by Algis Budrys
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 sur-rounded 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 Michael-mas."
"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 employ-ment 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."
"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 essenti-ally 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 astro-nautics."
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 expres-sion 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 auton-omy?"
The furious pumping picked up speed. The man was nearly in a full-out sprint. The long legs would be scissor-ing; 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 Cali-fornia, 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 si
de of things. Set in the sort of context, the segment would have almost minimal effect on the audience but was a demon-strable 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."
"Uh, DC, good idea," said the flat, faraway voice of EVM's editorial director, using intercom bandwidth to save money. "We share your hunch. Look out for something from US Always.
They've been pretty quiet so far. Matter of fact, I think what we'll do now is go tickle her up and see what she thinks. Stand by for an advisory on that. And thank you for this shot; nice going. Paris out." The air went dead.
"That was five minutes ago," Domino said. Then EVM contacted US Always for an interview with Hanrassy. Her information people said she wanted to wait a while in case of further developments, but she'd be available by nine, Central US time. That's two hours and forty-seven minutes from now."
"A clear pattern seems to be emerging," Michaelmas said equably.
"Damn right. But that's not the pattern I'm showing you."
"Oh?"
"Here. This is ten minutes ago. Campion's interview technique has been to calmly move from point to point of the Norwood story, collecting answers which will be edited for sequence and time.
Norwood is doing the normal amount of lip-licking, and from time to time he looks side-ward to Frontiere. There's no question that any editing programme worthy of the name could turn him into a semi-invalid gamely concealing his doubts. On the other hand, it could cut all that and make him sharp as the end of a pin."
"Colonel Norwood," Campion's voice said, "I'd like to follow up on that for just a moment. Now, you've just told us your flight was essentially routine until just before the explosion. But obviously you had some warning. Even an astronaut's reflexes need a little time to get him into escape mode. Could you expand on that a little? What sort of warning did you have, and how much before the explosion did it come ?"
Frontiere's voice broke in. "I think perhaps that is not something you should go into at this time, Mr Campion."
"Why not?"
"It is simply something we ought not to discuss at this time."
"I'd have to know more about that before I decided to drop the question."
"Mr Campion, with all respect, I must insist. Now, please back up your recording and erase that question."
There was a brief silence. Campion came in speaking slowly. "Or else our arrangement is at an end?"
Frontiere paused. "I wish you had not brought our dis-cussion to such a juncture."
Campion abruptly said : "Some day you'll have to explain this to me. All right. Okay, crew, let's roll it back to where I asked Walt about his flight path and the last word of his answer was "sea", I figure a reaction shot of me, and then I frame my next question and the out-take is completely tracked over, right? That seem good to you, Clementine? Okay, Luis, we rolling back?"
Clementine's voice came in on the director trade. "Roll to "eee". Synch. Head Campion. Roll.
And."
"That's it," Domino said.
"That's what?" Michaelmas said. "Frontiere hasn't chosen to let in Campion on the telemetry sender story. Can you blame him?"
"Not my point. The unit they're using does not simply feed the director's tracking tape. It also sends direct to the EVM editing computer in Paris. No erasure took place there. The segment is already edited into the rough cut of the final broadcast. Including Norwood's sudden side glance to Frontiere, Frontiere's upset manner, and all."
Michaelmas turned his head sharply toward the window, hiding his expression in the sky. Far ahead on the right forward quarter he could see C ap Bon sliding very slowly toward the wingtip, and Tunis a white speck stabbing at his eyes in the early afternoon sun.
"He's young. It's possible he doesn't fully understand the equipment. Perhaps he thinks he did erase. It's not neces-sary for . . . for any of them to know the exact nature of the equipment."
"Possibly. But Campion's contract with EVM specifies copy for simultaneous editing. He relinquished pre-editorial rights. In return for minimizing their production lag, he retains fact rights; he can use the same material as the basis for his own editions of byline book, cartridge, disc, or any other single-user package form known or to be developed during the term of copyright. And I assure you he went over every clause with EVM. He has a head for business."
"You're absolutely sure?"
"I went over it right behind him. I like to keep up with what sort of contracts are being written in our field."
"So there's no doubt he was deliberately lying to Getulio."
"None at all, Mr Michaelmas. I'd say Campion's inten-tion all along was to provoke something like this. He's a newsman. He smelled it out that UNAC was hiding some-thing. He went fishing for it, and found it. When the programme runs tonight, the world will know UNAC is attempting to conceal something about the shuttle accident. And of course they'll know the name of enterprising Douglas Campion."
