He played with his fingertips upon the warm satiny wood of the desktop. The nails of his left hand were long, while those of his right hand were squared off short and the fingertips showed considerable callosity. One aspect of his living-room area mounted a large panel of blue-black velvet. Angular thin brass hooks projected from it, and on those were hung various antique stringed instruments. But now Michaelmas swung around in his chair and picked up a Martin Dreadnaught guitar. He hunched forward in the chair and hung brooding over the instrument, right hand curled around its broad neck.

“Domino.”

“Yes, Mr Michaelmas.”

“What do you have from the other media?”

“On the Norwood story?”

“Right. You’d better give it priority in all your information feeds to me until further notice.”

“Understood. First, all the other news services are quoting Reuters to their Swiss and UN stations and asking what the hell. AP’s Berne man has replied with no progress on the phone to Limberg, and can’t get to the sanatorium — it’s up on a mountain, and the only road is private. UPI is filing old tapes of Norwood, and of Limberg, with background stories on each and a recap of the shuttle accident. They have nothing; they’re just servicing their subscribers with features and sidebars, and probably hoping they’ll have a new lead soon. All the feature syndicates are doing essentially the same thing.”

“What’s Tass doing?”

“They’re not releasing it at all. They’ve been on the phone to Pravda and Berne. Pravda is holding space on tomorrow’s page three, and Tass’s man in Berne is having just as much luck as the AP. He’s predicting to his chief that Limberg will throw a full-scale news conference soon; says it’s not in character for the old man not to follow up after this teaser. I agree.”

“Yes. What are the networks doing?”

“They’ve reacted sharply but are waiting on the wire services for details. The entertainment networks are having voice-over breaks with slides of Berne, the Oberland, or almost any snowy mountain scene; they’re reading the bulletin quickly, and then going to promos for their affiliated news channels. But the news is tending to montages of stock shuttle-shot footage over stock visuals of the Jungfrau and the Finsteraarhorn. No one has any more data.”

“All right, I think we can let you handle all that. I’d say Dr. Limberg has dropped his bombshell and retreated to a previously prepared position to wait out the night. The next place to go is UNAC. What have you got?” Michaelmas’s fingers made contact with the guitar strings. The piped music cut off. In the silence, the guitar hummed to his touch. He paid it no heed, clasping it to him but not addressing himself to it.

“Star Control has decided not to permit statement at any installation until an official statement has been prepared and released from there. They are circulating two drafts among their directors. One draft is an expression of surprise and delight, and the other, of course, is an expression of regret at false hopes that have upset the decorum of the world’s grief for Colonel Norwood. They’ll release nothing until they have authenticated word from Berne. A UNAC executive plane is clearing Naples for Berne at the moment with Ossip Sakal aboard; he was vacationing there. The flight has not been announced to the press.”

“Star Control’s engineering staff has memoed all offices reiterating its original June evaluation  that Norwood’s vehicle was totally destroyed and nothing got clear. Obviously, UNAC  people  are  being knocked out of bed everywhere to review their records.”

Michaelmas’s hands plucked and pressed absently at the guitar. Odd notes and phrases swelled out of the soundbox. Hints of melody grouped themselves out of the disconnected beats and vanished before anything much happened to them.

The hectoring voice of the machine went on. “Star Control has had a telephone call from Limberg’s sanatorium. The calling party was identified as Norwood on voice, appearance, and conversational content. He substantiated the Limberg statement. He was then ordered to keep mum until Sakal and some staff people from Naples have reached him. All UNAC spaceflight installations and offices were then sequestered by Star Control, as previously indicated, and the fact of the call from Norwood to UNAC has not been made available to the press.”

“You’ve been busy.” A particularly fortunate series of accidents issued from the guitar. Michaelmas blinked down at it in pleasure and surprise. But now it had distracted him, so he let it fall softly against the lounge behind him.

He stood up and put his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders bowed and stiff. He drifted slowly towards the window and looked out along Manhattan Island.

Norwood’s miracle — Norwood’s and Limberg’s miracle — was well on its way towards being a fact, and truth was the least of the things that made it so. Michaelmas absently touched the telephone in his breast pocket, silent only because of Domino’s secretarial function.

He knew he lived in a world laced by mute sound clamouring to be heard, by pictures prepared to become instant simulacra. Above him — constantly above him and all the world —the relay stations were throbbing with myriad bits of news and inconsequence that flashed from ground station to station, night and day, from one orbit to another, from synchronous orbit to horizon scanner and up to the suprasynchs that orbited the Earth-Moon system, until the diagram of all these reflecting angles and pyramids of communication made the earth and her sister the binary centre of a great faceted globe resembling nothing so much as Buckminster Fuller’s heart’s desire.

Around him, from the height of the tallest structure and at times to the depths of the sea, a denser, less elegant, more frantic network shot its arrows from every sort of transmitter to every sort of receiver, and from every transceiver back again. There was not a place in the world where a picture-maker could not warm to life and intelligence, if its operator had any of either quality, if Aunt Martha were not asleep, if one’s mistress were not elsewhere, if the assistant buyer for United Merchants were not busy on another of his channels. Or, more and more often, there were the waterfall chimes of machines responding to machines, of systems reacting to controls, and only ultimately of controls translating from human voice for their machines.

What a universe of chitterings, Laurent Michaelmas thought. What a cheeping basketry was woven for the world. He thought of Domino, who had begun as a device for talking to his wife without charge. It leaks, he thought wryly. But it doesn’t matter if it leaks. The container is so complex it enwraps its own drains. It leaks into itself.

He thought of Nils Hannes Limberg, whose clinic served the severely traumatized of half the world, its free schedule quietly known to be adapted to ability to pay. Rather well known, as of course it had to be. Nils Hannes Limberg, proprietor not only of a massive image of rectitude and research, but also of the more spacious wing of his sanatorium, with its refurbishment and dermal tissue and revitalization of muscle tone in the great and public. A crusty old man in a shabby suit, bluntly tolerating the gratitude in first wives of shipping cartel owners, grumpily declaring: “I never watch it,” when asked if he felt special pride in the long-running élan of Dusty Haverman. “Warbirds of Time? A start of a series? Ah, he is the leading player in an entertainment! No, I never realized that — on my tables, you know, they do not speak lines.”

It was approximately ten minutes since Nils Hannes Limberg, who was a gaunt old man full of liver spots and blue veins, had spoken to the Reuters man in whatever language was most convenient for them. And now 2,000,000,000 waking people had had the opportunity to know what he had said, with more due to awaken to it. No one knew how many computers knew what he had said; no one knew how many microliths strained with it, how many teleprinters shook with it. Who in his right mind would say that something which had spat through so many electron valves, had shaken the hearts of so many junction-junction couplings, so many laser jewels, so many cans of carbon fluids —so many lowly carbon granules, for that matter — was not a colossal factor in the day?

Somewhere in those two billions, torture and ecstasy could be traced directly to those particular vibrations of a speaker cone, to that special dance of electrons through focusing lens and electrostat. Good spirits and bad had been let loose within the systems of those who had heard the news and then left on previous errands, which were now done differently from the way they might have been. The prices of a thousand things went up; everyone’s dollar shrank, but the dollars of some were multiplied. Women cried, and intended loves went unconsummated. Women smiled, and strangers met. Men thrilled, and who knows what happens when a man thrills? Laurent Michaelmas looked out his window, with only a million people or so in his direct line of vision, and the fine hairs were standing up on his arms.

He shook his head and turned back to his terminal. “Disregard all Norwood data beginning with the Reuters item. Do you think Norwood is alive?”

“No. All hope of finding him, alive or dead, is irrational. Every study of the shuttle accident concludes that the fuel explosion raised the temperature of the system well above the flash point of all organic and most inorganic components. All studies indicate there was no warning before the explosion. All studies indicate no object could have accelerated away from the explosion fast enough to outrun it. All of this specifically agrees with UNAC’s studies of the escape capsule’s acceleration capabilities. Finally, it agrees with my own evaluations for you at the time.”

