The Sky Fall Conspiracy: Chapter 1, version 2, draft 3

October 30th, 1938


A thick black gas curled through the partially open windows of the apartment. It rolled up the wall and pooled on the ceiling leaving dark stains behind.

Betty placed her hand over her three-year-old daughter’s mouth and nose. “Don’t breathe it, baby. Don’t breathe it.” Her heartbeat so hard every thump seemed to vibrate her chest.

The hand trembled, and the daughter took deep gasps in the openings then puffed up her cheeks trying to hold down the air. Hold her breath, just like her mama said.

A radio news anchor relayed the details of the attack. His voice filled with static.

The news anchor wouldn’t say it, but she knew. She heard their screams, and then there was silence. They claimed it was an equipment malfunction, but She knew. They were dead. The attack had begun. She lowered herself to floor and crept toward the window. She pulled her hand away from her baby girl’s face and pulled her apron to cover her own mouth and nose. “Help mommy.” She jiggled the cloth over her face.

The little girl pressed her hand up to hold the apron in place.

“Good girl. Now hold your breath.” Betty cover the child’s face again and moved toward the windows.

The gas swirled and thickened on the ceiling, getting closer.

Only a few steps away from the window, Betty released her daughter and dashed forward, slamming the first window closed then the second. She dropped to the floor, her cheek against the wood. She took a deep breath. They needed to get out, but they might never come back, they needed food, and clothes.

Her husband crawled out of the bedroom. He dragged two suitcases. He shoved one across the room. It skidded to a stop not far from his wife. “Fill it with whatever you can from the pantry..”

Betty nodded and gestured to their daughter. “Keep her down and away from the gas.”

There were tears in the little girl’s eyes. She lay on the floor, her cheeks puffed. She heard her dad call her name, but she didn’t move, just stuck out her tiny hand and waited for him to come and get her.

Betty scurried into the pantry. She could still hear them. Her husband’s efforts to calm the child, her daughter trying not to cry.

His voice called out, “I’m going to check the hallway.”

In the background, over everything was screaming. It came from the street and could be heard through the windows. It came the apartment next door, above and below. It came from the hall. Some terrible, some more interruptions to crying, some giving directions. Car horns barked. A ragged cough, like that one that caused people to spit up blood came through the wall. A woman screamed. “I breathed it. I can’t.” The coughing began again.

 In the stories, important sounds were isolated, but here it was just chaos. The radio continued to play, but with the static and all the noise she had no idea what the man was saying. Was it more details of the attack, or instructions to help people get out of the city?

Betty knelt in her pantry. Sweat soaked her body. She stared almost lost at the can of beans in front of her. A bead of sweat dripped from her chin and splashed on the floor. Her long black hair matted against her head and face. She wiped it away, pulled the can down and placed it in the case. Then another, and another.

“No gas in the hall, but we should hurry!”

On the ceiling, the black gas continued to curl and roll. It still leaked in at the windows. Unnaturally thick, unlike any campfire smoke she had ever seen. She could smell a strange acrid stench. She wondered how much she had to breathe before it killed her. How little would kill her daughter?

Her hands moved quickly now. She stuffed bags of rice and flour into the final spaces of the case. She closed the lid then rose to a crouch and tried to run. But the case was too heavy. She positioned herself behind it and shoved. It scrapped forward. She gritted her teeth and let out a grunt, but the case barely moved. Betty placed a hand on top of it. They needed this. “Help!”

In all the chaos and madness, her husband must have recognized her voice because he appeared in the kitchen and rushed to assist. He grabbed the handle and tried to run with it like she had. It jerked him back. He dropped to his knees and opened it to discarded items. “It’s too heavy.”

Betty watched each piece of food tossed to the floor. She’d heard about the people’s who cities were attached in the Great War. Many starved to death after fleeing their homes. She grabbed his arm. “What will we eat.”

He looked down at the remaining contents. “This will be enough. They killed them. If we don’t run fast enough, they will kill us.”

“What if…” Betty’s voice was desperate, she feared the answers. “What if… we open the windows and wait for the gas to clear. We can be more prepared then.”

Her husband shook his head. “The reason they aren’t here is because they are waiting for the gas to kill us. As soon as it clears they will march through the city and gun down the survivors. That’s how they did it in The Great War.”


