"I'm Bob Edwards. Today is Friday, June 19th, and this is 'Morning Edition."'

Millions of drowsy Americans wake up every weekday to Edwards's steady,
deep Kentucky voice looking for news, the time, and a peculiar sense of security.
It's early morning silent, and the host's encouraging tone helps fill the void.

Edwards himself is actually chewing gum and reading a newspaper when
National Public Radio fans hear the prerecorded introduction. He sits in the
cocoonlike quiet of the gray, compact news studio. Four large microphones fill the
table. An old globe lies on a pile of cheap plastic chairs in the corner. The rug smells
of mildew.

When Edwards looks up he can see through a large window into the control
room, where director Barry Gordemer performs as "part musician, part air-traffic
controller." Gordemer makes sure Edwards and Carl Kasell, who delivers the
short news updates for the news service, get on and off the air when they're
supposed to. It's an exercise that requires exquisite split-second timing.

Gordemer's hand goes up. Edwards leans into the mike. By the time the
director drops his hand and the host finishes saying, "It's twenty minutes before
the hour," it's exactly twenty minutes before the hour. The member stations that
carry "Morning Edition" must know precisely when the program cuts from Kasell
to Edwards or to a music break; otherwise they're faced with the ultimate
nightmare for a sound medium--silence. "A second can be an eternity in
broadcasting," says Gordemer.

NPR and the member stations rely on the U.S. Naval Observatory Master
Clock, which synchronizes their timers via satellite. At the end of every year the
observatory must account for a lost second, so all of the stations' clocks leap
forward simultaneously. Gordemer uses a special calculator that adds time to help
him hit the eight station breaks during the two-hour broadcast. Sometimes
Edwards helps fill in a second or two by slowing down his delivery or adding a
word that's not in the copy.

It's a tightwire act, which perhaps explains why NPR is so unstructured
soutside the control room. Edwards lopes across the newsroom in jeans and a
casual shirt. Technicians wear shorts. Birkenstock sandals are about as fashion-
able as the dress code gets, particularly for the overnight crew.

The director can let a bit of the network's quirky side seep into the broadcast
with the signature pieces of music played between news items. The staff call the
short takes between stories "buttons" and the longer ones used for local station

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