had competition! Human interest! Comedy . . . remember Mrs. Breyer? Drama. . . Hillery the dwarf. Audience participation! Celebrity panel! Prizes! Spectator sport!
“Yes, it was all there. Neatly wrapped. Gift wrapped! And yet so terribly simple. The dream format. The quintessence of formats! Three sets of disputants stated the causes and depths of their animosity and audience applause selected the ripest, most pungent hate. Then, the celebrity panel . . . and wasn’t there a battle to get on that, discussed and evaluated the hate. The winning disputants were placed in the Sanctum Deplorum where they battled to their hearts’ . . . and the nation’s content.
“And . . . how did we see all this? How did it strike us? Dare we use a word like success? Or a piddling superlative like fabulous? No . . . no. We weren’t even asked. They . . . anybody, everybody had the words. Psychiatrists called it the national medicine. The national catharsis. Crimeless Sunday nights and suicideless Mondays. I could go on and on . . . and on.
“But, what did it really mean to him? It meant all this for us but for him . . . it was,
The ultimate test for enemies of the week was for it to eliminate all programs utilizing spontaneous human activity and present an insuperable barrier to their revival.
“May I ask if Enemies passed his ultimate test? But even beyond the victory he won, another destruction, there was more he wanted and more he got. For . . . as great as the success of the program was, was its effect on our concepts of programming. For example, when the younger of the Munn sisters managed to carry a concealed knife into the Sanctum, could any program follow that? And whatever did, was it worthwhile? And when Mr. Kelly and his son fought for seven and a half hours, who would’ve taken responsibility for restricting the program to its time limits?
“I couldn’t.
“He wanted, and he got what he called natural time boundaries. Eventually, of course, he got the whole pot. When Enemies hit a hundred and eight million it was carried by all networks and independents.
“Oh . . . just a moment, I have a note here on natural time boundaries,
Broadcasting should conform to and complement the natural length and rhythm of human activities.
“Ahh. . . I can see an expression of loose ends spreading over your faces. I’ve read to you a few mystical passages and a few that make it patently clear Goldkorn was out to break down traditional forms. And just now I’ve read a positive statement . . . that doesn’t jibe with the . . . negative ones. I’m aware of the danger of overbuilding a climax but I still promise you one, a motive. Though I won’t be responsible for any cases of severely strained credulity. I might say . . . herniated credulity.
“But, before that. . . I ask your indulgence while I indulge in a bit of public soul-searching.
“More so at this point than any other, you’re all entided to ask . . . with Enemies the absolute model of success, how did I feel? Up to my hips in gravy. Would it be possible for me to repudiate . . . the delicious taste of power and victory? Seeing my credits carried everywhere Sunday nights. It was . . . truthfully, better than getting an exclusive with the President. But, I can’t claim any foresight, hindsight, or vision of any kind. I had to get my nose rubbed in it . . . so, today, if I were asked, Sanders, was the game worth the candle? Honestly, and this isn’t just ceremonious sincerity . . . no, no it wasn’t.
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“Now, if I can collect the pieces of my . . . narration, I think we’ve arrived at a point less than a year ago. Six months would be more accurate. The scene . . . success with no end in sight. Moreover, it seemed even the future was licked . . . by merely extending the present.
“Then, he came to me again. With his special look. A soft voice with a diamondhard determination behind it and said he was through with Enemies. I remembered our interview before Resurrection was discontinued. This time my only argument was that I didn’t have the nerve. Frankly, I was afraid. I could only plead a compromise of waiting. He said it’d be his responsibility. He had something else to do and he didn’t want to compete with himself.
“This interview, it lasted about a half hour, was my introduction to Goldkorn’s contest.
“Perhaps, with some justice . . . which is hard to separate from scorn, the contest type of product promotion has been called the ad man’s pet dodge. Traditionally, I believe, when nothing else presents itself a contest and prizes is the way out. Regardless of the ingenuity involved, it was a legitimate way to satisfy accounts.