Kathryn Harris stood outside the large, polished oak door. Unlike the others, it had no name on the plaque. No description of what the room was, why it held the best spot on the top floor. The hallway was clean to a fault, barren of any evidence of human existence. No trash, no dust, no scuffs. She straightened her black dress. Licked her hands and ran them over her hair to pin down any loose strands. 

She had a few fly away hairs once when she came to take notes for The Employer. It had been windy day. He had stood over her for several minutes with a grumble in his throat, then he reached and ripped that loose hairs from her head. He held them in a clench fist and said, “I can’t abide sloppiness. Go home and put yourself in order.” It had terrified her, but one paid better for secretarial work in the city. For weeks she had refused to take her turn on the rotation, but the bills started to pile up. Winter would be here soon, and they would need extra money for the heat.

            On the cart in front next to her was a new typewriter. Its black Bakelite finish gleamed in the hall light. A stack of paper, crisp and white rested behind it. Below were two reams of ink.  The bottom of the cart kept a second typewriter should anything go wrong.

            She tried to stand as still as possible. She sucked in a breath. Stuck out her chest and knocked on the door.

            An older voice, graveled but full of energy beckoned her, “Come in.”

            The brass of the handle was cold in her hand, and the latch soundless as it opened. The hinges were well oiled, and the door seemed to glide open.

The room was dark except a single lamp over the desk where she would work. Large windows lined the outer wall. A glow came up from the city lights below, and from it she could see The Employers outline. A dark shade. He wore a hat. It was the only detail she could make out.

From the top office on the Rockefeller building in New York, he watched the city below. “Have you seen it? The city since it happened, or have you been working all day.”

Kathryn stood with her hand on the typewriter, preparing to set it on the desk. She wasn’t prepared for a conversation. “No. I’ve been here.”

He waved her over. “Come and look. It is unlike anything in history.”

She hesitated for a moment. She didn’t like to be anywhere he could touch her.

He turned slightly as though aware of her delay.

Kathryn pulled her hand fromt the machine and walked quickly over the marble tiles. Her heels clicking loudly in the silence of the room.

The Employer reached out and caught her wrist when she was close. He pulled her forward until her hand rested on the glass. “The city is still trying to unwind the madness of the last few hours. They will be working on it all night. Look.” He pointed to a string of lights. “A traffic jam and it’s nearly midnight.” He gestured to the phone. “I’ve been trying to call L.A. I want to know if it was the same for them. Did people believe there too?” The Employer shook his head, “But the phones have been down all night. I think that was part of it. Orson Welles told his story, but real things happened. Instead of finding normal explanations, people believed it was connected to his story. They believed the world was ending, and Welles had nothing to prove that it was true.” He leaned back and gazed upward. “Look at the sky. Nothing. Not a cloud, not a strange spectacle, just the same night sky.”

            Like every object in the room, the window was cold to the touch. She pulled back and could see her fingerprints on the glass. “What did he say?”

            The Employer released her. He laughed, not genuine humours laugh, but a mocking insulting sound, rasping. “That Martians from Mars were attacking the earth. Can you believe it?” He laughed again and pointed to the city. “But they did.” The laughter and mocking left his voice and he became serious again. “And I want that power. Imagine what we could do if we knew exactly how he did it. What are the moving parts, the essential pieces? He made them believe the world was ending. The things I would like men to believe are much simpler and realistic.” The Employer stood there for a long time just looking down. “I need a message delivered. I want whatever this is, and I will pay any price.”

            “Of course, sir.” She hurried to her desk, grateful to be out of his reach again. “Who is the message for?”

            A half-smile crept across his lips, and the skin of the bottom one cracked. A small drop of blood formed, and he licked it away. “You know who.”

Kathryn took a step back. She clenched the muscles in her chest and wrapped her arms tight to her body. Her voice rose in pitch and lowered in volume, “I don’t… have to deliver it to him, do I?”

“Are you afraid of him? I thought ladies like his kind of dangerous. Am I wrong?”

Kathryn kept her eyes turned down, “I know what he does.”

“It’s important as few people as possible know about this. You will deliver my message or you can seek employment elsewhere.”

The Impact of Images: Nast vs. Tweed

A good image tells an entire story with a single stroke. It ignites the imagination in a redetermined direction. Indeed, great images are more believable than often film because they do not dictate the narrative to the audience, but allows the audience to create their own and  often that is something far more emotionally appealing to them. When something comes along to discredit or disprove it they are far less likely to accept such evidence because they didn’t believe the story of the picture because an outside source told them to, they believed it because
they had a hand in its creation.

