Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

Michaelmas rubbed his eyes. “EVM is originating this?”

“Yes.”

“Gervaise have anything to do with it?”

“No. There’s a routine memo from the programming director: ”Want astro item today. How about this from my question backfile?“ And there’s a routine memo from an assistant, bucking the top memo down to the assignment desk and adding, ”How about that Jacquard person for this?“ The rest of the process was equally natural. They did rush it out, of course, but you would if you wanted to be topical.”

“It’s the slant that bothers me.”

“Yes.”

“You think they’re tiptoeing up on an anti-Pavel campaign in the media.”

“I had that thought when I reviewed it, yes. Now I am examining Major Papashvilly’s surroundings very carefully. I have found what I believe to be at least one instance of tampering.”

“You have.” Michaelmas sat perfectly still, his hands dangling between his knees, his face stupid. Only his eyes looked alive, and they were focused on God knows what.

“Yes. He’s in his apartment; they want him somewhere out of the public eye. I have been conducting routine surveillance, as instructed. I am in full contact with his building environmental controls and all his input and output connections. Everything appears to be operating routinely. Which now means I must check everything. I am doing so, piece by piece. A control component in his nearest elevator is fraudulent. It appears normal, and functions normally. It responds normally to routine commands. But it’s larger than the normal part; I can detect a temperature variation in its area, because it slightly obstructs normal airflow. I’ve managed to get the building systems to run a little extra current through it, and I find its resistance significantly higher than specification.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. But the extra portions, whatever they are, do not broadcast, and are not wired into anything I can locate. I think it is a wireless-operated device of some kind, designed to be activated ok signal from some source which cannot be directly located until it goes on the air. Since I don’t know the component, I have no means of blocking that signal, whatever it is and whatever it might make that component do.”

“And so?”

“Now I’m testing everything at or near the Star Control complex that has to do with safety, beginning with things that might affect Major Papashvilly. I—ah, yes, here’s another. Last week, a routine change was made in the power-supply divider of his personal car. The old one had reached the end of its guarantee period. But the new one never came from dealer or jobber stock. It’s in there, because the car has drawn power several times since the change was logged. But I have rechecked every inventory record at every point between the car and the manufacturer’s work order for producing spares, and the count is off. Papashvilly has something in his vehicle that looks like a correct spare and acts like a correct spare, or Star Control’s personnel garagemen would have noticed. But it was never manufactured at any known point, and I don’t know what else it might be able to do besides ration electrons. So that’s two, and I’m still checking.”

“All because EVM says Russkis are headbreakers.”

“And because Cikoumas et Cie recently opened a Cité d’Afrique branch. The managing director is Konstantinos Cikoumas, a younger brother, who is very energetic in signing wholesale date contracts, and who also has spent his time vigorously making friendships and acquaintances, to say nothing of casual contacts. In his few African months, so close to Star Control, Kosta Cikoumas has become personally known to thousands, and is seen everywhere. He is, you should know, a supplier to Star Control’s various restaurants and its staff cafeterias. His trucks run back and forth, and his employees are up and down the elevators frequently with their boxes and bales. That’s what started me looking, really. I would never have found these things otherwise — Oh, damn, here’s something odd about a fire-door mechanism! These people are resourceful. None of these differences feel large enough to be visible on routine inspection. Every one of them is passive until it’s needed, and I would guess that the extra features probably burn after use. Every one of them is in position to affect a life-threatening situation. God damn. They almost smoked all of this past me.”

“But you put two and two together.”

“That’s right. I’m developing intuition. Satisfied?”

“Pleased.”

“Well, it may give you extra joy to know that I’ve decided you’re not crazy after all.”

“Oh, have you been thinking that?”

“From Day One,” Domino said.

“From last night?”

“No. From Day One. Well, now—how about this? Cikoumas et Cie has never purchased any electronic components, or anything from which modern electronics can be manufactured, that I can’t account for. Not in Europe, not in Africa. Nothing. So where do they get them?”

“Suppose it’s not Cikoumas.”

“Please,” Domino said. “It has to be Cikoumas. My intuitions are never wrong.”

“What are you doing to protect Papashvilly now?” Michaelmas asked after a pause.

“I have failed the circuits on his apartment door. He is locked in, and trouble is locked out. Should he discover this, I will modify any call he makes to Building Maintenance. I will open that door only to people I’m sure are okay, and I will extend similar methods to cover them and him.”

“That can only be a short-term measure.”

“Granted. We’ll have to crack this soon. But it’s a measure, and I’ve taken it. What else can I do?”

Michaelmas sat and watched the car progress toward the airport. What else could he do?

The interior of the UNAC executive aircraft featured two short rows of double seats, a rear lounge, and a private cabin forward. It was all done in muted blues and silver tones, with the UN flag and the UNAC crest in sculpted silver metal on the lounge partition above the bar. Michaelmas came up the lowered stairs with a gateman carrying his bag, and as soon as he was aboard the cabin attendant swung the door shut. The engines whined up. “Welcome aboard, Mr Michaelmas,” the attendant said. “Signor Frontiere is waiting for you in the office.”

“Thank you.” Michaelmas glanced up the aisle. The seats were about half full of various people, many of whom he recognized as UNAC press relations staff. Norwood, Campion, a pair of aides, and Clementine Gervaise were chatting easily in the lounge. Michaelmas stepped quickly through the cabin door. Frontiere looked up from a seat in one corner. The room was laid out like a small parlour, for easy conversation. “It’s nice to have you with us, Laurent,” he said, waving toward an adjacent seat. “Please. As soon as you fasten your belt, we can be away.”

“Yes, of course.” He settled in, and the brakes came off almost at the same instant. The plane taxied briskly away from the gate pad, swung sharply on to the runway, and plunged into its takeoff roll. Michaelmas peered interestedly through the side window, watching parked aircraft and service vehicles flash by beyond the almost perfectly non-reflecting dull black wing, until he felt the thump of the landing gear retracting and saw the last few checker-painted outbuildings at the end of the runway drifting backward below him. The plane climbed steeply away from Berne, arcing over the tops of the mountains. Michaelmas exhaled softly and leaned back. He arranged

Domino’s terminal against his thigh. “Well, Getulio! I see Douglas Campion is well established on board.”

“Ah, yes, he is being entertained in the lounge. He will be shooting an interview with Norwood here, and I of course will have to be present. But I thought, for the first few minutes of our journey…” He reached into an ice bucket fixed beside him, chose two chilled glasses, and poured Lambrusco. “It does no harm, and it may be of value.” He lifted his glass to Michaelmas. “A domani.”