“Norwood became part of an expanding ball of high-temperature gases, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So your present estimate that Norwood lives is based purely on the Reuters item.”

“Right.”

“Why?”

“Common sense.”

“Reuters doesn’t usually get its facts wrong and never lies. Dr. Limberg did make the statement, and he can’t afford to lie. Right?”

“Correct.”

Laurent Michaelmas smiled fondly at the machine. The smile was gentle, and genuinely tender. It was exactly like what can be seen on the faces of two very young children awakening with each other in the morning, not yet out on the nursery floor and wanting the same thing.

“How do you envision Norwood’s marvellous resurrection? What has happened to him?”

“I believe his trajectory in the capsule did end somewhere near Limberg’s sanatorium. I assume he was gravely injured, if it has taken him all these months to recover even at Dr. Limberg’s hands. Limberg’s two prizes are after all for breakthroughs in controlled artificial cellular reproduction and for theoretical work on cellular memory mechanisms. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he practically had to grow Norwood a new body. That sort of reconstitution, based on Limberg’s publications over the years, is now nearly within reach of any properly managed medical centre. I would expect Limberg himself to be able to do it now, given his facilities and a patient in high popular esteem. His ego would rise to the occasion like a butterfly to the sun.”

“Is Norwood still the same man?”

“Assuming his brain is undamaged, certainly.”

“Perfectly capable of leading the Outer Planets expedition after all?”

“Capable, but not likely to. He has missed three months of the countdown. Major Papashvilly must remain in command, so I imagine Colonel Norwood cannot go at all. It would be against Russian practice to promote their cosmonaut to the necessary higher rank until after his successful completion of the mission.”

“What if something happened to Papashvilly?”

“Essentially the same thing has happened vis-à-vis Norwood. UNAC would assign the next back-up man, and…”

Laurent Michaelmas grinned. “Horsefeathers.”

There was a moment’s pause, and the voice said slowly, consideredly: “You may be right. The popular dynamic would very likely assure Norwood’s re-appointment.”

Michaelmas smiled coldly. He rubbed the top of his head. “Tell me, are you still confident that no one had deduced our—ah—personal dynamic?”

“Perfectly confident.” Domino was shocked at the suggestion. “That would require a practically impossible order of integration. And I keep a running check. No one knows that you and I run the world.”

“Does anyone know the world is being run?”

“Now, that’s another formulation. No one knows what’s in the hearts of men. But if anyone’s thinking that way, it’s never been communicated. Except, just possibly, face to face.”

“Which is meaningless until concerted action results. And that would require communication, and you’d pick it up. That’s one comfort, anyway.” He was again looking out at night-softened Manhattan, which rose like a crystallographer’s dream of Atlantis out of a lighted haze. “Probably meaningless,” Michaelmas said softly.

There was another silence from the machine. “Tell me…”

“Anything.”

“Why do you ask that in connection with your previous set of questions?”

Michaelmas’s eyes twinkled as they often did when he found Domino trying to grapple with intuition. But not all of his customary insouciance endured through his reply. “Because we have just discovered that the very great Nils Hannes Limberg is a fraud and a henchman. That is a sad and significant thing. And because Norwood was as dead as yesterday. He was a nice young man with high, specialized qualifications no higher than those of the man who replaced him, and there was never anything secret or marvellous about him or you would have told me long ago. If we could have saved him, we would have. But there’s nothing either you or I can do about a stuck valve over the Mediterranean, and frankly I’m just as glad there’s some responsibility I don’t have to take. If we could have gotten him back at the time, I would have been delighted. But he had a fatal accident, and the world has gone on.”

Michaelmas was not smiling at all. “It’s no longer Colonel Norwood’s time. The dead must not rise—they undermine everything their dying created. Resurrecting Norwood is an attempt to cancel history. I can’t allow that, any more than any other human being would. And so all of this is a challenge to me. I was concerned that it might be a deliberate trap.”

He turned his face upwards. That brought stars and several planets into his line of vision. “Something out there’s unhappy with history. That means it’s unhappy with what I’ve done. Something out there is trying to change history. That means it’s groping towards me.”

Michaelmas scratched his head. “Of course, you say it doesn’t know it’s got one specific man to contend with. It may think it only has some seven billion people to push around. But one of these days, it’ll realize. I’m afraid it’s smarter than you and I.”

With asperity, Domino said : “Would you like a critique of the nonsequential assumptions in that set? As one example, you have no basis for that final evaluation. Your and my combined intellectual resources—”

“Domino, never try to reason with a man who can see the blade swinging for his head.” He cocked that head again, Michaelmas did, and his wide, ugly face was quite elfin. “I’ll have to think of something. Afterwards, you can make common sense of it.” He began to walk around, his square torso tilted forward from his broad hips. He made funny, soft, explosive humming noises with his mouth and throat, his cheeks throbbing, and the sound of a drum and recorder followed wherever he strolled.

She came in just ahead of the room-service waiter. Michaelmas attended to the amenities and they sat together on the balcony, sipping and talking. She and the crew were all on staff with his employer network. Her name was Clementine Gervaise, and he had never met her because the bulk of her previous experience had been with national media, and because this was his first time with her network, which was up-and-coming and hadn’t been able to afford him before.

Gervaise — Madame Gervaise, he gathered from the plain band on her finger — was the model of one kind of fortyish, chic European woman. She was tall, blonde, with her hair pulled back severely from her brow but feathered out coquettishly over one ear, dressed in a plain blue-green couturier suit, and very professional. It took them ten minutes to work out what kind of equipment they had available, what sort of handling and transport capabilities they had for it, and what to do with it pending permission to enter the sanatorium grounds. They briefly considered the merit of intercutting old UNAC footage with whatever commentary he devised, and scrubbed that in favour of a nice, uncluttered series of grab shots of the sanatorium and any lab interiors they might be able to pick up. She expressed an interest in Domino’s machine, which Michaelmas displayed to her as his privately designed comm unit, giving her the line of Proud Papa patter that had long ago somnolized all the newsmen he knew.

With all that out of the way, they still had a few sips of coffee left and a few bites of croissant to take, so they began to talk inconsequentially.

The skin on the backs of her hands was beginning to lose its youthful elasticity, so she did not do much gesturing, but she did have a habit of reaching up to pull down the dark glasses which were de rigueur in her mode. This usually happened at the end of a question such as: “It is very agreeable here at this time of year, is it not?” and was accompanied by a glance of her medium green eyes before the glasses went back into place and hid them again. She sipped at her cup daintily, her pursed lips barely kissing the rim. She kept her legs bent sidewards together, and her unfortunately large feet pulled back inconspicuously against her chair.

All in all, Michaelmas was at first quite ready to classify her as being rather what you’d expect — a well-trained, competent individual in a high-paying profession which underwrote whatever little whims and personal indulgences she might have. This kind of woman was usually very good to work with, and he expected to be out of Switzerland before she had quite made up her mind whether she or the famous

Laurent Michaelmas was going to do the seducing. And even if he were delayed past that point, a moment’s frank discussion would solve that problem without offending her or making him look like an ass. At least this type of woman played it as a game, and took it as a matter of course that if there was to be no corrida in this town today, there was always an autobus leaving for the next ring within the half hour. As a matter of fact, she was the type of woman he most liked working with because it could all be made clear-cut so easily, and then they could resume what they were being paid to do.

And in fact, Clementine Gervaise herself was so casual, despite the glances and the exposition from knees to ankles, that it seemed the whole business was only a pro forma gesture to days perhaps gone by for both of them. But just before he poured the last of the coffee from the chased silver pot into the translucent cup with its decoration of delicately painted violets, he found himself listening with more than casual attention to the intonations of her voice, and finding that his eyes rested on the highlights in her washed blond coiffure each time she turned her head.