In the mid-1800s, William Tweed rose to political power in the state of New York. There were long-standing jokes about ‘Boss Tweed,’ and his corruption told all throughout the state for years, but it wasn’t until cartoonist Thomas Nast aimed at the politician that his empire of corruption began to crumble.

Nast Drew cartoons of Tweed and his people taking part in various criminal activities, and abusing their power. In reaction, European investors panicked, withdrew and demanded payment on investments creating a financial crisis in the state. The images portrayed embezzlement, political corruption and intimidation.

At the time Nast had no proof and was creating cartoons based on rumors. The truth would eventually come out that he was right. But what if he had been wrong? None the less they still sparked investigations into the affairs of the politician.

In response to the political cartoons Tweed said, "Stop them damned pictures. I don't care so much what the papers say about me. My constituents don't know how to read, but they can't help seeing them damned pictures!"

As investigations revealed the truth and depth of Tweed’s corruption, he fled to Spain. Based on what the Spanish had seen of Nast’s cartoons they arrested Tweed, not because they knew his crimes, but because they believed Nast’s images.

Perhaps a similar thing can be said today in the tide of fake news. “My constituents don’t read the papers or watch the news, but they can’t help seeing them damn pictures, and headlines.”

Image & Article.jpg

How to Alter Belief

People are reluctant to change belief or behavior, as any persuader, advertiser or propagandist knows. A psychological technique was created to manage the transition of belief called anchoring. The anchor roots in something the person or most people already believe.

In 1516 the lower portion of the city of Rome was designated the Ghetto. It was not only reserved for Jews, but they were forbidden to live anywhere else in the city. The section is where much sewage drained, and the waterways were in poor repair. When rains came hard, the section flooded and sewage poured into streets. The section wasn’t filthy because the Jews lived there. The Jews were forced to live there because it was filthy.

It was here that anti-Semitic prejudice of the world took on a specific tone. Jews were dirty, filthy and carried disease. If anyone doubted this claim, all they needed to do was visit the lower section of Rome, crowded with Jews living in filth.

In the building of their anti-Semitic campaigns the Nazis started with this age-old prejudice that Jews were filthy and carried disease, and from it, they fanned the flames of hate. They produced films and images that confirmed and solidified these ideas in the minds of the people.

What Fake News and the government have in common

In the dystopian classic 1984, George Orwell introduced the ideas of doublethink and newspeak, and out those ideas was born a new propaganda word: doublespeak. Simple put; saying one thing and meaning another.

It leverages how the human brain makes connections and understands language to manipulate how people react emotionally to different ideas. This is most commonly seen in politics when bills and laws are named in a way to appeal to the opposition. Classic examples include the Healthy Forests Initiative and the Affordable Healthcare Act.

In 2003 George W. Bush presented a bill that would enable more logging of forest and include previous areas that unavailable for logging. In order to dissuade environmentalists from looking too deeply at the detail, the bill was titled: The Healthy Forest Initiative. The propaganda campaigns for it included pictures of thick, lush forests.

Similarly, in 2010, the Obama administration crafted a bill to restructure much to U.S. healthcare system titled: Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act. Recognizing the tactic the GOP quickly worked hard in the media to nickname the bill Obamacare so that it would be seen as the Democratic bill for health care reform, and people would not react to the name of the bill alone.

In 2016 the term fake-news started to used to refer to yellow-journalism. The term caught on as a wake of fake stories dominated the headlines on social media sites. In response, Facebook and others released information and coaching on recognizing these kinds of stories. Among them were not making assumptions based on headlines or images, reading the actual articles and checking the sources.

The strangest part is that these guidelines for recognizing truth are exactly what the government hopes its people won’t do when it comes to the laws they are writing.

Why you should be Afraid of Deer, Not Sharks.

I saw a college lecture where the professor reenacted a classic study. He asked, “what’s more likely to kill people: homicide or suicide, floods or tuberculosis, tornadoes or asthma, sharks or deer?” Almost every student got it wrong. And they did so because vivid stories stick in the mind better. When those stories are remembered, they seem more likely to happen. The Propagandist tires to create compelling, detailed, vivid stories that will stick in the target’s memory, so that statistics and scientific truth will not be remembered, only the propagandist story. Thus, creating a prison of ideas so dense the target can no longer see truth. The truth is you are 300 times more likely to be killed by a deer than a shark, but how many people you know are afraid deer the same way they are afraid of the sharks? Those two very different levels of fear are the product of effective propaganda, not truth.