“At the time, the first time I was faced with the obvious destructive nature of his act, the best I could do for my conscience was to rationalize that although he was tearing one chapter from the advertising text, he was replacing it with another. He called his contribution, single impact. As to the true equity of the . . . trade, I’m sure there are many of you here who could deal with this . . . last adventure of his much better than I.
“Now . . . in dealing with Goldkorn’s two other. . . episodes, my procedure was to contrast a historical capsule with an illusion to his private design. But, here, the distinction becomes hazy . . . and for the first time a new element intrudes. Goldkorn himself.
“We can dismiss the prize offered . . . any one thing money could buy as setting a high standard but by no means an insurmountable one. And the contest gimmick . . . even though I feel it to be the purest single example of Goldkorn, Guess the Name of the Sponsor?—it does not provide much of an insight into the workings of the man’s mind as does the single impact concept. Twelve weeks of priming . . . name, address, and guess on a postcard.
“Incidentally, we never did actually complete the tabulation but a conservative estimate would be in the neighborhood of two billion entries.
“The new element . . . intruding, that I mentioned a moment ago lies in his explanation of single impact. He wrote,
The dissemination of information by repetition and saturation techniques subverts the basic strength of the medium: immediacy. Hence, the need for single impact.
“This coupled with the fact that he and only he knew the identity of the mystery sponsor and that only he intended to reveal it, leaves no other conclusion except that he intended to dominate the entire promotion. He was ready to assume stature . . . by dispensing the final word . . . the same Goldkorn who gave them Resurrection . . . and took it away and gave them Enemies of the Week and took it away and gave them instead the brand name and the prize!
“At least, it was supposed to have been that way. It was supposed to have been,
single impact, if at worst moderately effective, will in combination with the impetus of resurrection and enemies of the week generate the momentum for. . . .
“For what?
“For . . . his chef-d’oeuvre. But that, presently.
“First, we have to put the final punctuation mark on the unfinished contest chapter. His death . . . no, his murder.
“I was awake all last night trying to choose a way to approach the subject. . .or avoid it altogether as I almost did. Early this morning I decided to let things take their natural course and—here is the bridge waiting to be crossed.
“My feelings on the subject are that we, as representatives of our community, ought not avoid the subject because of the fear that we are . . . implicated. Or, that a portion of the guilt falls on us. Certainly his murder concerns us and most certainly it was committed by someone, somewhere in the industry. Because, obviously, the idea and the motive were abundantly present. One might even say . . . rampant.
“Knowing all this, however, does by no means fix or define the area in which we as a group stand.
“An easy defense might be constructed along the lines of self-defense. But, if it had to be that, a position justifying his murder to salvage our material positions, I’m not at all sure it would ease my conscience . . . or make the fruits of our material success acceptable.
“No. It can’t be that. My feelings, and I cannot express them too strongly, are that the industry must be excluded as a party to the act. I feel that we must absolve it as we’d absolve a minor. As immature and . . . unable to realize the quality and nature of his acts. And, most important, of his omissions. We’re responsible only in allowing conflicting and irreconcilable elements to go unchecked. By allowing enough . . . too much freedom, enough freedom for strife. If nothing else, I hope we understand this, today.
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“Well, now, let’s see. You’ve been very patient with me while I’ve labored through this last half hour . . . and the last few years up to today . . . and chaos. By way of introducing the present allow me to preview for you a release that’ll be issued tomorrow morning over my name. The gist of it is that Federal will abandon the contest and the search for the mystery sponsor. Further, we will refuse to indemnify any of the agencies purporting to represent the mystery sponsor.
“This should make my attitude toward the past . . . and the future patently clear. In a word, I earnestly suggest we set ourselves to endure. Tumult and shouting are not very durable substances.
“And . . . speaking of substances, now, for the substance of Goldkorn. I’ve delayed it . . . those who’re charitable will say for developmental purposes and those . . . others might say to hold attention by milking suspense.
“But, the truth of the matter is that I was a bit leery of spewing it right out. I wanted it in the perspective of . . . recent events. And frankly, I was afraid that if I did . . . spew it right out, I might have been laughed off the platform. So, I thought by presenting the ideas found in his manuscript side by side with his achievements, the credibility becomes only difficult rather than impossible. And, I see I’m postponing it even longer with this preamble . . . in extemporizing my talk I couldn’t take too much for granted.
