Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

Michaelmas, grinning crookedly, moved down the side hall, his progress swift, his manner jaunty, his footsteps soundless. He pushed quickly through the door at the end.

Heads turned sharply—Limberg, Norwood, a handful of UNAC administrative brass, Frontiere, their torsos supported by stiff arms as they huddled over a table spread with papers and glossy photographic enlargements. Limberg’s lump-knuckled white forefinger tapped at one of the glossies.

Michaelmas waved agreeably as they regarded him with dismay. Frontiere hurried over.

“Laurent—”

“Giorno, Tulio. Quickly—before I go in—is UNAC going to reshuffle the flight crew?”

Frontiere’s angular, patrician face suddenly declared it would say nothing. The very dark eyes in their deep sockets locked on Michaelmas’s, and Frontiere crossed his slim hands with their polished nails over the lean biceps in his alpaca sleeves. “Why do you ask this, Laurent?”

How many times, thought Michaelmas, have I helped UNAC over rough spots that even they know of? And I’m ready to do it again, God knows. And here Frontiere was counting up every one of them. Who would have thought a man would have so much credit deducted for such a simple answer? Merely an answer that would let the world’s most prominent newsman frame his press conference comments more securely. “Norwood was in command, Papashvilly was put in command, Papashvilly is a major. Answer my question and you tell me much. I think it a natural query… vecchio amico.”

Frontiere grimaced uncomfortably. “Perhaps it is. We are all very much into our emotions this morning, you understand? I was not giving you sufficient credit for sapience, I believe.”

Michaelmas grinned. “Then answer the God-damned question.”

Frontiere moved his eyes as if wishing to see the people behind him. “If necessary, an announcement will be made that it is not planned to change the flight crew.”

Michaelmas cocked his head. “In other words, this is an excellent fish dinner especially if someone complains of stomach. Is that the line you propose to defend?”

Frontiere’s sour grin betrayed one of his famous dimples. “I am not doing well with you this morning… old friend,” he said softly. “Perhaps you would like to speak quietly with me alone after the conference.”

“Between friends?”

“Entirely between friends.”

“Bene.”

“Thank you very much,” Frontiere smiled slightly. “Now I must get back to my charges. Take your place in the auditorium, Laurent; the dogs and ponies are all cued. Despite one or two small matters, we shall begin shortly.” Frontiere turned and walked back towards the others, spreading his arms, palms up, in a very Latin gesture. They resumed their intent whispering. Limberg shook his hand repeatedly over the one particular photograph. The side of his fingertip knock knock knocked on the table-top.

Michaelmas stepped out and softly closed the door. “We must be certain we’re doing everything we can to protect Papashvilly,” he said in the empty hall.

“Against what, exactly?” Domino said. “We’re already doing all we can in general. If he’s taken off the mission, despite all that bumph, he needs no more. If he’s still in, what am I supposed to suggest? UNAC is apparently concerned for him. Remember they almost put him on a plane for here, then Sakal ordered him back from the Cité d’Afrique airport. What do you make of that?”

“There are times when I would simply like to rely on your genius.”

“And there are times when I wish your intuitions were more specific.”

Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck. “I would very much like some peace and quiet.”

“Then I have disturbing news. I’ve just figured out what Rybakov is for.”

“Oh?”

“The Russians can also think ahead. If UNAC attempts to reinstate Norwood, they won’t just threaten to pull Papashvilly. They’ll threaten to pull Papashvilly and they’ll threaten to insist on honest workman Rybakov being second-in-command.”

Michaelmas’s tongue clicked out from the space between his upper lip and his front teeth. “There would be a fantastic scandal.”

“More than that.”

“Yes.” If UNAC then refused to accept that proposition, the next move saw the USSR also withdrawing Rybakov. That would leave the so-called Mankind in Space programme with only an East German lieutenant to represent half the Caucasian world’s politics. “We’d be right back into the 1960s. UNAC can’t possibly go for that, or what’s UNAC for? So as soon as they see the Russians moving Rybakov up out of the pawn row, they’ll drop the whole scheme. They may be rocking back a little now, but one glimpse of that sequence and they’ll stonewall for Papashvilly no matter what.”

“ What may be Viola Hanrassy and everything she can throw.”

“Exactly. I wonder what would explode.” Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck again. “I would very much like some peace and quiet,” he said in the same voice he had used to speak of darkness.

Three more steps and he was in at the side of the auditorium. It was a medical lecture hall during the normal day, and a place where the patients could come to watch entertainment in the evening. Nevertheless, it made a very nice two-hundred-seat facility for a press conference, and the steep balcony was ideal for cameras, with the necessary power outlets and sound system outputs placed appropriately. To either side of the moderately thrust stage, lenticular reflectors were set at a variety of angles, so that an over-the-shoulder shot could be shifted into a tele close-up of anyone in the main floor audience.

The brown plush seats were filling quickly. There was the usual assortment of skin colours, sexes, and modes of dress. They were much more reserved now, these permitted few, than the hustling mob at the airport.

Michaelmas stopped at Douglas Campion. He held out his hand. “I’d like to express my sympathies. And wish you good luck at this opportunity.” It seemed a sentiment the man would respond to.

The eyes moved. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Are you planning an obituary feature?”

“Can’t now.” They were looking over his shoulder at the curtain. “Got to stay with the main story. That’s what he’d want.”

“Of course.” He moved on. The pale tan fabric panels of the acoustic draperies made an attractive wall decor. They gave back almost none of the sound of feet shuffling, seats tilting, and cleared throats.

And out there in Tokyo and Sydney they were putting down their preprandial Suntory, switching off the cassettes, punching up the channels. In Peking they were standing in the big square and watching the huge projection from the government building; in Moscow they were jammed up against the sets in the little apartments; in Los Angeles they were elbowing each other for a better line of sight in the saloons — here and there they were shouting at each other and striking out passionately. In Chicago and New York, presumably they slept; in Washington, presumably they could not.

Michaelmas slipped towards his seat, nodding and waving to acquaintances. He found his name badge pinned to the fabric, looked at it, and put it in his pocket. He glanced up at the balcony; Clementine put her finger to her ear, cocked her thumb, and dropped it. He pulled the earplug out of its recess in Domino’s terminal and inserted it. A staff announcer on Clementine’s network was doing a lead-in built on the man-in-the-street clips Domino had edited for them in Michaelmas’s name, splicing in reaction shots of Michaelmas’s face from stock. Then he apparently went to a voice-over of the whole-shot of the auditorium from a pool camera; he did a meticulous job of garnishing what the world was seeing as a room full of people staring at a closed curtain.