Michaelmas (12 page)

"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?"

"The 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, Limberg, 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.

He said Limberg could talk as much as he wished about his medical abilities but if he attempted anything more, it would be total war between Limberg and UNAC until one or the other ex-hausted its resources. And was that clear?"

Michaelmas pursed his lips. "And Limberg and Norwood agreed?"

"Why not? Norwood is under discipline as a UNAC as-signee, and what has Limberg to lose? If a few hours go by and then the news gets out, Limberg looks better and UNAC looks worse than ever. For the sake of his
glory
! This tantalizer of birds, this connoisseur of things to be found in a garden, this — Laurent, please, you must do for us whatever you can."

"Yes, I must," Michaelmas said. "But what can that be?"

He began moving about the room, his hands reaching out to touch the handles of a breakfront, the pulls of the drapes, the switches on the little lights above the painting. "If it's not true, there's no problem. I can reinforce whatever facts you announce, we can play it correctly - well, hell, Getulio, we know how that's done - but what to do if the facts confirm Norwood's story?" He turned and stared at the public relations man. "Eh? What then?"

Frontiere looked at him uncomfortably. "Well, Ossip is of course due in conference momentarily with the entire UNAC directorship, and all eventualities will be con-sidered."

"What does that mean?"

Frontiere's gaze steadied and he folded his arms. "You have always been a very good friend to us, Laurent. You have shared our ideal from the beginning. We understand the call for objectivity in your position. However, the fact is that you have always been slow to elaborate anything detrimental about us. To the contrary, you have been energetic in confirming what is good for us."

Michaelmas put up a hand swiftly. "Because taken day in and out, UNAC is one of the excellent and well-run ideas of the late twentieth century." He studied Frontiere's ex-pression, peering forward as if there were not quite enough light to show him all he wanted to examine. "What else are you hoping for? That in this case Laurent Michael-mas will lend himself to whatever UNAC

directorship wants, no matter what? Even if Norwood's story is proven true?"

Frontiere's lips were pale at the corners. "It may be proven untrue."

Michaelmas turned away. He stood with one hand on the wall, and looked out at the mountains.

"Getulio, do you imagine the telemetry sender does not appear honestly Soviet under Norwood's analysis? Do you conceive that he and Limberg have lent their names and actions to some-thing like this, if they are not prepared to swear it was in Norwood's pocket when he was hauled from the cap-sule? Have they told you where the capsule is located?"

"Of course."

"And have UNAC technicians looked at it?"

"Certainly."

"And is the physical evidence consistent with everything Limberg and Norwood have told you ?"

"Yes. But that's not yet proof —"

"Proof." Michaelmas turned sharply. "Proof will be con-clusive when it comes. But you know what many people will believe even without proof. You know what even many of the more levelheaded will believe must be done when there
is
proof. Getulio Frontiere, you're a good man in a good cause, yet you're here on a shameful errand. And why? Not because there's final proof.

But because there's already belief, and I can see it on your face as plain as you have it on your conscience. Thank you for trusting me.