For content, her conversation was still no more than politeness required, and his responses were the same. But there was a certain comfortable relaxation within him which he discovered only with a little spasm of alertness. For the past minute or two, his smile of response to her various gambits about European travel and climate had been warming. He had begun thinking how pleasant it all was, sitting here and looking out over the mountains, sipping coffee in this air; how very pleasant it was to be himself. And he found himself remembering out of the aspect of his mind that was like an antique desk, some of its drawers bolted, and all the others a little warped and stiff in their sides, so that they opened with difficulty:

He looked down into his cup, smiled, and said: “Dregs”, to cover the slight frown he might have shown.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as if she also worked in the Excelsior kitchen. It was this little domestic note that did it.

He continued to be charming, and in fact disarmingly attentive for the next few minutes until she left, saying: “I shall be looking forward to seeing you later today.” And then when he had closed the door to the suite behind her, he walked back out on to the balcony and stood with his hands behind his back, his cheeks puffing in and out a little.

“What is it about her?” he said to Domino.

“There’s a remarkable coincidence. She’s very much as I’d expect your wife would have been by now.”

“Really? Is that it?”

“I would say so. I have.”

“Like Clementine Gervaise?” He turned back inside the parlour, his hands still clasped behind him. He placed his feet undecidedly. “Well. What do you think this is?”

“On the data, it’s a coincidence.”

Michaelmas cocked his head towards the machine. “Are you beginning to learn to think beyond actuarials?” he said with pleasure.

“It may be a benefit of our continuing relationship, O Creator.”

“Long time coming,” Michaelmas said gruffly. He straightened and began to stride about the parlour. “But what have we here? Has someone been applying a great deal of deductive thought to what profession a man in my role would choose in these times? My goodness, Dr. Limberg, is all this part of a better mousetrap? Domino, it seems I might also have to watch behind me as I beat a path to his door.”

“You are not more than part of the whole world, Mighty Mouse,” Domino said.

“You know it,” Michaelmas answered, kicking off his shoes as he stepped into the bedroom. “Well, I’m going to take an hour’s nap.”

He slept restlessly for thirty-seven minutes. From time to time he rolled over, frowning.

There was another credential verification just beyond the smoked-glass front doors. Another junior UNAC aide was checking names against a list. It was a scene of polite crowding as bodies filed in behind Michaelmas and Clementine.

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 balcony. We have you listed for a back-up seat towards the rear of the main auditorium. Now, in view of the unfortunate—”

“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 towards the auditorium’s rear doors, and then he and Clementine 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 winning 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 beginning 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 discourtesy 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 snapped 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 clattering 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 supported by stiff arms as they huddled over a table spread with papers and glossy photographic enlargements. Limberg’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 question 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 understand? 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 auditorium, 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 concerned 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 fantastic 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 programme 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 Papashvilly 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 appropriately. To either side of the moderately thrust stage, lenticular 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 announcer 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 Michaelmas’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 expression 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 standing 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 forward. 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 customary 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.

Michaelmas keyed the Transmit button of his comm unit once, to let Clementine know he was about to feed. Then he locked it down, faced into the nearest reflector, and smiled. “Ladies and gentlemen, good day,” he said warmly. “Laurent Michaelmas here. The man who is about to speak” — this lily I am about to paint—“has a well-established reputation for quickness of mind, responsible decisions, and an unfailing devotion to UNAC’s best interests.” As well as a tendency to snap drink stirrers whenever he feels himself losing control of the betting.

With his peripheral vision, Michaelmas had been watching Sakal stand mute while most of the people in the room did essentially what Michaelmas was doing. When Sakal put his hands on the podium, Michaelmas said: “Here is Mr Sakal.” He unlocked.

“How do you do.” Sakal looked straight out into the pool camera. He was a wiry man with huge cheekbones and thick black hair combed straight back from the peak of his scalp. There was skilfully applied matte make-up on his forehead. “On behalf of the Astronautics Commission of the United Nations of the World, I am here to express our admiration and delight.” Michaelmas found it noteworthy that Sakal continued to address himself only to the world beyond the blandest camera.

“The miracle of Colonel Norwood’s return is one for which we had very much given up hope. To have him with us again is also a personal joy to those of us who have long esteemed his friendship. Walter Norwood, as one might expect of any  space-faring  individual,  is  a remarkable person. We who are privileged to work for peaceful expansion of mankind in space are also privileged by many friendships with such individuals from many nations. To have one of them return whom we had thought lost is to find our hearts swelling with great emotion.”

He was off and winging now. Whatever Frontiere had written and drilled into him was now nothing more than an outline for spontaneous creative rhetoric. That was all right, too, so far, because Frontiere in turn had based the words on guidelines first articulated to him by Sakal. But so much for the skills of prose communication.

Sakal was looking earnestly into the camera, his hands gripping the sides of the podium. “The number of Man’s space pioneers has not today been made one more. We have all been made greater—you and I as well as those whose training and experience are directed at actually piloting our craft in their journeys upon this mighty frontier.”

Michaelmas kept still. It wasn’t easy. For a moment, it had seemed that Sakal’s private fondness for John Kennedy would lead him into speaking of this new ocean. His natural caution had diverted him away from that, but only into a near stumble over New Frontier, an even more widely known Kennedyism. Sakal wasn’t merely enraged; he was rattled, and that was something Michaelmas had never seen before.

“We look forward to working with Colonel Norwood again,” Sakal said. “There are many projects on the schedule of the UNAC which require the rare qualities of someone like himself. Whatever his assignment, Colonel Norwood will perform faithfully in the best traditions of the UNAC and for the good of all mankind.”

Well, he had gone by way of Robin Hood’s barn, but he had finally gotten there. Now to point it out. Michaelmas keyed Transmit and locked.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have just heard the news that Colonel Norwood will indeed be returning to operational status with UNAC. His new duties cannot be made definite at this time, but Mr Sakal is obviously anxious to underscore that it will be an assignment of considerable importance.” As well as to let us all know that he is as concerned for his good buddy’s well-being as anyone could be, and as well as to betray that UNAC is suddenly looking back a generation. Damn. Organizations nurtured specialists like Frontiere to dress policy in jackets of bulletproof phrasing, and then the policy-makers succumbed to improvisation on camera because it made them feel more convincing to use their own words.

Speaking of words…

“A position of high responsibility is certainly in order for the colonel if he is fully recovered,” Michaelmas was saying. It was gratifying how automatically the mind and the tongue worked together, first one leading and then the other, the one never more than a millimicrosecond behind the other, which ever was appropriate to the situation. The face, too : the wise older friend, the worldly counsellor. The situation is always important, but neither inexplicable nor cause for gloom. “The vast amount of physical catching-up to do — the months of training and rehearsal that have passed in Colonel Norwood’s absence from UNAC’s programmes — would make it extremely difficult to rejoin any on-going project.” Smooth. As the sentence had flowed forward, he had considered and rejected saying impossible. In fact it probably was barely possible; with a large crew, redundant functions, and modern guidance systems, space-flight was far from the trapeze act it had been in Will Gately’s day. And if I am going to make UNAC work, if I am going to make work all the things of which UNAC is only the currently prominent part, then the last thing I can do is be seen trying to make it work. So I can’t really be any more direct than Sakal was being, can I? Smile inside, wise older friend. They call it irony. It is in fact the way of the world. “It’s possible Mr Sakal is hinting at the directorship of the Outer Planet Applications programme, which will convert into industrial processes the results of the engineering experiments to be brought back by the Outer Planets expedition.” It’s also possible Laurent Michaelmas is throwing UNAC a broad hint on how to kick Norwood upstairs. Perhaps in the hope that while they kick him, his arse will open to disclose gear trains. What then, Dr. Limberg? What now, Laurent Michaelmas? All he had beside him was a magic box full of nothing — a still, clever thing that did not even understand it was a tool, nor could appreciate how skilfully it was employed. “And now, back to Mr Sakal.”

