by Algis Budrys
"Why did you feel that? Did you think this phenomenon had its own propulsion?"
"It might have had."
"A ... resonance .. . was coming after you with intent to commit systematic gibberish."
"It does sound stupid. But this . . . stuff ... was — I don't know. I did what I thought best."
"How long were you exposed to it?"
"Five steps. That's all I can tell you."
"Hmm. And is it lurking in the vicinity now?"
"No. It can't be. Simply because I dropped the press links first. I was worried it might somehow locate and hash up all my data storages. But since then it's occurred to me that if I hadn't, it could have taken any number of loop routes to us here. I consider we were just plain lucky. It's back in whatever Limberg equipment it lives in."
"Well, I'm glad of that. That is, if it was true that you were being stalked by the feedback beast of the incremental spaces."
"That's gauche. It's simply that there's some sort of totally unprecedented system in operation at Limberg's sana-torium."
"We've been assuming since last night that he has access to some peculiar devices."
"I've encountered malaprop circuitry a fair number of times in this imperfect world. What I'm concerned about is not so much what sort of device Limberg has access to. It's what the device has access to."
Michaelmas sighed. "I don't see how we can speculate on that as yet. I can tell you what happened. Not why, or how, but what. You ran into trouble that set upon you as fast as you can think. A condition common among humans. Even more common is having it advance faster than that."
"Well, there at least I'm secure; unless of course, some-thing begins to affect speeds within the electromagnetic spectrum."
"Son, there is no man so smart there is no man to take him."
"I wouldn't argue that for a moment."
"It's nice to have you back." Michaelmas pushed himself slowly away from the table and began walking about the room in his stockinged feet, his hands behind his back "The Tass man," he said.
"The Tass man?"
"At the press conference. He didn't ask whether Norwood was being reinstated in command of the expedition. No-body else did, either—Sakal had thrown a broad hint he wouldn't be. But if you were the correspondent of the Soviet news agency, wouldn't you want it nailed down specifically?"
"Not if I'd been instructed not to show it was on my mind."
"Exactly. They've made all their decisions, back there. Now they feel prepared to spring traps on whichever per-fidious option the immoral West chooses to exercise. You know, even more than playing chess, I dislike dealing with self-righteous chess players." Michaelmas shook his head and dropped down into the chair again. He sat heavily. It was possible to see that he had rather more stomach than one normally realized, and that his shoulders could be quite round.
"Well - tell me about Fefre and all the rest of them. Tell me about the girl and the dolphin."
"Fefre is as he was, and I don't know what dolphin you're talking about."
"Well, thank God for that. What do you know about Cikoumas et Cie?"
"It's owned by Kristiades Cikoumas, who is also Lim-berg's chief assistant. It's a family business; he has his son in charge of the premises and making minor decisions. He inherited it from his father. And so forth. An old Bernaise family. Kristiades as a younger man made deliveries to the sanatorium. One day he entered medical school on grants from Limberg's foundation. The Sorbonne, to be exact."
"Why not? Why not settle for the very best? What a for-tunate young man! And what a nice manner he's acquired in the course of unfolding his career."
"You've met him, then?"
"Yes, I've met him. It's been a while since he last shoul-dered a crate of cantaloupes. That package he's slipped off to Missouri could be arriving almost any time, couldn't it?"
"It's been offloaded at Lambert Field and is en route to the Cape Girardeau postal substation.
It's addressed to Hanrassy, all right — it passed through an automatic sorter at New York, and I was able to read the plate. It can be in Hanrassy's breakfast mail. It's already a big day for her; she's scheduled to meet all her state campaign chairmen for a decision on precisely when to announce her candidacy. Her state organizations are all primed, she has several million new dollars in reserve beyond what's already com-mitted, more pledged as soon as she wins her first primary, and two three-minute eggs, with croutons, ordered for break-fast. She will also have V-8
juice and Postum."
Michaelmas shook his head. "She's still planning to use that dinosaur money?" A lot of Hanrassy's backing came from people who thought that if she won, the 120-mile-per-hour private car would return, and perhaps bring back the $120,000-per-year union president with it.
"Yes."
"Damn fool."
"She doesn't see it that way. She's laundered the money through several seemingly foolproof stages. It's now greyish green at worst."
"And her man's still in the United States Treasury De-partment?"
