Michaelmas

by Algis Budrys

  Mr Samir drove hard. The bristling white van hissed wickedly down the highway eastward. "The airport, please, Mr Samir," Michaelmas said.

  "The military gates," Domino said.

  "There are no commercial flights to anywhere for some time," Mr Samir said. "Do you wish a charter?"

  "No, Mr Samir. Charters file flight plans. I will go to the military end of the field, please."

  Mr Samir nodded. "As you wish. We shall probably remember that you asked to be taken to the Hilton."

  "That is always a possibility. My thanks.".

  "I regret that our opportunity to serve has been so limited."

  "I will be sending you back to Star Control as soon as you've dropped me. And there will be other times we can work together in person. I anticipate them with pleasure."

  "It is mutual."

  Domino said: "Gately has a call in for Norwood. They're holding; Norwood should be free in a few minutes. I think UNAC's anticipating a simple message of congratulations from the US

  administration. They'll put it through quickly."

  Michaelmas's mouth thinned into an edged smile. "Good." He watched the desert hurtling past.

  "Douglas Campion," Domino said.

  "Say again."

  "While in Chicago at WKMM, Campion was on the crimecopter crew for a year and a half.

  They flew a model identical to the one in which Watson crashed. They never had any mechanical failures. But the pilot had had a coil freeze-up while flying the earlier model. The station used one until a few months before Campion joined their staff. The pilot put it down in Lincoln Park without further incident and not much was made of it. But in a year and & half of making conversation five days a week, he probably would have mentioned it to Campion. That could have led to a clinical discussion of causes and cures. I think Campion could have learned how to work latches and Pozipfastners I think he would know which wire to pull."

  Michaelmas bowed his head. "That's pretty circumstan-tial," he said at last.

  "Campion is also on the short list of persons who could have gotten to the machine; Watson was busy talking to his staff, but Campion would already know what he was going to say, and could wander off."

  "Being on the list doesn't prove ..."

  "I have attempted to establish corroboration. I found that National Geographic had leased facilities on an AP News-features satellite that was passing over Switzerland at the time. They were using its infra-red mapping capabilities for a story on glacial flow. I went through their data and played a few reprocessing tricks with a segment covering Berne. I have identified thermal tracks that correspond to Watson, the helicopter pilot, and several people who must number Campion among them. I have isolated one track as being Campion with eighty-two percent certainty. That track leaves the knot of people around Watson, walks around a corner to the helicopter, pauses beside the fuselage at the right place for the proper amount of time, and then rejoins the group." Michaelmas bit his upper lip. He stared straight out through the windshield with his fists in his lap. "Eighty-two percent."

  "Eighty-two per cent probability that he's the particular member of a restricted group in which only the pilot seems to have been equally qualified to arrange her own death."

  Michaelmas said nothing. Then after a while he said : "I hate acting on probability."

  "You go to your church and I'll go to mine."

  Michaelmas shook his head. Mr Samir, who doubtless had excellent peripheral vision, appeared to blink once, sharply, but he continued to drive relentlessly.

  Oh, yes. Yes. It was as plain as the nose in your mirror, The poor, silly, ambitious son of a bitch had known exactly what would happen. The helicopter would ice up, set down uneventfully in the local equivalent of Lincoln Park but at some remove from the nearest cab stand, and Douggie Cam-pion instead of Horse Watson would be the main spokes-man on worldwide air. Afterwards, Horse would be rescued, and it would just have been one of those things.

  And how did he salve himself now, assuming he felt the need? That, too, wasn't particularly difficult. He'd under-stood all the factors, hadn't he? He'd calculated the risk exactly. All right, then, he'd done everything needful; bad luck had killed two people, one of whom happened to be his professional superior, thus creating a permanent vacancy at a higher rung on the ladder; it was funny how Fate worked.

  "Keep him busy," Michaelmas growled.

  "It's done," Domino said at once.

  "Thank you."

  "I have Gately's call to Norwood," Domino said as they swept out of the hills and plunged towards the city. "Nor-wood's in Wirkola's office now."

  "Put it on."

  "Right."

  Michaelmas sat still.