All Sakal was doing was introducing Limberg, and waiting until the old man was well advanced from the wings before circling around the table and taking one of the three chairs. Everyone was so knowledgeable on playing for the media these days. They kept it short, they broke it to allow time for comment, they didn’t upstage each other. Even when they were in a snit, they built these things like actors re-creating psychodramas from a transcript. It was not they who had pushed the switch, nodded the head, closed the door, written the voucher. Someone else— someone wild, someone devious, someone unpredictable — had done that. No such persons would be thrust upon the audience today. Or ever. Such persons and their deeds were represented here today. And each day. There is a reality. We will tell you about it.

Of course, these people here on Limberg’s stage were the survivors of the selection process. The ones who didn’t begin learning it early were the ones you never heard of.

“Dr. Limberg naturally needs no introduction,” Michaelmas said to a great many millions of people—few of them, it seemed, buried deep in the evening hours. Prime Time was advancing slothfully out in the Pacific wasteland. Why was that? “What he appears to deserve is the world’s gratitude.”

Unlock. The great man stands there like a graven saint. The kind, knowing eyes sweep both the live and the electronic audience. The podium light, which had cast the juts and hollows of Sakal’s face into harsh no-nonsense relief, seemed now to be more diffuse, and perhaps a more flattering shade. Michaelmas sighed. Well, we all do it one way or another.

“Welcome to my house,” Limberg said in German. Michaelmas thought about it for a moment, then put a translator output in his ear. He could speak and understand it, especially the western dialects, but there might be some nuance, either direct from Limberg or unconsciously created by the translator. In that latter case, what the translator made of Limberg would be more official among whatever ethnic group heard it that way. Eventually the Michaelmases and Horse Watsons of the world would have to track down the distortion if they could or if they cared, and set it right in one corner without disturbing another. Not for the first time, Michaelmas wished Esperanto had taken hold. But recalling the nightmare of America’s attempt to force metrication on itself, he did not wish it quite enough.

Limberg was smiling and twinkling, his hands out, the genial host. “My associates and I are deeply honoured. I can report to you that we did not fail our responsibilities towards the miracle that conveyed Colonel Norwood in such distress to us.” Now the visage was solemn, but the stance of his shoulders and slightly bowed head indicated quiet pride.

Over-weening, Michaelmas thought. The man radiates goodness and wisdom like a rich uncle in a nephew’s eyes.

And so it is with the world; those who claim mankind knows nothing of justice, restraint, modesty, or altruism are all wrong. In every generation, we have several individuals singled out to represent them to us.

Disquieting. To sit here suddenly suspecting the old man’s pedigree. What to think of the witnesses to his parents' marriage? Is there sanctity in the baptismal register? If Uncle’s birth certificate is an enigma, what does that do to Nephew’s claim of kinship when probate time comes round? Better not whisper such suppositions in the world’s lent ear just yet. But how, then, for the straight, inquiring professional newsman to look at him just now?

No man can be a hero to his media. The old man’s ego and his gesturings were common stock in after-hours conversation. But they all played along, seeing it harmless when compared to his majesty of mind — assuming he had some. They let him be the man in the white coat, and he gave them stitches of newsworthy words to suture up fistulas of dead air, the recipient not only of two Nobel awards but of two crashes…

If Domino were here, Michaelmas thought, oppressed, he would have pulled me up for persiflage long before now. What is it? he thought. What in the world are they doing to me and mine? Who are they?

Limberg, meanwhile, was spieling out all the improbables of Norwood’s crash so near the sanatorium, so far from the world’s attention. If it weren’t Limberg, and if they weren’t all so certain Norwood was waiting alive and seamless in the wings, how many of them here in this room would have been willing to swallow it? But when he looked around him now, Michaelmas could see it going down whole, glutinously.

And maybe it’s really that way? he thought, finally. Ah, no, no, they are using the mails to defraud somehow. And most important I think they have killed Horse Watson, probably because he frightened them with how swiftly he could move.

When he thought of that, he felt more confident. If they were really monolithically masterly, they’d have had the wreckage all dressed and propped as required. More, they would have been icy sure of it, come Nineveh, come Iron Darius and all his chariots against them. But they hadn’t liked Watson’s directness. They’d panicked a little. Someone on the crew had said, “Wait — no, let’s take one more look at it before we put it on exhibit.” And so they had knocked Watson down not only to forestall him but to distract the crowd while they sidled out and made assurance doubly sure.

It was good to think they could be nervous.

It was bad to think nevertheless how capable they were.

Now Limberg was into orthopaedics, immunology, tissue cloning; it was all believable. It was years since they’d announced being able to grow a new heart from a snippet of a bad one; what was apparently new was being able to grow it in time to do the patient any good.

Keying in, Michaelmas said a few words about that to his audience, just as if he believed it. Meanwhile, he admired the way Limberg was teasing the time away, letting the press corps wind up tighter and tighter just as if they were ordinary rubes awaiting the star turn at the snake oil show, instead of the dukes and duchesses of world opinion.

“— but the details of these things,” Limberg was finally concluding, “are of course best left for later consideration. I am privileged now to reintroduce to you the United States of North America astronaut Colonel Doctor of Engineering Walter Norwood.”

And there he was, striding out of the wings, suddenly washed in light, grinning and raising one hand boyishly in a wave of greeting. Every lens in the room sucked him in, every heart beat louder in that mesmerized crowd, and the media punched him direct into the world’s gut. But not on prime time. Of all the scheduling they could have set up, this was just about the worst. Not that there was any way to take much of the edge on this one. Nevertheless, when this news arrived at Mr and Mrs America’s breakfast table, it would be hours cold —warmed over, blurred by subsequent events of whatever kind. A bathing beauty might give birth and name a dolphin as the father. Professional terrorists, hired by Corsican investors in the Carlsbad radium spa, might bomb President Fefre’s palace. General Motors might announce there would be no new models for the year 2001, since the world was coming to an end.

It suddenly occurred to Michaelmas that if he were UNAC, he’d have had Papashvilly here to shake Norwood’s hand at this moment and throw a comradely arm around his shoulders, and thus emphasize just who it was that was being welcomed home and who it was that had drawn the water and hewn the wood meanwhile.

But they had retreated from that opportunity. Why? No time to wonder. Norwood was standing alone at the podium. Limberg had drifted back to join Sakal at the table, Frontiere was blended into the walls somewhere until Q and A time, and the American colonel had the attention. He had it pretty well, too. Limberg’s lighting electricians were doing a masterful job on him.

“I’m very glad to see you all,” Norwood said softly into the cameras, his hair an aureole of backlighting. He raised his chin a little, and his facial lines were bathed out by a spot mounted out of sight somewhere in the podium box itself. “I want to thank Dr. Limberg and his staff.” He was like an angel. Michaelmas’s, hackles were rising. “And now I’m ready to sit down and take questions.” He smiled, waved his hand again, and stepped back.

The lighting changed; now the podium was played down, and the table was illuminated. Sakal and Limberg were standing. Frontiere was coming out of the wings. Norwood reached his chair. The press corps leaned forward, some with hands rising and mouths opening to call attention to their questions, and as they leaned some lackey somewhere began to applaud. Caught on the lean, it was easy to stand. Standing, it was easy to applaud. Scores of palms resounded, and the walls quivered. Limberg as well as Norwood smiled and nodded modestly.

Michaelmas fidgeted. He closed his fists. Where was the statement explaining exactly what had happened? Where was the UNAC physicist with his charts and pointer, his vocabulary full of coriolis effect and telemetry nulls, his animation holograms of how a radar horizon swallows a man-carrying capsule? If no one else was going to do it, Norwood should have.

