Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

He paced back and forth, outlining it. His hands seized and modelled the air before him; his face and voice played all the parts. When he was done he took a deep breath and sat down rubbing his forearms, perspiration glistening in the arced horizontal creases under his eyes. “Do you foresee any production problems?”

“No… no, I can do it.”

Michaelmas looked down at his hands. “Is it any good, do you think?” he said softly.

“Well, of course, you must remember that my viewpoint is not the same as that of its potential audience.”

“Allowing for that,” Michaelmas said a little more sharply, “what do you think?”

“I think it’s eminently suitable.”

Michaelmas’s lips narrowed. His eyeblink rate increased. “Is there something we should change?” he asked.

“No, it’s fine the way it is. I’m sure it could be very effective.”

“Could be?”

“Well, isn’t Watson’s employer network going to do something along the same lines?”

“I don’t know. Campion said he wasn’t doing one. There are other people they could get. Maybe they’ll want to take mine. Probably they’d rather do their own. But what difference would that make? Billions of people are familiar with Watson’s personality. He’s worked for every major outlet at one time or another. He’s a public figure, for heaven’s sake!”

“Yes, of course. I’m starting to look into it.” There was a pause. “Getulio Frontiere passed through the kitchen-entrance surveillance systems a few minutes ago and has taken a service elevator to this floor. He’s coming here.”

Michaelmas nodded with satisfaction. “Good! Now we’re going to learn a few things.” He stepped lightly across the room.

There was a soft rap on the door. Michaelmas opened it instantly. “Come in, Getulio,” he said. He drew the man inside and shut the door. “We are alone, and the suite is of course made secure against eavesdropping. I’m sure there is refreshment here to offer you. Let me look in the bar. Sit down. Be comfortable.”

Frontiere blinked. “For - for me, nothing, thank you.”

“Oh? Well, all right, then, I’ll have the same.” Taking Frontiere’s elbow, he hustled the man towards the central table, put him in a chair, and sat down facing him, “All right, let’s talk.”

Frontiere licked his lips. He looked across the table steadily enough. “You must not be angry with us, Laurent. We did what we could in the face of great difficulties. We are still in serious trouble. I cannot tell you anything, you understand?”

Michaelmas pointed to the terminal. The pilot lights were dead and the switch marked OFF/ON was set on OFF.

Frontiere looked uncomfortable. He reached inside his jacket and brought out a flat, metallic little device and put it down on the table. Two small red lights winked back and forth. “Forgive me. A noise generator. You understand the necessity.”

“Without a doubt.” Michaelmas nodded. “Now, speak, friend.”

Frontiere nodded bleakly. “There is evidence the Soviets sabotaged Norwood’s shuttle.”

Michaelmas rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers. The breath, released from his diaphragm after a pause, hissed in his nostrils. “What sort?”

“When Norwood was boosting up for the orbital station, he noticed that Ground Control was responding falsely to his transmissions. He called them to say so and discovered they were responding as if his voice had said something perfectly routine. He could not get through to them. Meanwhile, Ground Control noticed nothing. He began tearing away panels and tracing communications circuits. He found an extra component — one not shown on the module diagrams. He says it has proven to be a false telemetry sender of undoubtable Soviet manufacture. As Norwood was reaching for it, his booster systems board began showing progressive malfunctions cascading towards immediate explosion. He ripped out the sender, pocketed it, went to escape mode, and fired out in his capsule; the rest, as they say, is history.”

Michaelmas put his hand behind his head and tugged hard forward against the stiffened muscles of his neck. “What is the scenario?”

Frontiere’s voice was perfectly emotionless. “A timed destruct sequence and false telemetry in the module, backed by computerized false voice transmissions from an overhead station — probably from Kosmgorod. It was in an appropriate position, and the on-shift crew was almost one hundred per cent Soviet. Meanwhile, a pre-set booster sabotage sequence was running concurrently somewhere else in the system. By the time Norwood discovered the false telemetry sender, the destruct sequence was practically at completion. He extracted the sender and jumped; the booster blew immediately thereafter, and the telemetry gap is so slight as to be undetectable. That’s how Norwood has reconstructed it, and he was the engineer on the spot.”

“And the Soviet motive?”

“To reignite Soviet nationalism and establish Communist pre-eminence under the guise of world brotherhood.”

“You think so?”

Frontiere looked up. “What do you expect of me?” he said sharply. “Norwood says it, Norwood has turned over to us the Soviet telemetry sender, and Kosmgorod has already made a. computer simulation which times out to exactly that possible sequence. What do you think we were doing all night and morning? Washing our hands?”

Michaelmas’s tongue made a noise like a dry twig snapping. “What are you going to do?” He got abruptly to his feet, but then simply stood with his hands resting on the back of his chair and his eyes almost unseeing on the terminal, lying OFF upon the table.

“We don’t know.” Frontiere looked at Michaelmas with the wide eyes of a man staring out of a burning building. He shrugged. “What can we do? If it is true, UNAC is finished. If it is not true, what is true? Can we find what is true before UNAC is finished? Our own man is the best witness against us, and he is absolutely convinced. And convincing. To hear him speak of it is to doubt no one syllable. He has had months in hospital; his time has been spent analytically. Facts and figures issue from him unerringly. He is—he is like a man with an axe, chopping down the bridge across the world.”

Michaelmas snorted. “Hmm.”

“You find it amusing?”

“No. No! Resume your seat, please. No offence was meant. I take it Ossip ordered Norwood to be silent?”

“Of course. Ossip has the sender and is en route to Star Control to have it analysed. Perhaps Norwood made an error in evaluation, using Limberg’s facilities; perhaps better apparatus and better circumstances will show it is a counterfeit. Nevertheless, we halted Papashvilly from coming to Berne. He was at the aerodrome, boarding a courier craft to come here, and suddenly he was stopped at the gate by frantic staff people and hustled back to the Star Control complex. Dozens of people of all kinds saw it. Someone in the media will soon know about it. The Soviet Union will certainly react in some manner calculated to redress the insult. The ripples are spreading. We have very little time, Laurent. We have less than we might; we have the horse-eater, Limberg, to deal with.”

Michaelmas’s mouth twitched. “What of him?”

Frontiere held up a hand, its fingers spread. “What not of him? First, he holds Norwood and never says a word until he is fully assured everything is perfect. One has to wonder : had Norwood died, would Limberg ever have told anyone? Had he been somewhat warped, would Limberg have sacrificed him like any other human guinea pig? But never mind that. Second, he lets Norwood, for therapy— for therapy— construct for himself a little engineering analysis workbench in a corner somewhere. Third, he gives him time on a house computer to run the simulation so Norwood can have it all on tape for us when Sakal says we need one. For therapy. Fourth, he tells us it is our duty to the world to release the news of the telemetry device, in the name of justice and doing the right thing for Norwood and all brave people caught in the toils of international conspiracy. And he has of course photographs as well as holograms of the telemetry device, and a file copy of the simulation tape, since they were of course made in his house from his facilities. Fifth, therefore, it would be unwise for UNAC to suppress this news on the immoral grounds of self-preservation.” Frontiere’s right forefinger thudded audibly as he ticked off each point on his left hand. He wiped his lips. “Brutto,” he said softly.