  "Walt? Walt, hey, boy, this is Willie!" began in his ear, and continued for some time, during which the expected congratulations and the obligatory God-damns were de-ployed. Then Gately said : "Listen, son. Can I ask you about something, between the two of us? You got many people looking over your shoulder right this minute?"

  "No, not too many, sir. I'm in Mr Wirkola's office, and there's no one here who isn't UNAC."

  "Well, that—forgive me, son, but that may not be—"

  "It's okay, Mr Secretary."

  There was a pause. Then Gately made a frustrated, snort-ing noise. "Okay. What the hell.

  Have a look-do you recognize this?"

  Domino said : "It's his recording of the sender holo."

  "Yes, sir, I do," Norwood said. "I'm a little surprised to see you have a picture of it."

  "Walter, I've got my sources and I don't mind if UNAC knows that. I'm sure they recognize my right to keep in touch. What about this thing, son? Do you feel you can tell me anything about it over this line at this time?"

  "Up to a point, sir. Yes."

  "What's that mean?"

  There was the sound of a palm being placed over a microphone, and then being lifted off.

  "Mr Secretary, have you heard that thing is Russian?"

  "That's exactly what I've heard. I've also heard UNAC won't let you say so. How are you today, Mr Wirkola?"

  Norwood said: "Mr Secretary, I'm looking at a materials analysis print-out that says the core component was made by spark-eroding a piece of GE Lithoplaque until it looks a lot like USSR

  Grade II Approved stock. You'd think that could work because Grade II is manufactured some place south of Kiev using equipment purchased from GE and utilizing GE processes under licence. But GE went to a smooth from a matte finish on Lithoplaque last year, whereas Grade II didn't. You might figure you could carve back to the old configuration. But you can't; GE also changed the structure a little. And it's only in limited dis-tribution as yet. According to what I see here, the only place you could get that particular piece we're talking about is GE's central mid-western supply warehouse in St Louis."

  "St Louis?"

  Mr Wirkola said: "I am fine. And how are you, Mr Gately?"

  There was a long silence. "You're sure, Walter?"

  "Well, to satisfy myself I'm immediately going to pass the thing through the labs here again. I've got to admit I damned near made a fool of myself about it once; and I don't want to do that twice.

  But we're working with the best hardware and software in the world when it comes to engineering, around here, and I've strapped myself into it many's the time without a second thought. I've got a feeling I could run this baby through any modern equip-ment in the world and come up with the same answer."

  "St Louis, Missouri."

  Mr Wirkola said: "I believe there is still a community called St Louis du Ha! Ha!, near Lac Temiscouata in Quebec."

  "Mr Wirkola, I appreciate UNAC's discretion in this matter," Gately said. "I'm assuming you'll be in touch with me officially about this?"

  "Yes," Wirkola said. "We are assigning Colonel Norwood to temporary duty as our liaison with the US government on this matter. I suggest a good will tour of the USA as a cover for his talks with your President and yourself. But he will call you
a little later today with confirmation from his re-tests, and that will have given you time to consult with Mr Westrum on your response to that suggestion. You may tell Mr Westrum we understand his political situation, and we certainly do not wish to inculcate any unnecessary constraints upon his conscience. Nevertheless, I think there may be better ways to slide this incident into the back shelves of history than by any public counterclaiming between Mr Westrum and whoever your informant may have been. What is done privately is of course private."

  Domino said : "Slit you, skin you, and sell you a new suit. That nice old man took two minutes to react to Gately's news, size it up, and flip through the anatomy text."

  "Yes," Michaelmas said.

  "Thank you, Mr Wirkola," Gately said. "I'll speak to my President and be waiting for Colonel Norwood's call."

  "Thank you, Mr Secretary. We are grateful for your co-operation," Wirkola raid.

  " 'Bye, Walter. Good to talk to you, son."

  "Thank you, Mr Secretary."

  The connection opened. The van was on the city ramps now, sliding smoothly between the beautiful new structures, humming towards the airport. Domino said: "I can see why you favoured Mr Wirkola's election as Director General."