It wasn’t going to happen. In another moment, a hundred and a half people, each with an individual idea of what needed asking, were going to begin competing for short answers to breathless questions. The man whose media radiated its signal from an overhead satellite to a clientele of bangled cattlemen in wattle huts had concerns not shared by the correspondent for Dow Jones. The people from Science News Service hardly listened to whatever response was drawn by the representative of Elle. And there was only a circumscribed area of time to work in. The bathing beauty was out there somewhere, jostling Fefre and chiliasm for space on the channels, jockeying her anomalously presented hips.

It was all over. They were not here to obtain information after all. They were here to sanctify the occasion, and when they were done the world would think it knew the truth and was free.

Frontiere was at the podium. This sort of thing was his handiwork. He moved effortlessly, a man who had danced this sort of minuet once or twice before. UNAC’s man, but doing the job Limberg wanted done.

And thus Sakal’s impotent rage. Somehow the Bird was over the grand old man’s barrel.

“The questions?” Frontiere was saying to the press corps. My hat is off to you, you son of a bitch, Michaelmas was saying, and yes, indeed, we will talk afterwards, friend to friend. I am senior in prestige here; it is incumbent on me to frame the first question. To set the tone, so to speak. I raise my hand. Getulio smiles towards me. “Yes, Mr Michaelmas?”

“Colonel Norwood’s presence here delights us all,” I say. There are amenities that must of course be followed. I make the obligatory remark on behalf of the media. But I am the first voice from the floor. The world hears me. I have spoken. It’s all true. He is risen. The people of the world rejoice.

But they are my people! God damn it, my people!

“My question is for Mr Sakal. I’d like him to explain how Colonel Norwood’s presence here jibes with UNAC’s prior explanations of his death.” I stand with a faint little twinkle visible in my eye. I am gently needling the bureaucrats. I am in fact doing no such thing. If Frontiere and Sakal have not already rehearsed this question a thousand times, then they are all impostors. I am a clown. I toss the ball so they may catch it gracefully.

Sakal leans forward in his chair, his hands cupped on the table. “Well, obviously,” he delivers, “there was some sort of failure in our tracking and monitoring systems.” He causes himself to appear rueful. “Some embarrassing failure.”

We all chuckle.

“I assume it’s being gone into.”

“Oh, yes,” Something in the set of Sakal’s jaw informs the audience that somewhere out there blades are thudding and heads are rolling.

I have asked my questions. I have set the tone. I have salvaged what I can from this wreck. My audience thinks I was not afraid to ask a delicate question, and delicate enough not to couch it in a disquieting manner.

I sit down. The next questioner is recognized. Frontiere is a genius at seeming to select on some rational basis of priority. In due time, he gets to Douglas Campion, See Campion stand. “Colonel Norwood, what’s your next destination? Will you be coming to the USA in the near future?”

“Well, that depends on my duty assignment.”

“Would you accept a Presidential invitation?” He slips it in quickly. Sakal regards him quietly.

“If we had such an invitation,” Sakal answers for Norwood. “We would of course arrange duty time off for Colonel Norwood in order that he might visit with the chief executive of his native land, yes.”

Ah, news. And the hero could then doubtless be diverted for a few tickertape parades, etc. Campion has shrewdly uncovered the obvious inevitable. But it was a good question to have been seen asking.

Ah, you bastards, bastards, bastards. I sit in my place. In a decent while, I will ask another question of some kind. But if I were the man you think me, the questions I’d ask would have you in pieces. Phut, splat! Live in glorious hexacolor, direct from Switzerland, ladies and gentlemen, if I were not also only a clever simulacrum of what I ought to be.

In the cool suite, Michaelmas took off his suitcoat with slow care and meticulously hung it on the back of a chair beside the drawing-room table. He put the terminal down and sat, toeing off his shoes and tugging at the knot of his tie. He rested his elbows on the table and undid his cufflinks, pausing to rub gently at either side of his nose. “All right,” he said, his eyes unfocused. “Speak to me.”

“Yes. We’re still secure here,” Domino said. “Nothing’s tapping at us.”

Michaelmas’s face turned involuntarily towards the terminal. “Is that suddenly another problem to consider? I’ve always thought I’d arranged you to handle that sort of thing automatically.”

There was a longish pause. “Something peculiar happened at the sanatorium.”

Michaelmas tented his fingertips. “I’d gathered that. Please explain.”

Domino said slowly: “I’m not sure I can.”

Michaelmas sighed. “Domino, I realize you’ve had some sort of difficult experience. Please don’t hesitate to share it with me.”

“You’re being commendably patient with me, aren’t you?”

Michaelmas said: “If asked, I would say so. Let’s proceed.”

“Very well. At the sanatorium, I was maintaining excellent linkages via the various commercial facilities available. I had a good world scan, I was monitoring the comm circuits at your terminal, and I was running action programmes on the ordinary management problems we’d discussed earlier. I was also giving detail attention to Cikoumas et Cie, Hanrassy, UNAC, the Soviet spaceflight command, Papashvilly, the Watson crash, and so forth. I have reports ready for you on a number of these topics. I. really haven’t been idle since cutting away from your terminal.”

“And specifically what happened to make you shift out?”

There was a perceptible diminution in volume. “Something.”

Michaelmas  raised  an eyebrow. He reached forward gently and  touched the terminal.  “Stop mumbling and digging your toe in the sand, Domino,” he said. “We’ve all filled our pants on occasion.”

“I’m not frightened.”

“None of us are ever frightened. Now and then, we’d just like more time to plan our responses. Go on.”

“Spare me your aphorisms. Something happened when I next attempted to deploy into Limberg’s facilities and see what there was to learn. I learned nothing. There was an anomaly.”

“Anomaly.”

“Yes. There is something going on there. I linked into about as many kinds of conventional systems as you’d expect, and there was no problem; he has the usual assortment of telephones, open lines to investment services and the medical network, and so forth. But there was something—something began to happen to the ground underfoot.”

“Underfoot?”

“I have to anthropomorphize if I’m going to make sense to you. It was as if I’d take a stride of normal length and discover that my leg had become a mile long, so that my foot was set down out of sight far ahead of me. And my next step, with my other foot, might be done with a leg so short that the step was completed with incredible swiftness. Or it might again be one of the long steps — somewhat shorter or longer than other long steps. Yet I didn’t topple. But I would be rushing forward one moment and creeping the next. Nevertheless, I proceeded at an even pace. The length of my leg was always appropriate to the dimensions of the square on which I put down my foot, so that I always stepped to the exact centre of the next square. All the squares, no matter what their measurement in space, represented the same-sized increment of time.”

Michaelmas sucked his upper teeth. “Where were you going?” he finally asked.

“I have no idea. I can’t track individual electrons any more readily than you can. I’m just an information processor like any other living thing. Somewhere in that sanatorium is a crazy place. I had to cut out when it began echoing.”

“Echoing.”

“Yes, sir. I began receiving data I had generated and stored in the past. Fefre, the Turkish Greatness Party, Tim Brodzik… that sort of thing. Sometimes it arrived hollowed out, as if from the bottom of a very deep well, and at other times it was as shrill as the point of a pin. It was coded in exactly my style. It spoke in my voice, so to speak. However, I then noticed that minor variations were creeping in; with each repetition, there was apparently one electron’s worth of deviation, or something like that.”

“Electron’s worth?”

“I’m not sure what the actual increment was. It might have been as small as the fundamental particle, whatever that might turn out to be. But it seemed to me the coding was a notch farther off each time it… resonated. I’m not certain I was detecting a real change. My receptors might have been changing. When I thought of that, I cut out. First I dropped my world scan and my programmes out of the press links, and then I abandoned your terminal. I was out before the speaker actually started vibrating to tell you I was leaving. I felt as if I were chopping one end of a rope bridge with something already on it.”

