Algis Budrys - Michaelmas

“Yes,” Michaelmas gradually said. And of course, for the media it wasn’t just a case of three unsold minutes and two minutes of house promo spots. It was making room for the piece by cancelling five minutes that had already been sold. It wasn’t very reasonable to expect someone to go through that degree of complication. “Watson’s frequent sponsors wouldn’t go for it ?”

“Well, it’s very late in the fiscal year, Mr Michaelmas. All the time-buying budgets are very close to bottom.”

“What about Watson’s network?”

“They’re having a few words read by the anchorman on the regular news shows. Many of the networks are doing that, of course.”

Michaelmas looked out the window and bounced his palms on the ends of his armrests. “What will five minutes' time cost us?”

“That’s not something you should ever do for any reason,” Domino said quickly. “You’re a seller, never a buyer—”

“How comforting to have an incorruptible business manager.”

“—and in any case the time isn’t available.”

Michaelmas shook his head, neck bent. “Damn it, isn’t there anything?”

“We can get time on a local channel in Mrs Watson’s community. At least she and his children will be able to see what you thought of him.”

He settled back in the seat, his eyes closing against the glare while the plane dipped the offside wing, banked left, and took up a place on the MARS-D’AF route running southeastward from Marseilles.

“No. It wasn’t written for them.” Good Lord! It was one thing to have them see it build to that last shot when they could know it was making Horse real to the outside world. It was entirely different to have such a thing done essentially in private. “Forget it. Thank you for trying.” He rubbed his face.

“I am sorry,” Domino said. “It was a good piece of work.”

“Well, one does these things, of course, in the knowledge that good work is appreciated and good workers are honoured in memory.” Michaelmas turned toward the nearest UNAC aide. “I wonder if there’s another cup of coffee,” he said. The aide got immediately to his feet, happy to be of help.

Time passed briefly. “Mr Michaelmas,” Domino said.

“Yes?”

“I have that new item I was working on.”

“All right,” he said listlessly.

“An EVM crew in the United States is interviewing Will Gately. His remarks will be edited into the footage Campion is getting now.”

“Has Gately gotten to his office already?”

“He’s jogging to work. His morning exercise. The crew is tracking him through Rock Greek Road. But he has had a phone call at home from Viola Hanrassy.”

Michaelmas’s lips pinched. “Is he another one of hers?”

“No. It seems unnecessary. She simply addressed him as Mr Secretary and asked him if he’d be in his office later this morning. She said she appreciated his feeling of patriotic pride in Norwood’s return, and hoped he’d have time to take a longer call from her later. I think it’s fair to assume she plans to tell him something about astronautics.”

Michaelmas sucked his teeth. “Does she, do you think?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Michaelmas sat up a little straighter. “Are you?” His fingertips drummed on the armrests. “Her moves today look like it, don’t they? Well—never mind that for now. What’s Willy saying to the press?”

“Here’s what he said a few minutes ago.” There was a slight change in the sound quality, and Michaelmas could hear soft-shod footfalls and regular breathing as the man loped along the cinder path. He kept himself in shape; he was a wiry, flat-bellied biomechanism. His tireless search for a foolproof industrial management job had ended only in a government appointment, but it had not impaired his ability to count cadence. He chuffed along as if daring John Henry to ever whup him down.

“Mr Secretary,” the EVM string interviewer said, “what’s your reaction to the news Colonel Norwood will soon be visiting the United States?”

“Be nice to see him, of course. The President’ll have a dinner for him. Maybe squeeze in .. parade or two. Be nice. I have to wonder though. Every day he’s here, that’s a day he can’t train.” The sound of muffled footsteps changed momentarily to a drumming—Gately had apparently crossed a wooden footbridge over one of the ravines — and then resumed.

The interviewer had to be in a car roughly paralleling the jogging path. It was impossible to imagine him and his camera operator running along beside Gately. “Sir, what do you mean by your reference to training? Do you have information that Colonel Norwood’s been given a specific assignment?”

“He has an assignment, doesn’t he? He’s command pilot of the Outer Planets expedition. Ought to have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Let me make sure we understand,” the interviewer said. “Is it your expectation that Colonel Norwood will resume his duties with the expeditionary team?”

“He damn well could, couldn’t he? He’s sharp. He’s the best. Looked bright as a button this morning, didn’t he?”

“Well, let me ask this: Has the UNAC informed you Colonel Norwood is being reinstated ?”

A bit of wild sound drifted by—a passing car, birds twittering, brook water rilling over stones. Michaelmas guessed the technicians were letting Gately’s facial expression carry the first syllables of his response. “—they’ve informed me! Why should they inform me?”

“Are you saying, sir, that you’re upset at UNAC’s autonomy?”

The furious pumping picked up speed. The man was nearly in a full-out sprint. The long legs would be scissoring; the shoulders would be thrusting forward, one-two, one-two, in the sodden sweatshirt, freckles standing out boldly against the stretched pallor over his cheekbones, the eyes slitted with concentration.

“This administration… is committed… to the UN… charter. President Westrum… is behind… UNAC… all the way. That’s our set… policy. UNAC has… no frontiers. My job… is to run… just enough… test pilot training… for US servicemen… and qualified civilians. Then UNAC takes… what it wants…”

Michaelmas frowned. It was no particular secret that Theron Westrum had given Gately his appointment for purely political reasons. It had gained him some support -or rather, mitigated some nonsupport - in Southern California, Georgia, and Texas, where they hoped to take more of their aerospace down to the bank every Friday night. It was also no particular secret that Gately would rather have had the job from almost anyone else not of Westrum’s party or colour. But as long as Gately continued to talk anti-UNAC roundabout while lacking even the first idea of how to undermine Westrum’s policies, it was a marriage made in heaven.

Why was Domino displaying this? It was a competently done segment, useful and necessary for balance against everything Campion was marshalling on UNAC’s side of things. Set in the sort of context, the segment would have almost minimal effect on the audience but was a demonstrable attempt at fairness.

And once again, why was Campion playing UNAC’s game? He was tough, proficient, and young. Junk moves were for clapped-out farts with little else to do and not much time left to regret it.

The stringer’s voice in the background had lost its On the Air edge and become that of a man putting a tag memo on the end of a piece of raw footage. “Well, okay, you saw him wave us off and head on for his office. He’s just not going to get in any deeper right this minute. But that’s a very angry man. One wrong word from the Russkis or UNAC or even Westrum might tip him over. I think I ought to hang around his office for a while in case he blurts something.”