Michaelmas (8 page)

Douglas Campion was just ahead of them, talking to the aide. Michaelmas prepared to speak to him, but Campion was preoccupied. Michaelmas studied him raptly. The press aide was saying:

"Mr Campion, your crew is in place on the photo bal-cony. We have you listed for a back-up seat towards the rear of the main auditorium. Now, in view of the unfor-tunate—"

"Right," Campion said. "You going to give me Watson's seat and microphone time?"

"Yes, sir. And please let me express—"

"Thanks. What's the sea location?"

There was nothing actually nasty about him, Michaelmas decided sadly. One could assume there was regret, grief, or almost anything else you cared to attribute to him, kept somewhere within him under the heat shield.

He watched Campion move away across the foyer to-wards the auditorium's rear doors, and then he and Clemen-tine were stepping forward.

The aide smiled as if he'd been born ten seconds ago. "Nice to see you, Mr Michaelmas, Miz Gervaise," he said.

The fading wetness of anger in his eyes gave them a win-ning sparkle. He checked off the names on his list, got a photo-copied floor-diagram from his table, and made a mark on it for Clementine. "We've given your crew a spot right here in the first row of the balcony," he said. "You just go up those stairs over there at the back of the foyer and you'll find them. And Mr Michaelmas, we've put you front row centre in the main auditorium." He grinned. "There won't be any microphone passing. Limberg's got quite a place here—remote PA mikes and everything. When you're recognized for a question, just go ahead and speak. Your crew sound system will be patched in automatically."

"Thank you." Michaelmas changed the shape of his lips. He did not appear to alter the tone or level of his voice, but no one standing behind him could hear him. "Is Mr Frontiere here?"

The aide raised his eyebrow. "Yes, sir. He'll be up on the podium for the Q and A."

"I wonder if I could see him for just a moment now."

The aide grimaced and glanced at his wristwatch. Michaelmas's smile was one of complete sympathy. "Sorry to have to ask," he said.

The aide smiled back helplessly. "Well," he said while Michaelmas's head cocked insouciantly to block anyone's view of the young man's lips. "I guess we do owe you a couple, don't we? Sharp left down that side hall. The next to the last door leads into the auditorium near your seat. The last door goes backstage. He's there."

"Thank you." There was pressure at Michaelmas's back. He knew without looking that a score of people were filling the space back to the doors, and others were begin-ning to elbow each other subconsciously at the head of the outside steps. They were all craning forward to see what the hang-up might be, and getting ready to avenge dis-courtesy or to make dignified outcry at the first sign of favouritism.

"I will manage it for you, Laurent," Clementine said quietly.

"Ah?
Merci. A bientôt,"
Michaelmas said. He stepped around the reception table and wondered what the hell.

Clementine moved with him, and then a little farther forward, her stride suddenly became long and masculine. She pivoted towards the balcony stairs and the heel snap-ped cleanly off one shoe. She lurched, caught her balance by slapping one hand flat against the wall, and cried out

"merde!"
hoarsely. She plucked off the shoe, threw it clatter-ing far down the long foyer, and kicked its mate off after it. She padded briskly up the stairs in her stockinged feet, still followed by every eye.

Michaelmas, grinning crookedly, moved down the side hall, his progress swift, his manner jaunty, his footsteps soundless. He pushed quickly through the door at the end.

Heads turned sharply—Limberg, Norwood, a handful of UNAC administrative brass, Frontiere, their torsos sup-ported by stiff arms as they huddled over a table spread with papers and glossy photographic enlargements. Lim-berg's lump-knuckled white forefinger tapped at one of the glossies.

Michaelmas waved agreeably as they regarded him with dismay. Frontiere hurried over.

"Laurent—"

"Giorno,
Tulio. Quickly—before I go in—is UNAC going to reshuffle the flight crew?"

Frontiere's angular, patrician face suddenly declared it would say nothing. The very dark eyes in their deep sockets locked on Michaelmas's, and Frontiere crossed his slim hands with their polished nails over the lean biceps in his alpaca sleeves. "Why do you ask this, Laurent?"