  "That's not what you see. What you see is why it wasn't necessary to do anything with the vote. His virtues are evident even to an election committee. Eschew the sin of over-management; that above all. You don't want to lose respect for the Hjalmar Wirkolas of this world."

  "Noted. As before."

  Michaelmas sighed. "I didn't mean to nag."

  He made his voice audible: "Mr Samir, after you've delivered me, I'd like you to go back to Star Control and interview Major Papashvilly. Permission's all arranged. After I'm airborne, I'll call Signor Frontiere and the Major, and tell them you're coming and what we'll do."

  "Right," Domino said.

  "I understand," Mr Samir replied.

  Michaelmas smiled trustfully at him. "You have it. I'll be on the phone with you, giving you the questions to ask, and you'll pick up the Major's responses."

  "No problem," Domino said.

  "I understand completely," Mr Samir said. "I am proud of your reliance on me."

  "Then there's no difficulty," Michaelmas said. "Thank you."

  Mr Samir's footage would be fed to his network's editing storage and held for mixing. Via Domino, the network would also receive footage of Michaelmas asking the ques-tions, commenting, and reacting to Papashvilly's answers. The network editing computer would then mix a complete interview out of the two components.

  Since the shots of Michaelmas would be against a neutral background, the editing programme could in some cases scale Michaelmas and Papashvilly into conformity and matte them into the same frames together. The finished effect would be quite convincing. Mr Samir assumed, with-out the impoliteness of asking, that Michaelmas would also use a union crew at his end.

  And in fact he would, Michaelmas thought as he leaned back in his seat. Domino would call in direct to network headquarters, and they'd photo the Laurent Michaelmas hologram in their own studios. You could do that with studio-controlled lighting and computer-monitored phone input levels. There was a promise that only a year or two from now there'd be equipment that would let you do it in the field. When that happened, it wouldn't be necessary any longer for L. G.

  Michaelmas to be physically present anywhere but in his apartment, sitting at his desk or cooking in his kitchen or playing his upside-down-strung guitar.

  "What'll you want?" Domino asked. "A how's-it-going-Pavel, or a give-us-the-big-picture, or a roundup conversa-tion including how he reacts to Norwood's return or what?"

  "Give us the round-up," Michaelmas said. "He'll be good at that. We just want to reinforce the idea he's a bright, quick, fine fellow and he's going to do a hell of a job." And mostly, they were simply going to keep Papashvilly in a controlled situation among friendly people for the next hour or two. It would do no harm. And it would maintain L. G. Michaelmas's reputation for never scrubbing a job even if he had to be in two places at the same time, damn near, and it was good to remind yourself there were plenty of competent crews and directors around. "And, listen, make sure I'm in character when I phone Pavel about this."

  "That's all taken into account. Ghat before shooting. Friends re-united. Buy you a drink soonest."

  "Fine," Michaelmas said. He rubbed his thumb and fingers over his eyelids, head bowed momentarily, aware that when he slumped like this, he could notice the fatigue in his back and shoulders.

  Something overhead was coming down as if on a string, metallic and glimmering—God's lure.

  The military gates opened smoothly, so that the Oskar barely slowed. The guard nodded at their plate number and saluted, good sol-dier, explicit orders fresh in the gate shack teleprinter. The van moved towards the flight line. "What is that?" Mr Samir asked, looking up and out through the windscreen. He braked hard and stopped them at the edge of a hardstand.

  The aircraft became recognizable overhead as a cruelly angled silvery wedge balanced on its tailpipes, but as it neared the ground its flanks began to open into stabilizer surfaces, landing struts, and blast deflectors.

  "I believe that is a Type Beta Peacekeeper," Michaelmas said. "They are operated by the Norwegian Air Militia. I wouldn't open any doors or windows until it's down and the engines are idled." The windscreen glass began shivering in its gaskets, and the metal fabric of the Oskar began to drum.

