Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

Michaelmas’s house phone chimed. He listened and said : “Send her up.” His crew director was here.

She came in just ahead of the room-service waiter. Michaelmas attended to the amenities and they sat together on the balcony, sipping and talking. She and the crew were all on staff with his employer network. Her name was Clementine Gervaise, and he had never met her because the bulk of her previous experience had been with national media, and because this was his first time with her network, which was up-and-coming and hadn’t been able to afford him before.

Gervaise — Madame Gervaise, he gathered from the plain band on her finger — was the model of one kind of fortyish, chic European woman. She was tall, blonde, with her hair pulled back severely from her brow but feathered out coquettishly over one ear, dressed in a plain blue-green couturier suit, and very professional. It took them ten minutes to work out what kind of equipment they had available, what sort of handling and transport capabilities they had for it, and what to do with it pending permission to enter the sanatorium grounds. They briefly considered the merit of intercutting old UNAC footage with whatever commentary he devised, and scrubbed that in favour of a nice, uncluttered series of grab shots of the sanatorium and any lab interiors they might be able to pick up. She expressed an interest in Domino’s machine, which Michaelmas displayed to her as his privately designed comm unit, giving her the line of Proud Papa patter that had long ago somnolized all the newsmen he knew.

With all that out of the way, they still had a few sips of coffee left and a few bites of croissant to take, so they began to talk inconsequentially.

The skin on the backs of her hands was beginning to lose its youthful elasticity, so she did not do much gesturing, but she did have a habit of reaching up to pull down the dark glasses which were de rigueur in her mode. This usually happened at the end of a question such as: “It is very agreeable here at this time of year, is it not?” and was accompanied by a glance of her medium green eyes before the glasses went back into place and hid them again. She sipped at her cup daintily, her pursed lips barely kissing the rim. She kept her legs bent sidewards together, and her unfortunately large feet pulled back inconspicuously against her chair.

All in all, Michaelmas was at first quite ready to classify her as being rather what you’d expect — a well-trained, competent individual in a high-paying profession which underwrote whatever little whims and personal indulgences she might have. This kind of woman was usually very good to work with, and he expected to be out of Switzerland before she had quite made up her mind whether she or the famous

Laurent Michaelmas was going to do the seducing. And even if he were delayed past that point, a moment’s frank discussion would solve that problem without offending her or making him look like an ass. At least this type of woman played it as a game, and took it as a matter of course that if there was to be no corrida in this town today, there was always an autobus leaving for the next ring within the half hour. As a matter of fact, she was the type of woman he most liked working with because it could all be made clear-cut so easily, and then they could resume what they were being paid to do.

And in fact, Clementine Gervaise herself was so casual, despite the glances and the exposition from knees to ankles, that it seemed the whole business was only a pro forma gesture to days perhaps gone by for both of them. But just before he poured the last of the coffee from the chased silver pot into the translucent cup with its decoration of delicately painted violets, he found himself listening with more than casual attention to the intonations of her voice, and finding that his eyes rested on the highlights in her washed blond coiffure each time she turned her head.

For content, her conversation was still no more than politeness required, and his responses were the same. But there was a certain comfortable relaxation within him which he discovered only with a little spasm of alertness. For the past minute or two, his smile of response to her various gambits about European travel and climate had been warming. He had begun thinking how pleasant it all was, sitting here and looking out over the mountains, sipping coffee in this air; how very pleasant it was to be himself. And he found himself remembering out of the aspect of his mind that was like an antique desk, some of its drawers bolted, and all the others a little warped and stiff in their sides, so that they opened with difficulty:

He looked down into his cup, smiled, and said: “Dregs”, to cover the slight frown he might have shown.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as if she also worked in the Excelsior kitchen. It was this little domestic note that did it.

He continued to be charming, and in fact disarmingly attentive for the next few minutes until she left, saying: “I shall be looking forward to seeing you later today.” And then when he had closed the door to the suite behind her, he walked back out on to the balcony and stood with his hands behind his back, his cheeks puffing in and out a little.

“What is it about her?” he said to Domino.

“There’s a remarkable coincidence. She’s very much as I’d expect your wife would have been by now.”

“Really? Is that it?”

“I would say so. I have.”

“Like Clementine Gervaise?” He turned back inside the parlour, his hands still clasped behind him. He placed his feet undecidedly. “Well. What do you think this is?”

“On the data, it’s a coincidence.”

Michaelmas cocked his head towards the machine. “Are you beginning to learn to think beyond actuarials?” he said with pleasure.

“It may be a benefit of our continuing relationship, O Creator.”

“Long time coming,” Michaelmas said gruffly. He straightened and began to stride about the parlour. “But what have we here? Has someone been applying a great deal of deductive thought to what profession a man in my role would choose in these times? My goodness, Dr. Limberg, is all this part of a better mousetrap? Domino, it seems I might also have to watch behind me as I beat a path to his door.”

“You are not more than part of the whole world, Mighty Mouse,” Domino said.

“You know it,” Michaelmas answered, kicking off his shoes as he stepped into the bedroom. “Well, I’m going to take an hour’s nap.”

He slept restlessly for thirty-seven minutes. From time to time he rolled over, frowning.

Domino woke him from a dream. “Mr Michaelmas.” He opened his eyes immediately.

“What? Oh, I’m afraid to go home in the dark,” he said.

“Wake up, Mr Michaelmas. It’s nine twenty-three, local.”

“What’s the situation?” Michaelmas asked, sitting up.

“Multiple. A few moments ago, I completed my analysis of where the capsule crash site must be. I based my thinking on the requirements of the premise—a low trajectory to account for the capsule’s escaping radar notice following the shuttle explosion; the need to have the crash occur within reasonable distance of Limberg’s sanatorium, yet in a place where other people in the area would not be likely to notice or find it; and so forth. These conditions of course would fit either the truth or your hypothesis that Limberg is a resourceful liar.”

“At any rate, I called the network, as you, and asked for a helicopter to investigate the site. I learned that they were already following Melvin Watson, who had recently taken off. Checking back on his activities, I find that just before catching the plane in New York last night he placed a call to a Swiss Army artillery major here. That officer is also on the mailing lists of a number of amateur rocket societies. On arrival here, Mr Watson called the Major again several times. Following the last call, which was rather lengthy, Mr Watson immediately boarded one of his client’s helicopters and departed, leaving Campion to watch the sanatorium.”