How many times, thought Michaelmas, have I helped UNAC over rough spots that even they know of? And I'm ready to do it again, God knows. And here Frontiere was counting up every one of them. Who would have thought a man would have so much credit deducted for such a simple answer? Merely an answer that would let the world's most prominent newsman frame his press conference comments more securely. "Norwood was in command, Papashvilly was put in command, Papashvilly is a major. Answer my ques-tion and you tell me much. I think it a natural query . . .
vecchio amico."

Frontiere grimaced uncomfortably. "Perhaps it is. We are all very much into our emotions this morning, you under-stand? I was not giving you sufficient credit for sapience, I believe."

Michaelmas grinned. "Then answer the God-damned question."

Frontiere moved his eyes as if wishing to see the people behind him. "If necessary, an announcement will be made that it is not planned to change the flight crew."

Michaelmas cocked his head. "In other words, this is an excellent fish dinner especially if someone complains of stomach. Is that the line you propose to defend?"

Frontiere's sour grin betrayed one of his famous dimples. "I am not doing well with you this morning .. . old friend," he said softly. "Perhaps you would like to speak quietly with me alone after the conference."

"Between friends?"

"Entirely between friends."

"Bene."

"Thank you very much," Frontiere smiled slightly. "Now I must get back to my charges. Take your place in the audi-torium, Laurent; the dogs and ponies are all cued. Despite one or two small matters, we shall begin shortly." Frontiere turned and walked back towards the others, spreading his arms, palms up, in a very Latin gesture. They resumed their intent whispering. Limberg shook his hand repeatedly over the one particular photograph. The side of his fingertip knock knock knocked on the table-top.

Michaelmas stepped out and softly closed the door. "We must be certain we're doing everything we can to protect Papashvilly," he said in the empty hall.

"Against what, exactly?" Domino said. "We're already doing all we can in general. If he's taken off the mission, despite all that bumph, he needs no more. If he's still in, what am I supposed to suggest? UNAC is apparently con-cerned for him. Remember they almost put him on a plane for here, then Sakal ordered him back from the Cité d'Afrique airport. What do you make of that?"

"There are times when I would simply like to rely on your genius."

"And there are times when I wish your intuitions were more specific."

Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck. "I would very much like some peace and quiet."

"Then I have disturbing news. I've just figured out what Rybakov is for."

"Oh?"

"The Russians can also think ahead. If UNAC attempts to reinstate Norwood, they won't just threaten to pull Papashvilly. They'll threaten to pull Papashvilly and they'll threaten to insist on honest workman Rybakov being second-in-command."

Michaelmas's tongue clicked out from the space between his upper lip and his front teeth.

"There would be a fan-tastic scandal."

"More than that."

"Yes." If UNAC then refused to accept that proposition, the next move saw the USSR also withdrawing Rybakov. That would leave the so-called Mankind in Space pro-gramme with only an East German lieutenant to represent half the Caucasian world's politics. "We'd be right back into the 1960s. UNAC can't possibly go for that, or what's UNAC for? So as soon as they see the Russians moving Rybakov up out of the pawn row, they'll drop the whole scheme. They may be rocking back a little now, but one glimpse of that sequence and they'll stonewall for Papash-villy no matter what."

" 'What' may be Viola Hanrassy and everything she can throw."

"Exactly. I wonder what would explode." Michaelmas rubbed the back of his neck again. "I would
very
much like some peace and quiet," he said in the same voice he had used to speak of darkness.

Three more steps and he was in at the side of the auditorium. It was a medical lecture hall during the normal day, and a place where the patients could come to watch entertainment in the evening. Nevertheless, it made a very nice two-hundred-seat facility for a press conference, and the steep balcony was ideal for cameras, with the necessary power outlets and sound system outputs placed appropri-ately. To either side of the moderately thrust stage, lenti-cular reflectors were set at a variety of angles, so that an over-the-shoulder shot could be shifted into a tele close-up of anyone in the main floor audience.

The brown plush seats were filling quickly. There was the usual assortment of skin colours, sexes, and modes of dress. They were much more reserved now, these permitted few, than the hustling mob at the airport.

