Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

There was a coterie of warders—a gloved private gatekeeper in a blue uniform with the sanatorium crest, plus a sturdy middle-aged plainclothesman in a sensible vested suit and a greatcoat and a velour hat, and a bright young fellow in a sportcoat and topper whom Michaelmas recognized as a minor UNAC press staff man. The UNAC man looked inside the car, recognized Michaelmas, and flashed an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. The Swiss policeman nodded to the gatekeeper, who pushed the electric button which made the wrought iron gates fold back briefly behind their brick posts. Leaving outcries behind, the Citroën jumped forward and drove through.

Michaelmas said to Domino: “I wonder if time-travelling cultures are playing with us. I wonder if they process our history for entertainment values. It wouldn’t take much: an assassination in place of exile, revolution instead of election—that sort of augmentation would yield packageable drama. Chances are, it wouldn’t crucially alter the timeline. Or perhaps it might, a little. One might awaken beside a lean young stud instead of the pudgy father of one’s whining child. There’d be a huge titillated audience. And the sets and actors are free. A producer’s dream. No union contracts.”

“Michaelmas, someone in your position oughtn’t divert himself with paranoias.”

“But oughtn’t a fish study water?”

A little way up, there was a jammed asphalt parking lot beside a gently sloping windblown meadow in which helicopters were standing and in which excess vehicles had broken the cold grass in the sod. The Citroën found a place among the other cars and the broadcast trucks. Up the slope was the sanatorium, very much constructed of bright metal and of polarizable windows, the whole of the design taking a sharply pitched snow-shedding silhouette. Sunlight stormed back from its glitter as if it were a wedge pried into Heaven.

They got out and Clementine Gervaise looked around. “It can be very peaceful here,” she remarked before waving towards their crew truck. People in white coveralls and smocks with her organization’s pocket patch came hurrying. She merged with them, pointing, gesturing, tilting her head to listen, shaking her head, nodding, tapping her forefinger on a proffered clipboard sheet. In another moment, some of them were eddying back towards the equipment freighter and others were trotting up the sanatorium steps, passing and encountering other crews in similar but different jumpsuits. From somewhere up there, a cry of rage and deprivation was followed by a fifty-five-millimetre lens bouncing slowly down the steps.

“Ten-twenty local,” Domino said.

“Thank you,” Michaelmas replied, watching Clementine. “How are your links now?”

“Excellent. What would you expect, with all this gear up here and with elevated horizon-lines?”

“Yes, of course,” Michaelmas said absently. “Have you checked the maintenance records on Horse’s machine?”

“Yes.”

“Have you compared them to all maintenance records on all other machines of the same model?”

“Yes.”

“Have you cross-referenced all critical malfunction data for the type?”

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs. If you’re asking was it an accident, my answer is it shouldn’t have happened. But that doesn’t exclude freak possibilities such as one-of-a-kind failure in a pump diaphragm, or even some kind of anomalous resistance across a circuit. I’m currently running back through all parts suppliers and sub-assembly manufacturers, looking for things like unannounced re-designs, high reject rates at final inspection stages, and so forth. It’ll be a while. And other stones are waiting to be turned.” Clementine Gervaise had entered the awareness of the comm terminal’s sensors. “Here comes one.”

“Let’s concentrate on this Norwood thing for now,” Michaelmas said.

“Of course, Laurent,” Clementine said softly. “The crew is briefed and the equipment is manned.”

Michaelmas’s mouth twitched. “Yes… yes, of course they are. I was watching you.”

“You like my style? Come—let us go in.” She put her arm through his and they went up the steps.

There was another credential verification just beyond the smoked-glass front doors. Another junior UNAC aide was checking names against a list. It was a scene of polite crowding as bodies filed in behind Michaelmas and Clementine.

Douglas Campion was just ahead of them, talking to the aide. Michaelmas prepared to speak to him, but Campion was preoccupied. Michaelmas studied him raptly. The press aide was saying:

“Mr Campion, your crew is in place on the photo balcony. We have you listed for a back-up seat towards the rear of the main auditorium. Now, in view of the unfortunate—”

“Right,” Campion said. “You going to give me Watson’s seat and microphone time?”

“Yes, sir. And please let me express—”

“Thanks. What’s the sea location?”

There was nothing actually nasty about him, Michaelmas decided sadly. One could assume there was regret, grief, or almost anything else you cared to attribute to him, kept somewhere within him under the heat shield.

He watched Campion move away across the foyer towards the auditorium’s rear doors, and then he and Clementine were stepping forward.

The aide smiled as if he’d been born ten seconds ago. “Nice to see you, Mr Michaelmas, Miz Gervaise,” he said.

The fading wetness of anger in his eyes gave them a winning sparkle. He checked off the names on his list, got a photo-copied floor-diagram from his table, and made a mark on it for Clementine. “We’ve given your crew a spot right here in the first row of the balcony,” he said. “You just go up those stairs over there at the back of the foyer and you’ll find them. And Mr Michaelmas, we’ve put you front row centre in the main auditorium.” He grinned. “There won’t be any microphone passing. Limberg’s got quite a place here—remote PA mikes and everything. When you’re recognized for a question, just go ahead and speak. Your crew sound system will be patched in automatically.”

“Thank you.” Michaelmas changed the shape of his lips. He did not appear to alter the tone or level of his voice, but no one standing behind him could hear him. “Is Mr Frontiere here?”

The aide raised his eyebrow. “Yes, sir. He’ll be up on the podium for the Q and A.”

“I wonder if I could see him for just a moment now.”

The aide grimaced and glanced at his wristwatch. Michaelmas’s smile was one of complete sympathy. “Sorry to have to ask,” he said.

The aide smiled back helplessly. “Well,” he said while Michaelmas’s head cocked insouciantly to block anyone’s view of the young man’s lips. “I guess we do owe you a couple, don’t we? Sharp left down that side hall. The next to the last door leads into the auditorium near your seat. The last door goes backstage. He’s there.”

“Thank you.” There was pressure at Michaelmas’s back. He knew without looking that a score of people were filling the space back to the doors, and others were beginning to elbow each other subconsciously at the head of the outside steps. They were all craning forward to see what the hang-up might be, and getting ready to avenge discourtesy or to make dignified outcry at the first sign of favouritism.

“I will manage it for you, Laurent,” Clementine said quietly.

“Ah? Merci. A bientôt,” Michaelmas said. He stepped around the reception table and wondered what the hell.

Clementine moved with him, and then a little farther forward, her stride suddenly became long and masculine. She pivoted towards the balcony stairs and the heel snapped cleanly off one shoe. She lurched, caught her balance by slapping one hand flat against the wall, and cried out “merde!” hoarsely. She plucked off the shoe, threw it clattering far down the long foyer, and kicked its mate off after it. She padded briskly up the stairs in her stockinged feet, still followed by every eye.