The video reading of the chapter heading:

They Don’t Want You to See This:

Unreleased Chapter Heading:

In the 1600 philosophers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke started writing about the social contract. The idea ran directly counter to the divine right of kings. It put the power of both religion and monarchy in jeopardy. Fearing that these ideas would spread, books containing writings on the social contract were first banned and later burned. Soon other ideas were labeled as dangerous and added to ever growing list.

However the public reaction to this was not as expected. Books added to the Index Librorum Prohibitorum experience a boost in sales, library check outs, and came up in articles and conversations more often. In short the act of banning books made them more popular. As most recently experienced by the Dan Brown novel The Da Vinci Code. Being banned  in Lebanon and the Vatican drove its sales to international bestseller levels.

Where the world saw irony, propagandist saw opportunity and a new technique was developed. As psychologists state it: ‘the lure of the forbidden’ appeals to many. Now, peddlers of influence have a new in road to a new demographic. As a common manipulative phrase goes: “They don’t want you to see this,” it’s companion phrase, “No one is talking about this.”

Chapter 5: The Glass Bridge

Donny poked his finger through a hole in the floor of the automobile. “There’s hole in our car.”

                “It’s from the rust.” Silas pulled to stop outside the house. It appeared abandoned except for the orange glow of candle light inside. The wood slates on the sides were falling off and the front screen hung crooked. Once inside he was guided to the basement by a negro boy. The room was large and mostly vacant. Only a table in the center with several men gathered around it. They too were in disguise. A close inspection of their clothes revealed art quality charcoal and stage makeup instead of dirt marked them. Silas tipped his hat and took a seat.

                At the head of the group sat the chairman. His skin was aged and saggy around the arms, but his chiseled jaw remained unaffected. The bones large and square gave him the appearance of strength even as his body withered with age. He eyed his watch and examined each member then knocked on the wooden table twice and cleared his throat. “I believe we are ready to begin.” He gestured to Silas. “I would like you to meet our newest member. He has been an enforcer for us in many of the worker strikes we’ve been dealing with recently.”

                The man in the south raised his hand. “Is that wise? Such men tend to deal in criminal activity. We wouldn’t want anyone to associate us with such things. That’s what started this whole God damn McGuire problem isn’t it. People like associating with criminals.”

                Silas cleared his throat, “No. You are in this situation because someone didn’t burn the documents. I’m here tonight to help get you out. The root problem was a sloppy attention to detail. Allow me a demonstration.” He stood began to unbutton his shirt.  A slow moving wave of confusion spread through the room. It froze the conversation until Cooper finished removing his shirt and tossed it on the table. “You see the holes in the sleeves of that shirt. Examine them closely. The fabric gets thinner around edges.” He grabbed the arm of the man next to him and held up the elbow. “Now, look at this. The fabric doesn’t thin, it was clearly cut by scissors.” He released the man. “Sloppy attention to detail. I don’t make such mistakes. It’s why a man like me is in a room with men such as yourselves.”

                “You ignorant upstart. You’re a guest here.” The man rubbed his arm as though he’d been injured.

                The chairman slapped the table and sound reverberated through wood creating a long silence that only ended when the chairman decided to speak, “Let’s not let our emotions get in the way. We brought in Mr. Cooper for this exact reason: to deal with uncomfortable issues, and to ensure the details are not missed.”

                Silas collected his shirt and started to dress again. The show was over, and the basement was cold.

                The chairman continued, “Our primary concern is a recent wave of strikes that have started. While most of the world had its battle with labor unions in the late 1800s we were able to control and prevent them through the propaganda surrounding the Molly McGurie incident. But recent events have relvead the truth and I don’t think there will be any going back now.”