Michaelmas stopped at Douglas Campion. He held out his hand. "I'd like to express my sympathies. And wish you good luck at this opportunity." It seemed a sentiment the man would respond to.

The eyes moved. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Are you planning an obituary feature?"

"Can't now." They were looking over his shoulder at the curtain. "Got to stay with the main story. That's what he'd want."

"Of course." He moved on. The pale tan fabric panels of the acoustic draperies made an attractive wall decor. They gave back almost none of the sound of feet shuffling, seats tilting, and cleared throats.

And out there in Tokyo and Sydney they were putting down their preprandial Suntory, switching off the cassettes, punching up the channels. In Peking they were standing in the big square and watching the huge projection from the government building; in Moscow they were jammed up against the sets in the little apartments; in Los Angeles they were elbowing each other for a better line of sight in the saloons — here and there they were shouting at each other and striking out passionately. In Chicago and New York, presumably they slept; in Washington, presumably they could not.

Michaelmas slipped towards his seat, nodding and waving to acquaintances. He found his name badge pinned to the fabric, looked at it, and put it in his pocket. He glanced up at the balcony; Clementine put her finger to her ear, cocked her thumb, and dropped it. He pulled the earplug out of its recess in Domino's terminal and inserted it. A staff an-nouncer on Clementine's network was doing a lead-in built on the man-in-the-street clips Domino had edited for them in Michaelmas's name, splicing in reaction shots of Michael-mas's face from stock. Then he apparently went to a voice-over of the whole-shot of the auditorium from a pool camera; he did a meticulous job of garnishing what the world was seeing as a room full of people staring at a closed curtain.

There was a faint pop and Clementine's voice on the crew channel replaced the network feed.

"We're going to a tight three-quarter right of your head, Laurent," she said. "I like the light best that way, with a little tilt-up, please, of the chin. Coming up on mark."

He raised a hand to acknowledge and adopted an expres-sion learned from observing youthful statesmen.

"Mark."

"Must cut," Domino's Voice said suddenly. "Meet you Berne."

Michaelmas involuntarily stared down at the comm unit, then remembered where he was and restored his expression.

"—ere we go!" Clementine's voice was back in.

The curtains were opening. Getulio Frontiere was stand-ing there at a lighted podium. A table with three empty forward-facing chairs was sited behind him, under the proscenium arch.

Frontiere introduced himself and said:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, on behalf of the Astronautics Commission of the United Nations of the World, and as guests with you here of Dr. Nils Hannes Limberg, we bid you welcome." As always, the smile dawning on the Borgia face might have convinced anyone that everything was easily explained and had always been under control.

"I would now like to present to you Mr Ossip Sakal, Eastern Administrative Director for the UNAC. He will make a brief opening statement and will be followed to the podium by Dr. Limberg.

Dr. Limberg will speak, again briefly, and then he will present to you Colonel Norwood. A question-and-answer period—"

A rising volume of wordless pandemonium took the play away from him, compounded of indrawn breaths, hands slapping down on chair arms, bodies shifting forward, shoes scraping.

Michaelmas's neighbour—a nattily dressed Oriental from New China Service—said: "That's it, then. UNAC has officially granted that it's all as announced."

Michaelmas nodded absently. He found himself with nothing more in his hands than a limited comm unit on automatic, most of its bulk taken up by nearly infinite layers of meticulously microcrafted dead circuitry, and by odd little Rube Goldberg things that flickered lights and made noises to impress the impressionable.

Frontiere had waited out the commotion, leaning easily against the podium. Now he resumed :

"— a question-and-answer period will follow Colonel Norwood's statement. I will moderate. And now, Mr Sakal."

There was something about the way Sakal stepped for-ward. Michaelmas stayed still in his seat. Oz the Bird, as press parties and rosy-fingered poker games had revealed him over the years, would show his hole card any time after you'd overpaid for it. But there was a relaxed Oz Sakal and there was a murderously angry Oz Sakal who looked and acted almost precisely like the former. This was the latter.

Michaelmas took a look around. The remainder of the press corps was simply sitting here waiting for the custom-ary sort of opening remark to be poured over the world's head. But then perhaps they had never seen the Bird with a successfully drawn straight losing to a flush.