You find an empty chair, and squeeze it in between Robyn and one of her immediate neighbors. "Anybody mind if I elbow my way in here?"
"I don't think we're supposed to switch seats, Mr. .," says Robyn. "We've all been assigned specific seats." She holds up her place card to illustrate the point.
"Oh, I think these places are pricey enough that a little seat flexibility is included. Call me Roman Halama, by the way."
She blinks at you a couple of times, then says, "Okay, Roman Halama. What can I help you with?"
She raises an eyebrow. "What's the role of the journalist if not to decry the abuses committed by the powerful, whether that powerful entity is a person or a corporation?"
"Surely the journalist's role is to report the facts, pure and simple." you counter.
"Every journalist has a bias," says Robyn. "True, it would be possible to write blandly, neutrally, without bias—but in promoting my own perspective of events, I counterbalance the truth against those other writers whose views oppose mine."
"You 'counterbalance the truth'?" You smile at that. "I had no idea journalism was such a metaphysical profession."
And now she smiles too. "All journalists are philosophers, deep down inside."
Dinner is served while you chat with Robyn, and you discover that she's a very perceptive woman. She knows her field well—though you soon spot she has a tendency to be somewhat trenchant toward large corporations, and the men and women that run them. An unfortunate consequence of her profession, perhaps.
And yet she seems to warm to you. "You aren't at all as I expected you to be," she confesses. "I've met a lot of business leaders in various capacities, and…well, you aren't like them."
You decide to take that as a compliment. Of course, the route by which you've arrived at your position is quite unique.
"Maybe we should—" begins Robyn. But just then, the ballroom lights go dim, and the evening's hostess walks out onto the stage. "Let's talk about this later," Robyn concludes.
Next