                Silas nodded his head. He been filled in on the details concerning the incident. In 1876 a mining company experienced a strike headed by a man called Molly McGuire, thus the group gained its name. In response to the strike, the owners of the mine hired Pinkerton detectives to infiltrate the group. Once the Pinkertons were accepted as members they commit a series of crimes under the banner of the Molly McGuires. They assaulted and even murder miners who refused to join the strike. When the case went to court the prosecutors went after the strike leadership instead of the actual members who committed the crimes. The story was broadcast all across America. It presented labor unions as dens of criminal activity an iniquity. Soon after every school child in America was taught about the evils of unions and moral dangers of strikes. The great labor union movement that was sweeping wester civilization came to a standstill in America. Even Hollywood in all it’s stories, and moving pictures always presented labor unions a place for criminals and smugglers ever perpetuating the propaganda. It was the moment when communist became a dirty work in America. That is until a few months ago when the documents contracting the Pinkertons and bribing the judge were found. Now, the great lie was unrevealing, unions were forming, and factories were left empty while their workers marched in protest.

                The room continued to offer ideas about the how to deal with this new issue. They discussed ideas about producing talking pictures with more strike leaders as villains, running a newspaper stories in major publications. They discussed everything they were already doing.

                Silas raised his hand and waited for his turn, “The problem with all your ideas is that we are already doing them, and they aren’t working.”

                “We’ll, Mr. Cooper, what grand plan do you have to solve this problem?” The man in the west, the one Silas had grabbed, crinkled his nose in disgust. 

                Silas took a deep breath. “But what if we could prove it wasn’t a lie?”

                The man to east raised his hand. “I don’t see how that’s possible unless of course you can turn back time.”

                Cooper tilted his head to indicate he’d heard the concern. “What I want to introduce to you is a new way of looking at truth. You see most people think of truth as a logical conclusion supported by facts, but new research by a man named William Stephenson, you’ve heard of him?”

                “Yes,” the chairman said. “We are familiar with much his work.”

                “After the Great War he studied the minds of soldiers injured in combat and came across a certain type of injury that prevented them from feeling emotions. This is where things get unusual. You see most people think of emotions and logic as at odds with each other, but Stephenson’s work illustrates that they actually work hand in hand. That without emotion these men were unable to prioritize any type of information as more important than another.”

                The chair of the man in the south creaked as he leaned back and raised his hand. “Can you give us something more specific.”

                “Of course,” Cooper picked up his hat and held it in his hand. “Let’s say they each had a morning routine. They would wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast brush their teeth and go to work. Now if for some reason they needed more time in the morning, say they over slept, or needed to attend an early meeting. Certain parts of the routine can be skipped, others can’t. These men were unable to effectively decided which parts were skippable. Some of them didn’t dress, other skipped showing. You see without emotion to make priorities, they made logical decisions on what to skip. That was based on how long certain activities took. Entirely logical. If showering takes twelve minutes and you need twelve minutes you skip the shower. If your four minutes behind and getting dressed takes four minutes. Skip it. Why because that’s the most logical choice.” Silas smiled. “Completely dysfunctional.”

                “I still don’t understand what this has to do with Molly McGuire problem.” South rolled his chair forward again.

                “After this initial discovery Stephenson presented a new theory. What if our understanding of truth is similarly governed more by our emotions and less by our logic than we think. When two competing pieces of information are given we must decided which is true. What if logic doesn’t govern that choice, after all it’s about priorities. What piece of information feels more true.”

                The chairman nodded in a slow rhythm as Silas spoke. “I see where you’re going with this. I knew an architect once. He was asked to design a bridge between two building and he had this incredible idea to make it out of glass, so you could see through it. It was brilliant. He worked with all kinds of people and preformed all types of tests to make sure they could make the glass thick enough and strong enough to hold up while people walked across it. They built the bridge and at the ribbon cutting ceremony they offered him a chance to be the first to cross it. Now, it was all just ceremonial of course the workers had been walking back and forth across the thing cleaning it in preparation for this moment. So, he knew it was safe. He’d done the math, designed the plans, seen people walk across it. But in that moment when he tried to walk across his own bridge, he saw the deep drop below and crumbled to floor and scrambled away from the edge as though he was in mortal danger. I asked him. ‘don’t you believe it’s safe?’ and he answered, ‘I know it is, but that doesn’t change how I feel.’” The chairman took a deep breath. “I never really understood what happened that day, but listening to you now, it makes more sense to me. At some point emotion can be so strong that evidence and facts are irrelevant. It didn’t matter that he knew the bridge was safe. When he stood on it and looked down it didn’t feel safe.”

