Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

“And what do you think of his motivation?” Michaelmas asked.

“Glory. The little sniffer sees himself of millennial stature.” Frontiere shook his head. “Forgive me, Laurent. You know I’m not like this often.” He thudded his hand down upon the table. “The truth ! He claims to speak for truth!”

“And you for exasperation. What did you do when he exposed you to that?” Michaelmas asked.

“Ossip did it. He is not a man to lie down. First, he told Norwood that if one word of this got out before he had time to check it completely, one way or the other, there would never be the slightest chance of Norwood’s going on the expedition. Then he told Limberg the press conference would take place immediately, and that not a hint of the accusations would be given. He wants as much time as possible before the American and the Soviet general public formulate their mass opinions. He said Limberg could talk as much as he wished about his medical abilities but if he attempted anything more, it would be total war between Limberg and UNAC until one or the other exhausted its resources. And was that clear?”

Michaelmas pursed his lips. “And Limberg and Norwood agreed?”

“Why not? Norwood is under discipline as a UNAC assignee, and what has Limberg to lose? If a few hours go by and then the news gets out, Limberg looks better and UNAC looks worse than ever. For the sake of his glory ! This tantalizer of birds, this connoisseur of things to be found in a garden, this — Laurent, please, you must do for us whatever you can.”

“Yes, I must,” Michaelmas said. “But what can that be?”

He began moving about the room, his hands reaching out to touch the handles of a breakfront, the pulls of the drapes, the switches on the little lights above the painting. “If it’s not true, there’s no problem. I can reinforce whatever facts you announce, we can play it correctly - well, hell, Getulio, we know how that’s done - but what to do if the facts confirm Norwood’s story?” He turned and stared at the public relations man. “Eh? What then?”

Frontiere looked at him uncomfortably. “Well, Ossip is of course due in conference momentarily with the entire UNAC directorship, and all eventualities will be considered.”

“What does that mean?”

Frontiere’s gaze steadied and he folded his arms. “You have always been a very good friend to us, Laurent. You have shared our ideal from the beginning. We understand the call for objectivity in your position. However, the fact is that you have always been slow to elaborate anything detrimental about us. To the contrary, you have been energetic in confirming what is good for us.”

Michaelmas put up a hand swiftly. “Because taken day in and out, UNAC is one of the excellent and well-run ideas of the late twentieth century.” He studied Frontiere’s expression, peering forward as if there were not quite enough light to show him all he wanted to examine. “What else are you hoping for? That in this case Laurent Michaelmas will lend himself to whatever UNAC directorship wants, no matter what? Even if Norwood’s story is proven true?”

Frontiere’s lips were pale at the corners. “It may be proven untrue.”

Michaelmas turned away. He stood with one hand on the wall, and looked out at the mountains. “Getulio, do you imagine the telemetry sender does not appear honestly Soviet under Norwood’s analysis? Do you conceive that he and Limberg have lent their names and actions to something like this, if they are not prepared to swear it was in Norwood’s pocket when he was hauled from the capsule? Have they told you where the capsule is located?”

“Of course.”

“And have UNAC technicians looked at it?”

“Certainly.”

“And is the physical evidence consistent with everything Limberg and Norwood have told you ?”

“Yes. But that’s not yet proof —”

“Proof.” Michaelmas turned sharply. “Proof will be conclusive when it comes. But you know what many people will believe even without proof. You know what even many of the more levelheaded will believe must be done when there is proof. Getulio Frontiere, you’re a good man in a good cause, yet you’re here on a shameful errand. And why? Not because there’s final proof. But because there’s already belief, and I can see it on your face as plain as you have it on your conscience. Thank you for trusting me.”

“Getulio, I’ll do what I can. That may be disappointingly little.”

Frontiere stood up without looking at Michaelmas. He busied himself with putting the noise generator back in his pocket and turning towards the door. “E bene, we each do what we can,” he said down to the carpet. “Sometimes we do what we must.”

“E vero,” Michaelmas said, “but we must not go beyond the truth in doing what we can.”

When they were alone again in the suite, Michaelmas went into the bathroom. He rummaged among his kit and found something for his stomach. He took it, went back to the drawing-room, and sat down on the end of the Morris chair. He looked at the terminal. “Why couldn’t you tell me about Limberg’s computer having made a simulated run on the shuttle flight?”

“I never reached that part of his data storage. I didn’t even know it existed.”

“And you still don’t, except by reasoning it out. Yes.” Michaelmas’s voice was dull. “That’s what I thought.” He sat with his head at an angle, as if it were heavy for his neck. He thought, and his expression grew bereft. “It appears he has a screen for his better secrets. One might describe it is a means of actually taking hold of and redirecting individual incoming electrons. If oceans were waves and not water, but you know what I mean. I’d postulate that if the incoming probe were intelligent in itself, then, it might have the sort of subjective experience you’ve described.”

“There’s never been any such technique. No one monitoring Limberg has ever encountered it before. That includes me.”

Michaelmas sighed. He held up his hand and ticked off fingers. “First,” he said wearily, “no probes would ordinarily ever register it; they’d only be diverted to reach whatever Limberg wanted 'em to find. The rest would seem nonexistent. Which, second, incidentally documents the nature of dear Dr. Limberg’s famous passion for privacy. He’s not a blushing virgin — he’s a fan dancer. Third, more important, on this occasion there was something special; greater proximity, perhaps —”

“You’re joking,” Domino said. “I’m no more a piece of hardware than you are a pound of flesh. Since when does the location of one of my terminals have anything to do with where I am?”

“I don’t know,” Michaelmas said. “I didn’t build Limberg’s system. But why are we surprised? Is it really unexpected to find something like this in the hands of Nils Hannes Limberg, famed research scientist savant pioneer?” Michaelmas shrugged. “Of course, if the method ever gets out and goes into general use, you and I are finished.”

“He’d never let go of it while he’s alive,” Domino said quickly. “Meanwhile, we can be developing some counter-technique.”

“If he lives long enough.”

“If any of these suppositions are true.”

“If truth is ever anything more than the most workable supposition.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Domino tentatively said: “Do you buy it? Do you think the Norwood story is true?”

“Well, what do you think? Does it square with the available data?”

“Unless the telemetry sender turns out to be a fake.”

Michaelmas shook his head. “It won’t.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “Can you clock back on Kosmgorod? Is it true they could have used Norwood’s voice channel if the sender was cutting off the voice transmission from his module?”