“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 sanatorium.”

“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, something 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. Nobody 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 perfidious 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 Limberg’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 fortunate 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 shouldered 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 committed, more pledged as soon as she wins her first primary, and two three-minute eggs, with croutons, ordered for breakfast. 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 Department?”

“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 carefully.

“Negative. The European Flight Authority has taken jurisdiction. That’s expectable, since the original crash notification 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 investigation 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?”

“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 footage 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 content. 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 effective.”

“Could be?”

“Well, isn’t Watson’s employer network going to do something 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-entrance 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 diagrams. He says it has proven to be a false telemetry sender of undoubtable Soviet manufacture. As Norwood was reaching for it, his booster systems board began showing progressive malfunctions cascading towards immediate explosion. 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 appropriate position, and the on-shift crew was almost one hundred 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 telemetry sender, the destruct sequence was practically at completion. 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 reconstructed 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 already made a. computer simulation which times out to exactly 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 snapping. “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 terminal, 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 convincing. 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 counterfeit. 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 wonder : 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 Norwood and all brave people caught in the toils of international 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 stature.” 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 exposed 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 exhausted its resources. And was that clear?”

Michaelmas pursed his lips. “And Limberg and Norwood agreed?”

“Why not? Norwood is under discipline as a UNAC assignee, 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 considered.”

“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 expression, 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 Michaelmas 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 something like this, if they are not prepared to swear it was in Norwood’s pocket when he was hauled from the capsule? 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 conclusive 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.”

“Getulio, I’ll do what I can. That may be disappointingly little.”

Frontiere stood up without looking at Michaelmas. He busied himself with putting the noise generator back in his pocket and turning towards the door. “E bene, we each do what we can,” he said down to the carpet. “Sometimes we do what we must.”

“E vero,” Michaelmas said, “but we must not go beyond the truth in doing what we can.”

He was feeling halfway pleased by all that when Domino said: “Mr Michaelmas, something bad has happened.”

He raised his head abruptly and looked out beyond the windows of the ear. They were proceeding uneventfully toward the airport.

“What?”

“Here is a short feature that’s just been released by the syndication department of EVM.”

Michaelmas rubbed his face and the back of his neck; the heel of his hand massaged surreptitiously behind his right ear. “Proceed,” he said unwillingly, and Domino went to the audio track of a canned topical vignette for sale to stations that lacked feature departments of their own.

“Ask the World,” said a smooth, featureless, voice-over voice. “Today’s viewer question comes from Madame Hertha Wieth of Ulm. She asks: ”What are the major character differences between astronauts and cosmonauts?“ For her provocative and interesting question, Frau Wieth, a mother of four lovely children and the devoted wife of Stationary Engineer Augustus Friedrich Wieth, will receive a complimentary shopping discount card, good for one full calendar year, from the Stroessel Department Stores, serving Ulm and nearby communities honorably for the past twenty years. Stroessel’s invites the world’s custom. And now, for the reply to our viewer’s question, Ask the World turns to Professor Henri Jacquard of the Ecole Psychologique, Marseilles. Professor Jacquard:”

“Merci. Madame Wieth’s question implies a penetrating observation. There are significant psychological differences between the space fliers of the United States of North America and those of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. For example, let us compare Colonel Walter Norwood to Major Pavel Papashvilly.”

Domino said : “Now this is over stock portraits of the two. Then it goes to documentary footage of Norwood walking to church, Norwood addressing a college graduating class, Norwood riding a tour bicycle through a park, Papashvilly ski racing, Papashvilly diving from a high tower, Papashvilly standing in a hospital and talking enthusiastically to a group of amputees, Papashvilly flying a single-place jet, Papashvilly driving at a sports-car track. Bridgehampton; that’s some of your footage, there.”

“Well, at least we’re making money. Go on.”

“Colonel Norwood,” Professor Jacquard said, like most other American astronauts, is a stable person of impeccable middle-class background. He is essentially a youthful professional engineer whose superior physical reflexes have directed him to take active roles as a participant in carefully planned and thoughtfully structured engineering studies. He is an energetic but prudent researcher, inclined by temperament as well as extensive training to proceed always one step at a time. His recent mishap was clearly no fault of his own, and a thousand-to-one misfortune. His invariable technique is to follow a reliable plan which he is always ready to revise appropriately upon discovery of new facts and after sufficient consultation with authoritative superiors. In sum, Colonel Norwood, very like many of his “good buddies” fellow astronauts, is a startlingly European man, belying any provincial notion that North American males are all thinly disguised cowboys.

“On the other side of the coin is the cosmonaut programme of the Soviet Union. In the days of independent flight, Soviet space efforts were marked by unexpected changes of schedule, by significant fast-priority overhauls and in some cases major engineering transformations of supposedly finalized equipment. The Soviet Union remains the only nation which has suffered fatalities as a direct result of flight in space. Some of these were ascribable to equipment failure. Other unplanned mission events, if one is to judge from numerous incidents of exuberant behaviour while in flight, may well be laid to a certain boisterousness, which is not to say recklessness, on the part of cosmonauts over the years. There are those who say that taken as a whole, the Soviet cosmonautics programme was characteristically uncertain of its engineering and insufficiently strict in selecting flight personnel. It is of course an oversimplification to ascribe such qualities to Major Papashvilly simply because he comes to his position as a result of nomination by the Soviet cosmonaut command. But it could not be denied that the Soviet Union would naturally bring forward the individual who seemed most fitted to their standards.”

“Elan,” Professor Jacquard Summed up, “is often a praiseworthy quality. In fact, there are times when nothing else will suffice to gain the day.”

Domino said: “This is over shots now of horsemen jumping pasture fences in the Georgian mountains.”

“From his racial background, Major Papashvilly finds himself hereditarily equipped to concentrate all his powers on a single do-or-die moment,” Jacquard said. “Should such a moment arise, an individual of this type may very well succeed despite sober mathematical odds. One must be fair, however, and point out that individuals of Major Papashvilly’s type are frequently marked by the presence of one or more minor injuries at all times. In some cases, persons who suffer many small discomfitting accidents as a result of their life-styles are said in the educated world to have an ”accident-prone character“. I hope, Madame Wieth, that I have answered your question in a satisfactory manner.”

“Thank you, Professor Henri Jacquard, of the Ecole Psychologique, Marseilles, replying to the question by Madame Hertha Wieth, of Ulm. Tomorrow’s question on Ask the World is ”How does one recognize one’s ideal mate?“ and will be answered by Miss Giselle Montez of the American Warbirds entertainment.”

Michaelmas rubbed his eyes. “EVM is originating this?”

“Yes.”

“Gervaise have anything to do with it?”

“No. There’s a routine memo from the programming director: ”Want astro item today. How about this from my question backfile?“ And there’s a routine memo from an assistant, bucking the top memo down to the assignment desk and adding, ”How about that Jacquard person for this?“ The rest of the process was equally natural. They did rush it out, of course, but you would if you wanted to be topical.”

“It’s the slant that bothers me.”

“Yes.”

“You think they’re tiptoeing up on an anti-Pavel campaign in the media.”

“I had that thought when I reviewed it, yes. Now I am examining Major Papashvilly’s surroundings very carefully. I have found what I believe to be at least one instance of tampering.”

“You have.” Michaelmas sat perfectly still, his hands dangling between his knees, his face stupid. Only his eyes looked alive, and they were focused on God knows what.