“I’ve tried to reveal his real ends in each instance. Less than a half dozen in all. The immediate end of Resurrection and Enemies was to fatally undermine . . . if I may coin a phrase, the vis-à-vis-ness of the medium. This was both the obstacle he sought to overcome and the prize he sought to win. To make it useless for us . . . and something he could resurrect, later for himself.
“He attacked, not in the open, not by presenting an antithetical force . . . but by taking his objects and expanding their limits until they burst. If you’ll allow a melodramatic phrase . . . he forced suicide on them.
“Alongside this, he contributed natural time boundaries and single impact. Together, his triumphs and his contributions were to provide the foundation for . . . for, I have it here,
. . . and the night shall be lit, hushed, lulled.
“That was the very last line of light the night. It’s much like the lines I read earlier from his introduction. Mystical . . . and seemingly far afield from Enemies and Resurrection . . . and the contest. But, let me give you another sample. Less lyrically inclined but a necessary bridge to understanding the lyrical ones.
The only achievement unanimous to all denominations of civilization is the invention and employment of narcotics; narcotics either ceremonial or secular, taken collectively or solitarily, whether potion or belief—no matter, they are all sipped from a nocturnal chalice.
“And, a little further on,
The night—necessary chemical for fear and evil—cannot be dispelled by the narcotic torch which sheds a surrealistic light, illuminating only loneliness.
“So, I imagine the thought progression becomes clearer. Goldkorn believed and planned,
. . . to find a place . . . beneath sight and sound, at the point of inarticulated vision and audition, there, the presence shall be created; created within natural time boundaries.
“We’re here! We’ve arrived in narrative . . . and let me add that with a different course of events, there’s not the slightest doubt we’d be here in fact . . . about now. The presence would be a fact. The presence would be the only fact. Instead of persons . . . personalities, things. But, whose presence? The presence of what? Listen, I could almost dare you to,
The watchman’s light, dim, the watchman’s voice, soft; shepherding dreams, suspending dreams above the depths and composing them by reason.
“There . . . there’s the ideal. The transference from the diurnal to the nocturnal! With him . . . at the controls! Goldkorn alone! With a monopoly on the subliminal approach to . . . potentially the entire population.
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“I should allow you some time to pause and digest this monstrosity of . . . conviction but now, today, in the comparative safety of the ruins Goldkorn left I actually feel that what might have been the practical effect of his designs . . . the power and such are only secondary concerns of ours, today. Of historical, of academic interest. Because, the vital problem we are confronted with is that in reviewing history we have come face to face with an ideal . . . an ideal in action. And, if there’s any other editorial more appropriate today than one dealing with ideals. . . I’m in the wrong room, the wrong business . . . and the wrong century.
“Just a moment, I should substitute the word discussion for editorial. For, if any conclusions are reached . . . they must be reached by all of us here. Therefore, I would like to present a few of my observations on . . . the breeding and feeding habits of ideals. Those rare and often predatory birds.
“First off, and most obvious observation is to remark on ideals as contagious . . . substances. Mortally contagious. It lodges, I believe the medical phrase is that it finds a host who infects others. And, while those who are infected may burn with fever, only the host glows. If a pun is pardoned, that’s probably why he’s soon extinguished.
“Secondly and briefly, ideals are no respecters of age or ages. They pass on most reluctantly. An ideal pertinent and vital in some past age can linger on, restricting and hampering the present.
“Lastly, the temper of an ideal is never benevolent. It can’t be. No matter how generous, no matter how uplifting, no matter how humanitarian, they are all tyrants. With no tolerance for their opposites. They are . . . inescapably, abridgements of freedom.
“Now, I’ve purposely offered these impressions as statements distinct from the problem at hand because I feel that. . . the problem at hand is only a particular example of a general problem. In other words, even if we manage successfully to dispose of Goldkorn’s remains, that does not preclude a re-occurrence in a different form. Unless we take steps. So, I’ve tried to underline them, as I see them, the essential characteristics. . . I should say the pernicious characteristics of an ideal in operation.
