Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

So now we’re supposed to be friends again. Well, we are —of course we are. Michaelmas raised his glass. “Alle ragazze.”

“Alla vittoria.”

They smiled at each other. “You understand I must give this Campion precedence ?”

“And why not? He came to you with a firm offer after I had equivocated.”

“Do you know him?”

“I met him last night for the first time. His reputation is good.”

“His experience is light. But he did quite well at the press conference. And he has this star, Gervaise, for a director. Also, EVM does very good production; I am told your sequence from the sanatorium was very much up to your standards. They have a brand-new Macht Dirigent computer and an ultramodern editing programme that only CBS and Funkbeobachter also have as yet. Their managers have not been afraid to spend money, and they appear wise. It makes good points for the young man.” Frontiere smiled. “And it gives me some assurance of quality.”

“And you have assurances from him?”

Frontiere’s upper lip was fleetingly nipped between his teeth. He nodded, his eyes downcast. Oh, yes, Michaelmas thought, Getulio Frontiere does not bring me in here, and apologize for what is about to be done, unless something firm has been promised his client.

“Campion has a viable proposition,” Frontiere said. “Even though Colonel Norwood may have appeared healthy and alert at the sanatorium, after such a radical accident extensive tests must be performed. And even after that, who can promise no subtle injuries might be waiting to emerge under mission stress? But this is a difficult thing to explain to the public without seeming to demean Norwood. I should explain to you, Laurent,” Frontiere said gently, “that it was Campion who pointed this out to me. He feels it is his duty to interview Norwood with dignity, but in a thorough manner so that this aspect of the situation emerges in Norwood’s own responses. He is concerned, he says, that public pressure not force a situation where both Norwood and this weighty mission might be jeopardized. It is only for this reason that this rising young little-known newsman wishes to make the first in-depth exclusive interview with the resurrected hero. He is very civic-minded, your colleague.”

Michaelmas frowned. “You’re instructing Norwood to act in conformity with this line?”

Frontiere shook his head. “How can I do that? Issue an instruction to manage the news? If someone protested, or even remembered it afterwards, what would all our careers be worth? No,” Frontiere said, “we simply trust to Campion’s ability to uncover his truth for himself.” He sipped the wine. “This is very good,” he murmured.

“I remember we would have it with crayfish,” Michaelmas concurred, “on the Viti sea terrace, and watch the girls in little motorboats going out to the yacht parties.”

“In the days when we were younger.”

Michaelmas wondered how thoroughly Campion had thought his action through. It was very delicate, for someone nurturing himself toward prominence, to be quite so much of a volunteer. Word got out quickly; the beginnings of careers were when appraisals were swapped most freely.

To be courtly was one thing; to be considered fast and loose was another.

But it was late to be thinking in terms of advice for Campion. And what sort of advice did he have for Getulio Frontiere on this sad occasion? Choose another career in your youth?

“Well, Getulio, I think you’re still some years from turning into a toothless old man with his hands between his knees.”

“And you. I see the teeth,” Frontiere said, surprising Michaelmas a little. “I have Papashvilly ready and waiting for you at Star Control. You have a crew already hired for the interview, I suppose? Good, they will be met and made comfortable pending your arrival, if necessary. Sakal and others will interrupt all but the most urgent business to speak to you at your convenience. I only regret there will not be time on this flight for you to more than begin with Norwood after Campion is done.”

“I can always get whatever I need from him at Star Control. You’ve been very courteous and thoughtful, Getulio. And now I’ll just amuse myself back there and let you get on with your responsibilities.”

All protocol satisfied, he undid his seatbelt and rose to his feet. Frontiere rose with him, shaking his hand like an American. Interesting. It was interesting. They were a little afraid of him. And well they ought to be: a person in his position could do immense things. But he had never thought his awareness of it could be discerned. He had spent his career perfecting a manner of an entirely different kind.

He smiled at Getulio again and stepped out of the compartment, turning to move up the aisle toward the back of the plane. And yet of course one does not construct an exterior unless one is aware the interior is perhaps a little too true. Here were Norwood, Campion, and Clementine coming toward him from the lounge. Clementine leaned to speak over the shoulder of a seat, and a technician with hand-held apparatus rose and joined them. They all passed him in the narrow aisle. “Nice to meet you again,” Campion said, closed his jaw, and was gone toward the cabin. “Hey, there,” Norwood said. Clementine smiled. “Perhaps later?” she murmured as she passed. They had all been watching the cabin door without seeming to. Waiting on him. Only the technician walked by him without glancing, silently, with the toes-down step of a performer on high wires, his grace automatic, his skills coming to life within him, his face consequently reflecting nothing not his own. Of them all, he was the most pure.

Michaelmas went up toward the lounge, holding the terminal in one hand to keep it from bouncing against things. He nodded and chatted as the young press aides renewed or established acquaintances and saw to it he had a comfortable seat and a cup of coffee. After a few minutes they apparently saw he wanted to be alone, and went away one by one. He sat looking out the window at the mountains far below, and the blue sky and the Mediterranean coast beginning to resolve itself as far as Toulon. Then the Pyrenees emerged like a row of knuckles far beyond as the plane reached maximum altitude and split the air just north of Corsica. Try as he might, he had not been able to see anyone’s handiwork in her face.

“Mr Michaelmas,” Domino said in his ear.

“Uh-huh.”

“Viola Hanrassy has postponed her state chairman meeting. Her information officer receipted the Cikoumas package fifteen minutes ago.”

Michaelmas’s lips thinned. “What’s she doing?”

“Too soon to tell. Her secretary called her Washington manager at home and instructed him to be at the US Always office there directly for possible phone calls. He lives in College Park and should be there in twenty minutes.

His local time is seven twenty-three am. That’s all I have on it so far.”

“Anything else pertinent?”

“I’m still working on Papashvilly’s defence. He’s surrounded by implanted devices! And I have something else you’ll have to hear shortly. Wait two.”

“What’s the Watson obit status?”

He waited.

“Domino —”

“We’ve had no luck, Mr Michaelmas.”

He straightened in the seat. “What do you mean?”

“I… can’t place it.”

“You can’t place an obituary for Melvin Watson.” He searched his mind for a convincer. “By Laurent Michaelmas.”

“I’m—sorry.” The voice in his skull was soft. “You know, it really isn’t very probable someone would want to sponsor an obituary. I asked in a great many places. Did you know the principal human reason for seeking corporate employment is awareness of death? And the principal motivation for decision-making is its denial?” Domino paused. “After reaching that determination, I stopped looking for sponsors and approached a number of the media. They might have underwritten the time themselves, if it had been some other subject. One or two appeared to consider it, but they couldn’t find a slot open on their time schedules.”