Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

“Well, there at least I’m secure; unless of course, something begins to affect speeds within the electromagnetic spectrum.”

“Son, there is no man so smart there is no man to take him.”

“I wouldn’t argue that for a moment.”

“It’s nice to have you back.” Michaelmas pushed himself slowly away from the table and began walking about the room in his stockinged feet, his hands behind his back “The Tass man,” he said.

“The Tass man?”

“At the press conference. He didn’t ask whether Norwood was being reinstated in command of the expedition. Nobody else did, either—Sakal had thrown a broad hint he wouldn’t be. But if you were the correspondent of the Soviet news agency, wouldn’t you want it nailed down specifically?”

“Not if I’d been instructed not to show it was on my mind.”

“Exactly. They’ve made all their decisions, back there. Now they feel prepared to spring traps on whichever perfidious option the immoral West chooses to exercise. You know, even more than playing chess, I dislike dealing with self-righteous chess players.” Michaelmas shook his head and dropped down into the chair again. He sat heavily. It was possible to see that he had rather more stomach than one normally realized, and that his shoulders could be quite round. “Well - tell me about Fefre and all the rest of them. Tell me about the girl and the dolphin.”

“Fefre is as he was, and I don’t know what dolphin you’re talking about.”

“Well, thank God for that. What do you know about Cikoumas et Cie?”

“It’s owned by Kristiades Cikoumas, who is also Limberg’s chief assistant. It’s a family business; he has his son in charge of the premises and making minor decisions. He inherited it from his father. And so forth. An old Bernaise family. Kristiades as a younger man made deliveries to the sanatorium. One day he entered medical school on grants from Limberg’s foundation. The Sorbonne, to be exact.”

“Why not? Why not settle for the very best? What a fortunate young man! And what a nice manner he’s acquired in the course of unfolding his career.”

“You’ve met him, then?”

“Yes, I’ve met him. It’s been a while since he last shouldered a crate of cantaloupes. That package he’s slipped off to Missouri could be arriving almost any time, couldn’t it?”

“It’s been offloaded at Lambert Field and is en route to the Cape Girardeau postal substation. It’s addressed to Hanrassy, all right — it passed through an automatic sorter at New York, and I was able to read the plate. It can be in Hanrassy’s breakfast mail. It’s already a big day for her; she’s scheduled to meet all her state campaign chairmen for a decision on precisely when to announce her candidacy. Her state organizations are all primed, she has several million new dollars in reserve beyond what’s already committed, more pledged as soon as she wins her first primary, and two three-minute eggs, with croutons, ordered for breakfast. She will also have V-8 juice and Postum.”

Michaelmas shook his head. “She’s still planning to use that dinosaur money?” A lot of Hanrassy’s backing came from people who thought that if she won, the 120-mile-per-hour private car would return, and perhaps bring back the $120,000-per-year union president with it.

“Yes.”

“Damn fool.”

“She doesn’t see it that way. She’s laundered the money through several seemingly foolproof stages. It’s now greyish green at worst.”

“And her man’s still in the United States Treasury Department?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway.” Treasury was holding several millions for her party, as it was in various other amounts for various others. It was check-off money from tax returns, earmarked by her faithful. As soon as she filed her candidacy, it was hers—subject to a certain degree of supervision. Hanrassy’s plan was to meld-in some of the less perfectly clean industrial money and then misrepresent her campaign expenditures back to her Treasury official. He’d certify the accounts as correct. Michaelmas’s plan was to make him famous as soon as he’d certificated the ledger print-out.

Domino said: “What we can do to her next year won’t help today.”

“I know.” There weren’t that many exploitable openings in US Always’s operations. “She’s quite something, really,” Michaelmas said. “But perhaps we’ll be able to manage something with whatever Cikoumas has sent her.”

“Whatever it is can hardly be meant for the good of anyone but Limberg and his plans.”

“Of course.” Michaelmas said. “Nevertheless: I would like to think this is a world for the hopeful.”

“Well, one certainly hopes so,” Domino said.

“What about the Watson crash?” Michaelmas asked carefully.

“Negative. The European Flight Authority has taken jurisdiction. That’s expectable, since the original crash notification appeared in their teleprinters with an Extra Priority coding added. They’ve autopsied the pilot and Watson; both were healthy and alert up to the time of impact. The flight recorder shows power loss without obvious cause. It reports Watson’s last words as ‘Son of a bitch!’ The crash site has been impounded and the wreckage taken to an AEV hangar here. It’s too soon for their examiners to have generated any inter-office discussion of findings.”

“Meanwhile, I find no meaningful defect pattern in the history of that model. It crashes, but not often, and the reasons vary. I’m now approaching it another way. On the assumption that something must have been done to the helicopter, I’m compiling a list of all persons on Earth who could conceivably have gotten to the machine at any time since its last flight. Then I’ll assign higher priority to anyone who could have reached it after it became clear it would be used in connection with Norwood. I’ll weight that on an ascending scale in correlation with general technical aptitude, then with knowledge of helicopters, then specific familiarity with the type, and so forth. This will yield a short list of suspects, and I expect to be able to cross-check in several ways after the flight authority investigation generates some data.” Domino paused. “If the crash was not truly accidental.”

“It could be, I suppose, couldn’t it?”

“The world is full of confusing coincidences.”

“And a man’s mind insists on making patterns from random data.”

“I know.”

“Do you think the Watson crash was a true accident?”

“I have learned to suspect all crashes.”

“When and where are the funerals?”

“The pilot was unattached, with no close relatives. She is being cremated by the canton; there will be a memorial service for her friends. I have sent a message in your name, citing the fellowship of news-gatherers.”

“Thank you. And Horse?”

“He is being flown home this afternoon. There will be a family service day after tomorrow. Interment will be private. You have spoken with Mrs Watson and have promised to visit in person as soon as you possibly can. I am holding a playback of the conversation, waiting for review at your convenience.”

“Yes. In a while.” Michaelmas got up again. He walked to the windows and back. “Get someone to buy five minutes' US time tonight for my Watson obit. I want an institutional sponsor; check and see who bought a lot of Watson footage in the past, and pick the best. Offer it English-speaking worldwide, but get me US prime time; waive my fee, and tell 'em I’m buying the production. All they’ve got to foot is the time charges, but we okay the commercial content. No pomp and circumstance for the Gastric Research Institute, right? And now here’s how it wants to play.”