Silas nodded and waited for a moment to be sure the chairman done before he continued. “It explains much about human belief. Why people refuse to accept some truths regardless of the evidence presented. Simply because it’s not about evidence, it about how true that evidence feels. Think of it as which actress you like better. Whoever you choose you can make a logical argument, provide reasons, but at the end of it all you really picking based on how you feel. That according this is new research is exactly how truth works, when they are competing versions.”

                In the dim light it was still possible to see that the man in south smile. “So, your proposing that we stop trying to discredit the documents and the men who discovered them, but rather that we make that truth feel less true, in comparison to our own version.”

                “Precisely.” Cooper sat his hat back on the table. “According to Stephenson’s work what is defined as feeling most true, is simply what is most memorable.”

                “I can work with that.” South straightened his clothes and folded his hands on the table.

                “Good,” The chairman said. “Now, for the reason we had to meet so urgently tonight. This Orson Welles event. I think it’s clear to everyone present that there is an incredible opportunity to learn about propaganda and to make ours more effective. I can also say without a doubt there are groups all over the world just like this meeting together to figure how they can learn from this event, and make sure no one else can. How should we proceed? How do we ensure we are the winner of this competition?”

                “I think the first problem,” the man in the West said, “is the science itself. We can’t have hundreds of groups of scientists running all over the country tripping over each other. They will corrupt each other’s data. It will be chaos, and no one will learn anything.”

                A murmur of consent came from every part of the table.

                “At the same time,” South spoke up. “It gives us a backup plan in case it starts to look like we won’t be the winners. All we have to do is launch our own study to corrupt the first.”

                Cooper cleared his throat. “Gentlemen what we need is someone to regulate this whole mess. Someone that appears to be big enough to ensure it works the way it should, but can also be bought off.” He smiled. “If one of the largest, and most powerful governments in world decided to manage the situation I don’t think anyone would object.”

                The chairman clapped his hands. “And we buy the votes of congress or the Senate, whoever gets to make the decision. So, now the question is who do we put in charge of the study?”

                South raised his hand. “What about this Stephenson person you mentioned. He’s produced several papers on public opinion and propaganda. He seems an excellent choice.”

                Cooper shook his head. “The problem is that Stephenson is independently wealthy. We couldn’t buy him, even if his moral code was corruptible.” He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper. “I have a list of potential candidates. If you have means to put financial strain on any of them it would make them open to offer from me. From that position I will be able to oversee the entire study, and ensure we alone ever truly know how Orson Welles did what he did.”

                There was agreement to Silas’ proposal and several other items of propaganda were discussed before the meeting dissolved. As they separated to leave the Chairman approached Cooper. “There is one more thing I want you to do. This Orson Welles incident is bigger than anything we’ve ever encountered. It would be a tragedy to human advancement if the truth is not uncovered, but at the same times it is essential that no else knows how it works while we are in the dark.” He swallowed hard. “I would like you track down other propaganda committees and ensure they have no involvement.”

                “You want me to get rid of them?” Silas was familiar with the insinuation, but he wasn’t sure the chairman was. Did the man want them killed?

                “Any means necessary. I’ll leave the details up to you.”

                “How do I find them?”

                The chairman shrugged. “Again. I leave that to you.”

                Silas nodded. “Have the contract details on my desk by Friday. Label it as lumber and concrete.”


                Outside Donny had exit the car and was shadow boxing under a street lamp. He paused when Silas appeared and waved. The big man jogged toward his employer. “Good meeting? Do I need to hit anyone?”

                Cooper approached the car with his out. “I don’t know yet. We have to do some research first.”

                “The papers?” Donny asked.

                Silas opened door. “The papers” that’s what Donny referred to as paper work. Sifting through files and addresses looking for people. He would need a team of private investigators to start tracking down the member of the various propaganda committees across the United States. His own group was connected to one the wealthiest men in American and he assumed it would true of the others. Messages and communication had to flow between the groups and their creators so that’s where he would start. Follow the men, follow the letters, and phone calls. Cooper glanced back the building. He wondered which the men present tonight carried the information back and forth. The natural assumption would be the chairman. They presented the agenda and directed the meeting. He decided when a discussion had gone long enough, but was possible he was more a puppet directed by subtle the body language of one of the other members. Silas of course knew his employer. He’d been hand picked, first as body guard and later other duties as his skills and moral compass manifested.

 [JB1]Make it clear the tycoon and robber barons created the committee. And they want to use Orson Welles creation as a way to end strikes permanently.

Final Skyfall-3HR.jpg