“And as a first step, as a first preventive measure, I propose that we consider, in future, meeting regularly like this. If I may digress a bit further, I suggest, for example, that a possible topic for our next such meeting would deal with my remarks on the . . . loitering of ideals past their purpose. To clarify in our minds the conflict between the cult of individuality in an era so complex . . . that sensibly, it should be dismissed on the grounds of expediency.
“Even this, urgent as it is and postponed perhaps too long, presupposes a leisure we cannot afford right now . . . because right now we are still faced with the question of what to do right now.
“In searching for a solution I think it best to first determine position . . . and ask, what have we done? And the problem is simplified by half. In the beginning, when we introduced ourselves and our medium we agreed tacitly . . . to assume a posture. That, that was almost the fatal error. We assumed a posture instead of striking one. We presented ourselves as technicians servicing the public eye. We should have scrupulously delineated this trust instead of dimly, vaguely sketching it out. If this had been done, then, we couldn’t have been led so far and so dangerously close to final disaster, now.
“We should have made it explicitly understood . . . to ourselves and everyone that. . . in order to maintain our integrity, the integrity of a visual organ, we are permitted only to focus and select material. Never, never, under any circumstances to intrude the slightest trace or hint of private convictions.
“In fact, I believe and I hope the need is obvious to all, that this strict impartiality is the prime element we should try to instill in the character of men who will inherit the medium. We should insist and demand it and settle for no less . . . and I can easily prophesy now, there’ll be charges of brainwashing and the like. But, every last particle of doubt and opposition can be swept away . . . if it can be imagined what Goldkorn might have achieved and gone on achieving if he hadn’t been driven by his . . . idée fixe.
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“In short, we are safe as long as we remember and believe the simple phrase which begins, The views expressed do not reflect, etc. etc. That’s the sacrifice we must make in exchange for public trust . . . and the other fruits the service brings.
“Well, maybe, all things considered, we’ve been lucky. We’ve still got a chance to pick up the pieces. To rebuild our own confidence, the public confidence . . . everything we gave up so easily, so cheaply. And, we’ve got a moral, too. A moral I don’t think we’ll get another chance to learn.
“The moral. . . to apply a bit of Jefferson, is that the price of security is eternal vigilance. We should adopt . . . an ironic memento from Goldkorn’s estate. We should become the watchmen! We must close ranks and watch for the man who drifts off, by himself. The man who will tantrum to have things his own way. That’s the sign, he’ll say it must be his way.
“I remember I’d see Goldkorn just walking down a hallway and he moved as though he were in a trance. Listening to a voice leading him. And, when he spoke to you it was like he was repeating a conversation he’d had before. As though only he had taken part in an imperative, irresistible dialogue. He . . . made you feel it.
“The logical development of these last remarks of mine . . . which I refuse to embellish . . . beyond this, is that I . . . we prided ourselves on having a finger on the public pulse but we can’t deny that he was closer to the heart. Or, as he’d have it, closer to the soul. But, look at the cost! To himself . . . to the industry. I’m not imprudent enough . . . or impudent enough to venture any further along this line of thought, except to observe that he built his empire out of death, hate . . . and a gigantic circus. These few words should be sufficient for the wise.
“I guess that’s it. I’ve told you what I think and what I feel. Perhaps not very eloquendy, but the best I could manage under the circumstances. That’s my share, my duty as a member of our community. Now, I’d like to open the discussion and welcome suggestions . . . even rebuttal. Any constructive idea . . . to sort out this shambles. If I’ve been mistaken, I’d like to know. If you agree, I’d also like to know.”
There was no immediate response to the Commodore’s invitation, but after a few moments he received a round of resounding applause which was raised to an even higher pitch as he burned the notes from Goldkorn’s manuscript.
Before adjourning, the assembly voted unanimously, on the Commodore’s motion, to announce an annual Martin Goldkorn Award for outstanding services for the advancement of the medium.
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