“Yes. He’s in his apartment; they want him somewhere out of the public eye. I have been conducting routine surveillance, as instructed. I am in full contact with his building environmental controls and all his input and output connections. Everything appears to be operating routinely. Which now means I must check everything. I am doing so, piece by piece. A control component in his nearest elevator is fraudulent. It appears normal, and functions normally. It responds normally to routine commands. But it’s larger than the normal part; I can detect a temperature variation in its area, because it slightly obstructs normal airflow. I’ve managed to get the building systems to run a little extra current through it, and I find its resistance significantly higher than specification.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. But the extra portions, whatever they are, do not broadcast, and are not wired into anything I can locate. I think it is a wireless-operated device of some kind, designed to be activated ok signal from some source which cannot be directly located until it goes on the air. Since I don’t know the component, I have no means of blocking that signal, whatever it is and whatever it might make that component do.”

“And so?”

“Now I’m testing everything at or near the Star Control complex that has to do with safety, beginning with things that might affect Major Papashvilly. I—ah, yes, here’s another. Last week, a routine change was made in the power-supply divider of his personal car. The old one had reached the end of its guarantee period. But the new one never came from dealer or jobber stock. It’s in there, because the car has drawn power several times since the change was logged. But I have rechecked every inventory record at every point between the car and the manufacturer’s work order for producing spares, and the count is off. Papashvilly has something in his vehicle that looks like a correct spare and acts like a correct spare, or Star Control’s personnel garagemen would have noticed. But it was never manufactured at any known point, and I don’t know what else it might be able to do besides ration electrons. So that’s two, and I’m still checking.”

“All because EVM says Russkis are headbreakers.”

“And because Cikoumas et Cie recently opened a Cité d’Afrique branch. The managing director is Konstantinos Cikoumas, a younger brother, who is very energetic in signing wholesale date contracts, and who also has spent his time vigorously making friendships and acquaintances, to say nothing of casual contacts. In his few African months, so close to Star Control, Kosta Cikoumas has become personally known to thousands, and is seen everywhere. He is, you should know, a supplier to Star Control’s various restaurants and its staff cafeterias. His trucks run back and forth, and his employees are up and down the elevators frequently with their boxes and bales. That’s what started me looking, really. I would never have found these things otherwise — Oh, damn, here’s something odd about a fire-door mechanism! These people are resourceful. None of these differences feel large enough to be visible on routine inspection. Every one of them is passive until it’s needed, and I would guess that the extra features probably burn after use. Every one of them is in position to affect a life-threatening situation. God damn. They almost smoked all of this past me.”

“But you put two and two together.”

“That’s right. I’m developing intuition. Satisfied?”

“Pleased.”

“Well, it may give you extra joy to know that I’ve decided you’re not crazy after all.”

“Oh, have you been thinking that?”

“From Day One,” Domino said.

“From last night?”

“No. From Day One. Well, now—how about this? Cikoumas et Cie has never purchased any electronic components, or anything from which modern electronics can be manufactured, that I can’t account for. Not in Europe, not in Africa. Nothing. So where do they get them?”

“Suppose it’s not Cikoumas.”

“Please,” Domino said. “It has to be Cikoumas. My intuitions are never wrong.”

“What are you doing to protect Papashvilly now?” Michaelmas asked after a pause.

“I have failed the circuits on his apartment door. He is locked in, and trouble is locked out. Should he discover this, I will modify any call he makes to Building Maintenance. I will open that door only to people I’m sure are okay, and I will extend similar methods to cover them and him.”

“That can only be a short-term measure.”

“Granted. We’ll have to crack this soon. But it’s a measure, and I’ve taken it. What else can I do?”

Michaelmas sat and watched the car progress toward the airport. What else could he do?

Brisk in the air-conditioning, jockeying for position, the aircraft passengers proceeded to the gate, where cameras, microphones and dignitaries did their work, but not as smoothly as the UNAC press people, who lubricated the group through its passage toward the ground-vehicle dock. Camera crews eddied around the main knot of movement. “The dignified gentleman with the rimless glasses is Mr Raschid Samir, your director,” Domino said. Mr Samir was directing general shots of Michaelmas debarking with Norwood and Frontiere. He had an economy of movement and a massive imperturbability which forced others to work around him as if he were a rock in the rapids. “He will follow you to Star Control with the crew truck and await instructions.”

Michaelmas nodded. “Right. Good.” As they moved out of the terminal building proper, he was concentrating on his position in the crowd while plotting all the vectors on Norwood. Two crews at the nearer end of the dock were covering most of one side of the astronaut as he strode along, grinning and still shaking hands with some of the local UNAC people. Frontiere was staying close to him, thus blanketing most of his right flank. Other camera positions or live observers were covering the other approach angles almost continuously. Michaelmas stepped sideward in relation to a group of press aides moving along beside Campion and Clementine. While they masked him from forward view, he shifted the strap of the terminal from his left shoulder into his hand, and then stepped behind a dock-side pillar. The bus was there, snugged into its bay, white and black, the roof chitinous with accumulators, the windows polarized, the doors folding open now while the party rippled to a halt. Norwood half turned, directly in front of Michaelmas, almost in the doorway, tossing a joke back over his shoulder, one hand on an upright metal stanchion, as the group narrowed itself down to file in. Michaelmas was chatting with a press aide. “We’re crowded here, aren’t we?” he remarked, and laid a corner of the dangling terminal up against Norwood’s calf muscle just below the back of the knee, so gently, so surely, so undetectably that he half expected to hear the pang of a harmonic note. But instead Norwood sagged just a little on that side before his hand suddenly gripped the stanchion whitely, and his toe kicked the step riser. His eyes widened at betrayal. He moved on, and in, and sat down quickly in the nearest of the individual swivelling armchairs. As the bus filled and dosed, and then rolled out through the insulated gates, Michaelmas could see him chatting and grinning but flexing the calf again and again, as if it were a sweet wife who’d once kissed a stranger. I could have done worse by you, Michaelmas thought, but it was nevertheless unpleasant to watch the trouser fabric twitching.

The voice was faint, though strong enough, probably, at its origins, but filtered, attenuated, distant, hollow, cold, dank: “Michaelmasss…” it said. “Is that you? Cikoumas tells me that is you. Isss that what you are—Michaelmasss?”

Michaelmas grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “How do I answer it?” he asked Cikoumas, who momentarily lifted one earpiece.

“Speak,” Cikoumas said, shifting eagerly around him. “You are heard.”

“This is Michaelmas.”

“An entity… you consider yourself an intelligent entity.”

“Yes.”

“Distinguishable in some  manner from  Limberg and Cikoumasss…”

“Yes.”

“What does A equal ?”

“Pi R squared.”

“What is the highest colour of rainbows?”

“Red.”

“Would you eat one of your limbs if you were starving?”

“Yes.”

“Would you eat Cikoumas or Limberg if you were starving?”

Cikoumas was grinning faintly at him.

“First,” Michaelmas said coldly.

“An entity… to speak to an intelligent entity… in these circumstances of remoteness and displacement… you have no idea how it feels… to have established contact with three entities, now, under these peculiar circumstances… to take converse with information-processors totally foreign… never of one’s accustomed bone and blood…”

“I — ah — have some idea.”

“You argue?”

“I propose.”

“Marriage?”

“No. Another form of dialectical antagonism.”

“We are enemiesss… ? You will not join with Limberg and Cikoumas…?”

“Why should I ? What will you give?”

“I will make you rich and famous among your own… kind… Contact with my skills can be translated into rewards which are somehow gratifying to you… individuals… Cikoumas and Limberg can show you how it’sss done…”

“No.”

“Repeat. Clarify. Synonimize.”

“Negative. Irrevocable refusal. Contradiction. Absolute opposition. I will not be one of your limbs.” He grinned at Cikoumas.

“Ah-hah! Ah-hah! Ah-hah! Then is your curiosity in the name of what you think science…?”

“Justice.”

“Ah-hah! Ah-hah! Complex motivations…! Ah-hah! The academician Zusykses sssaid to me this would be so; he said the concept is not of existences less than ours, but apart from oursss in origin only, reflecting perfectly that quality which we define as the high faculties; I am excited by your replies… I shall tell my friend, Zusykses, when we reunite with each other this afternoon; his essential worth is validated!”

