“No. What are they after?”
“Sensation.”
Banneker turned the word over in his mind, evoking confirmation in the remembered headlines even of the reputable Ledger.
“Sensation,” repeated the other. “We’ve got the speed-up motto in industry. Our newspaper version of it is ‘spice-up.’ A conference that may change the map of Europe will be crowded off any front page any day by young Mrs. Poultney Masters making a speech in favor of giving girls night-keys, or of some empty-headed society dame being caught in a roadhouse with another lady’s hubby. Spice: that’s what we’re looking for. Something to tickle their jaded palates. And they despise us when we break our necks or our hearts to get it for ’em.”
“But if it’s what they want, the fault lies with the public, not with us,” argued Banneker.
“I used to know a white-stuff man—a cocaine-seller—who had the same argument down pat,” retorted Edmonds quietly.
Banneker digested that for a time before continuing.
“Besides, you imply that because news is sensational, it must be unworthy. That isn’t fair. Big news is always sensational. And of course the public wants sensation. After all, sensation of one sort or another is the proof of life.”
“Hence the noble profession of the pander,” observed Edmonds through a coil of minute and ascending smoke-rings. “He also serves the public.”
“You’re not drawing a parallel—”