  Domino said: "It's on a routine check-ride to Kirkenes from the base at Cap Norvegia in the Antarctic. It's now had additions to the mission profile for purposes of further crew training. What you see is an equatorial sea-level touch-down; another has been changed in for the continental mountains near Berne. Excellent practice. Meantime, one unidentified passenger will be aboard on priority request from the local embassy which, like many another, occasion-ally does things that receive no explanation and whose existence is denied and unrecorded. Hardstand contact here is in thirty seconds; a boarding ladder will deploy. Your programmed flying time is twenty minutes. Bon voyage." The Beta came to rest. The engines quieted into a low rumble that caused little grains of stone to dance an inch above the concrete.

  "Goodbye, Mr Samir. Thank you," Michaelmas said. He popped open the door and trotted through the blasts of sunlight, hugging the little black box to his ribs. A ladder ramp meant to accommodate an outrushing full riot squad folded down out of the fuselage like a backhand return.

  He scrambled up it into the load space; a padded, nevertheless thrumming off-green compartment with hyd-raulically articulated seats that hung empty on this mission. He dropped into one and began pulling straps into place.

  The ladder swung up and sealed.

  "Are you seated and secure, sir?" asked an intercom voice from somewhere beyond the blank upper bulkhead. He sorted through the accent and hasty memories of the lan-guage. He snapped the last buckle into place. "Ja," he said, pronouncing the "a" somewhere nearer "o" than he might have, and hoping that would do. "Then we're going," said the unseen flight crew member, and the Type Beta first flowed upwards and then burst upwards. Michaelmas's jaw sagged, and he tilted back deeply against the airbagged cushions. His arms trailed out over the armrests. He said slowly to Domino : "One must always be cautious when one rubs your lamp." But he sat unsmiling, and while there might have been times when he would have been secretly delighted with the silent robotics of the seat suspensions, which kept him ever facing the direction of acceleration as the Peacekeeper topped out its ballistic curve and prepared to swap ends, he was gnawing at other secrets now. He drummed his fingertips on the cushiony armrest and squirmed. His mouth assumed the expression he kept from himself. "We have a few minutes," he said at last. "Is this compartment secure?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I think we might let Douglas Campion find me at this time."

  His phone rang. "Hello?" he said.

  "What?, Who's this? I was calling—" Campion said.

 
"This is Laurent Michaelmas."

  "Larry! Jesus, the damnedest things are happening. How'd I get you? I'm standing here in the UNAC lobby just trying to get through to my network again. Something's really screwed up."

  Michaelmas sat back. "What seems to be the trouble, Doug? Is there some way I can help you?"

  "Man, I hope somebody can. I—well, hell, you're the first call I've gotten made in this last half hour. Would you believe that? No matter who I call, it's always busy. My network's busy, the cab company's busy. When I tried a test by calling Gervaise from across the room, I got a busy signal.

  And she wasn't using her phone. Something's crazy."

  "It sounds like a malfunction in your instrument."

  "Yeah. Yeah, but the same kinds of things happened when I went over and borrowed hers.

  Look, I don't mean to sound like somebody in an Edgar Allan Poe, but I can't even, reach Phone Repair Service."

  "Good heavens! What will you do if this curse extends?"

  "What do you mean ?"

  "Have you had anyone call you since this happened?"

  "No. No—you mean, can anybody reach me?"

  "Yes, there's that. Then, of course, a natural thing to wonder about is whether your bank is able to receive and honour credit transfers, whether the Treasury Department is continuing to receive and okay your current tax flow . . . That sort of thing. Assuming now that you find some way to get back across the ocean, will your building security system recognize you?" He chuckled easily.

  "Wouldn't that be a pretty pickle? You'd become famous, if anyone could find you."

  "My God, Larry, that's not funny."

  "Oh, it's not likely to be lifelong, is it? Whatever this thing is? It's just some little glitch somewhere, I should think. Don't you expect it'll clear up ?"

  "I don't know. I don't know what the hell. Look — where are you, anyway? What made you take off like that? What's going on?"

  "Oh, I'm chasing a story. You know what that's like. How do you feel? Do you think it's really serious?"

  "Yeah — listen, could you call Repair Service for me ? This crazy thing won't let even Gervaise or anybody here do it when I ask them. But if you're off some place in the city, that ought to be far enough away from whatever this short circuit is or whatever."