Michaelmas put his left fist inside his cupped right hand and stared sightlessly. He patted his knuckles into his palm.
"Did EVM come to him?"
"No. They were his last shot. He shopped around the US networks first. But all he'd tell anyone before signing a contract was that he thought he could get a Norwood exclusive and that he wanted to retain most of the ancil-lary rights. The responses he got were pretty low compared to his asking price. Then EVM picked him up. Gervaise filed an advisory to Paris. She said they'd had a conversa-tion, and he was a good bet."
"What time was that?"
"Twelve-twenty. She'd dropped you at your hotel and apparently went straight back to hers to check out. He was waiting in the hotel, hoping she'd talk to him. He'd left a message about it for her at the desk. Obviously she and he talked. She called Paris, and then EVM's legal people called him to thrash out the contract. Everything on record is just straight business regarding quote an interview with Walter Norwood endquote."
"There was no prior agreement on slant?"
"Why should there be one? Gervaise vouched for him, and she's respected. They take what he gives them, splice in supporting matter as it comes, and the slant develops itself. It's a hot subject, a good crew on it, as of a few minutes ago, no doubt in the world that they're on to something that could become notorious as hell. It's a world-class performance - a sure Pulitzer for Campion plus a dozen industry awards for the crew. It's a Nobel Laureate contender for EVM.
A likely winner if the year stays slow for news."
"Well," Michaelmas said, "I suppose a man could lie to his contact for all that."
He had once seen a Chinese acrobat stack straight chairs one atop the other, balancing the rear two legs of each chair atop the backrest of the one below. The bottom chair had rested on four overturned water tumblers. The acrobat had built the stack chair by chair, while standing on each topmost chair. When the stack was twelve chairs high, the acrobat did a one-hand stand on the back of the topmost chair while rotating hoops at his ankles and free wrist. Michaelmas thought of the acrobat now, seeing him with the face of Douglas Campion.
Ten
"Voila Hanrassy."
The plane slid along. "What is it, Domino?" Michaelmas palmed the bones of his face. His fingertips massaged his eyes. His thumbs pressed into his ears, trying to break some of the blockage in his eustachian tubes.
"She's placed a call to Allen Shell. She wants a scenario for telemetry- and voice-communication skewing i
n Nor-wood's shuttle."
"Ah." Shell was at MIT's Research Laboratory of Elec-tronics. "How soon does she want it?"
"Within the hour."
"It sounds more and more as if someone's told her a tale and she's attempting to verify it."
"Exactly."
"Yes." The corners of Michaelmas's mouth pulled back into his cheeks. He pictured Shell: a short, wiry man with a long fringe of hair and a little paunch, stumbling about his apartment and making breakfast coffee. He would probably make capuccino, assembling the ingredients and the coffee-maker clumsily, and he would take the second cup into the bathroom. Sitting on the stool with his eyes closed, sipping, he would mutter to himself in short hums through his partially compressed lips, and when he was done he would get up, find his phone where he'd left it, tell Viola Hanrassy two or three ways it might have been done undetectably, punch off, carry the empty cup and saucer to the dishwasher and very possibly drop them. Michaelmas and Shell had been classmates once. Shell had been one of the Illinois Institute of Technology students who intercepted and decoded Chicago police messages in the late 1960s, but time had passed.
"Well." Michaelmas looked downward. Tunis was much larger, dimmer, and off to the right. The African coastline was falling away toward Libya, so that they would still be over water for some distance, but Cité d'Afrique was not too far ahead in time. He glanced at his wrist. They'd land at about 1400 hours local time, he judged.
"The Norwood interview's over," Domino said. "Campion did roughly the same thing a few more times. It'll be vicious when it hits."
"Yes," Michaelmas said ruminatively. "Yes, I suppose it could be." He watched the office cabin door open. The camera operator and Clementine came out. She walked with her head down, her mouth wryly twisted. She took a vacant forward seat beside her crewman and did not once glance farther up the aisle. Campion and Frontiere were lingering in the cabin doorway. Campion was thanking Frontiere, and Norwood over Frontiere's shoulder. Fron-tiere did not look entirely easy. When Campion turned away to come up the aisle, Frontiere firmly closed the door without letting Norwood out.
Michaelmas realized Campion was deliberately heading straight for him. Campion's features had a fine sheen on them; that faint dew was the only immediate token of his past half hour's labour. But he dropped rather hard into the seat beside Michaelmas, saying, "I hope you don't mind," and then sighed. He loosened his collar and arched his throat, stroking his neck momentarily between his thumb and fingers. "Welcome to the big time, Douglas," he said in a fatigued voice.