"Ready and waiting."
"Well, that's something, anyway." Treasury was holding several millions for her party, as it was in various other amounts for various others. It was check-off money from tax returns, earmarked by her faithful. As soon as she filed her candidacy, it was hers—subject to a certain degree of supervision. Hanrassy's plan was to meld-in some of the less perfectly clean industrial money and then misrepresent her campaign expenditures back to her Treasury official. He'd certify the accounts as correct. Michaelmas's plan was to make him famous as soon as he'd certificated the ledger print-out.
Domino said: "What we can do to her next year won't help today."
"I know." There weren't that many exploitable openings in US Always's operations. "She's quite something, really," Michaelmas said. "But perhaps we'll be able to manage something with whatever Cikoumas has sent her."
"Whatever it is can hardly be meant for the good of anyone but Limberg and his plans."
"Of course." Michaelmas said. "Nevertheless: I would like to think this is a world for the hopeful."
"Well, one certainly hopes so," Domino said.
"What about the Watson crash?" Michaelmas asked care-fully.
"Negative. The European Flight Authority has taken juris-diction. That's expectable, since the original crash notifica-tion appeared in their teleprinters with an Extra Priority coding added.
They've autopsied the pilot and Watson; both were healthy and alert up to the time of impact. The flight recorder shows power loss without obvious cause. It reports Watson's last words as "Son of a bitch!" The crash site has been impounded and the wreckage taken to an AEV hangar here.
It's too soon for their examiners to have generated any inter-office discussion of findings.
"Meanwhile, I find no meaningful defect pattern in the history of that model. It crashes, but not often, and the reasons vary. I'm now approaching it another way. On the assumption that something must have been done to the helicopter, I'm compiling a list of all persons on Earth who could conceivably have gotten to the machine at any time since its last flight. Then I'll assign higher priority to anyone who could have reached it after it became clear it would be used in connection with Norwood. I'll weight that on an ascending scale in correlation with general technical aptitude, then with knowledge of helicopters, then specific familiarity with the type, and so forth. This will yield a short list of suspects, and I expect to be able to cross-check in several ways after the flight authority in-vestigation generates some data." Domino paused. "If the crash was not truly accidental."
"It could be, I suppose, couldn't it?"
"The world is full of confusing coincidences."
"And a man's mind insists on making patterns from random data."
"I know."
"Do you think the Watson crash was a true accident?"
"I have learned to suspect all crashes."
"When and where are the funerals?"
"T
he pilot was unattached, with no close relatives. She is being cremated by the canton; there will be a memorial service for her friends. I have sent a message in your name, citing the fellowship of news-gatherers."
"Thank you. And Horse?"
"He is being flown home this afternoon. There will be a family service day after tomorrow.
Interment will be private. You have spoken with Mrs Watson and have promised to visit in person as soon as you possibly can. I am holding a playback of the conversation, waiting for review at your convenience."
"Yes. In a while." Michaelmas got up again. He walked to the windows and back. "Get someone to buy five minutes' US time tonight for my Watson obit. I want an institutional sponsor; check and see who bought a lot of Watson foot-age in the past, and pick the best. Offer it English-speaking worldwide, but get me US prime time; waive my fee, and tell 'em I'm buying the production. All they've got to foot is the time charges, but we okay the commercial con-tent. No pomp and circumstance for the Gastric Research Institute, right? And now here's how it wants to play."
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 effec-tive."
"Could be?"
"Well, isn't Watson's employer network going to do some-thing 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-en-trance 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 dia-grams. He says it has proven to be a false telemetry sender of undoubtable Soviet manufacture. As Norwood was reach-ing for it, his booster systems board began showing pro-gressive malfunctions cascading towards immediate explo-sion. 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 approp-riate position, and the on-shift crew was almost one hun-dred 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 tele-metry sender, the destruct sequence was practically at com-pletion. 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 re-constructed 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 al-ready made a.
computer simulation which times out to ex-actly 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 snap-ping. "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 ter-minal, 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 con-vincing. 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 counter-feit. 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, Limber
g, 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 won-der : 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 Nor-wood and all brave people caught in the toils of inter-national 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.
"And what do you think of his motivation?" Michaelmas asked.
"Glory. The little sniffer sees himself of millennial stat-ure." 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 ex-posed 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.