“I might be lying.”

“We know nothing of lies… No, no, no… in the universe, there is this and there is that. This is not that. To say this is that is to hold up to ridicule the universe. And that is an absurd proposition.”

“What is it, then, that isn’t the truth but isn’t a lie?”

Cikoumas looked at him with sudden . intensity. But Michaelmas was nearly blind with concentration.

“Shrewd… you are a shrewd questioner… you speak of probability… yesss… it was my darling Zusykses who proposed the probability models of entities like you; who declared this structure was possible, and ssso must exist somewhere because the universe is infinite, and in infinity all things must occur. And yet this is only a philosophical concept, I said in rebuttal. But let me demonstrate, said my preceptor, Zusykses, in ardour to me; here, subordinate academician Fermierla, take here this probability coherence device constructed in accordance with my postulates… while away this noon and ssseek such creaturesss as I say must be, for you shall surely find their substance somewhere flung within Creation’s broadly scattered arms; take them up, meld of their varied strains that semblance which can speak and touch in simulacrum of a trueborn soul; regard then visage, form and even claim of self. Return to me, convinced — we tremble at the brink of learning all that life Is. Clasp to yourself my thought made manifest, which is my self; know it, accept it, make it one with us; I shall not sssend you from me any more…”

Michaelmas looked at Cikoumas, frowning. He lifted off the headphones but held them near his ears. Fermierla’s voice continued faintly.

“It thinks we are chance occurrences,” Cikoumas said dryly. “It says this Zusykses, whatever it is, deduced that humanity must exist, since its occurrence is possible within the natural laws of the infinite universe. The probability of actually locating it to prove him right is, of course, infinitely small. So they think they are communicating with a demonstration model. Something they created with this probability coherer of theirs. It isn’t likely to them that this is the human world. It’s likelier that accidental concentrations of matter, anywhere in the universe, are moving and combining in such a manner that, by pure chance, they perfectly match infinitesimal portions of Zusykses’s concept. Zusykses and Fermierla think the coherer detects and tunes an infinitely large number of these infinitely small concentrations together into an intelligible appearance. They think we might actually be anything—a sort of Brownian movement in the fabric of the universe—but that entirely at random in an infinity of chances, these selected particles invariably act to present the appearance of intelligent creatures in a coherent physical system.”

“Just one?” Michaelmas asked sharply.

Cikoumas’s head twitched on its long, thin neck. “Eh?”

“You’re talking as if ours is the only probability Fermierla can reach with the coherer. But why should that be? He has his choice of an infinity of accidentally replicated pseudohuman environments, complete with all our rocks and trees and Boy Scout knives. It’s all infinite, isn’t it? Everything has to happen, and nearly everything has to happen, and everything twice removed, and thrice, and so forth?”

Cikoumas licked his lips. “Oh. Yes. I suppose so. It seems a difficult concept I must be quite anthropomorphic. And yet I suppose at this moment an infinite number of near-Fermierlas are saying an infinitely varied number of things to an infinity of us. A charming concept. Do you know they also have absolutely no interest in where we actually are in relation to each other? Of course, they don’t think we actually exist. And incidentally, where they are, this Fermierla creature has been waiting for afternoon since before Dr. Limberg was my age. So there are massive displacements; the gravitic, temporal and electronic resistances involved must be enormous.”

“The what?”

“The resistances.” Cikoumas gestured impatiently. “The universe is relativistic - You’ve heard of that, surely ? — and although, as a life scientist, I am not concerned with all the little details of non-Newtonian physics, I read as much as I have time for—”

“Good enough, Doctor,” Michaelmas said. “There’s no point attempting to match your breadth of knowledge and my capacity just now.” He put the headphones back over his ears. The skin on his forearms chafed against his shut-sleeves in ten thousand places. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cikoumas moving casually and reaching up to another pigeonhole.

“… fascinating possibilities… to actually collaborate in experiments with you… entities. Zusykses will be beside himself! How fares the astronaut; is it still viable? How does it act? Does it display some sign it is aware it has been tuned from one probability to another… to reality, pardon.”

“He’s well enough,” Michaelmas replied.

“It was a waste,” Cikoumas said distractedly. He was manipulating some new control up there, both hands hidden to the wrists while he turned his head to look over Michaelmas’s shoulder. But he was trying to watch Michaelmas at the same time.

“Ah, that’sss a shame! You had such hopes for it a little while ago, Cikoumas! Perhaps then we should be obtaining the second Michaelmas from not that same probability… What’s your opinion, gentlemen?”

Michaelmas was on his feet, facing Cikoumas, the flex-cord stretching nearly to its limit as he turned. Something had begun to whine and sing behind him. Cikoumas stared into his eyes, in the act of pulling one hand away from the wall, the custom-chequered walnut grip of a pistol showing at the bulge of reddish white palm and bony thumb. Michaelmas tore off the headphones and threw them at him. The strap for Domino’s terminal, hung over his left shoulder, dropped across his forearm, twisted, and caught firmly there below his elbow. Spinning, the angular black box whipped forward and cracked into Cikoumas’s thin head. He averted his face sharply and went flailing down backwards, striking loudly against the floor and the angle of the wall. He lay for ever motionless, flung wide.

Michaelmas moved like lightning to the wall. He jumped up to see what Cikoumas had been working. There were incomprehensible knobs and switches in there. He jumped again and snatched the pistol from its cubby. Working at it with both hands, he found the thumb-off for the energizer and the location of the trigger switch. He crouched and faced the white column. Its seams were widening. He stretched out his arms, pointing the pistol. His face convulsed. He turned instead and scrambled to his knees atop the stool, thrust the barrel up above eye level into the control cubby, and fired repeatedly. Clouds of acrid odour poured back into the room. Flame rioted among the sooty shadows, sputtered, and died down. He turned back, half toppling, and kicked the stool aside. The portals were no wider; not much more visible, really, than they had been. The singing had gone with the first shot. Now there was something beginning to bang in there; erratic and disoriented at first, but settling down to a hard rhythmic hammering, like a fist.

Limberg was standing in the doorway, looking. “Send it,” Michaelmas said hoarsely, wide-eyed, gesturing, “send it back.”

Limberg nodded listlessly and walked slowly to the controls. He looked at them, shook his head, and fumbled in his pockets for a key ring. “I shall have to use the master switches,” he said. He went to the opposite wall and unlocked a panel. Michaelmas moved to the centre of the floor, holding the pistol and panting. Limberg looked back at him and twitched his mouth. He opened the wall and ran a finger hesitantly along a row of blank circles. He shrugged, finally, and touched two. They and most of the others sprang into green life. One group went red-to-orange-to-yellow, flickering.

“Hurry,” Michaelmas said, taking a deep breath.

“I’m not expert at this,” Limberg said. He found an alternate subsection by running a forefinger along until he appeared reasonably confident. He pushed hard with all the fingers of his hand, and the cylindrical white cabinet began to sing again. Michaelmas’s hands jerked. But the seams were closing; soon they could hardly be seen. The whining came, and then diminished into nothing. The beating and kicking sounds stopped. Michaelmas wiped the back of his hand across his upper lip. “He had me in contact with it long enough, didn’t he?” he said. “It was faster than it must have been with Norwood.”

“Yes,” Limberg said. “Norwood had to be individualized for Fermierla with many, many bits from television documentary recordings. There were many approximations not close enough. Many rejects. In your case, it was possible to present you as a physical model of what was wanted.” He began to close the panel. “Is there anything else?”

“Leave it open, Doctor.” Michaelmas frowned and cleared his throat. “Leave it open,” he tried again, and was better satisfied. He went back to where his headphones still hung from the wall, and started to lift them. He looked at the pistol in his hand, safetied it, and tossed it into the nearest cubby. He slipped the headphones over his ears. There was almost nothing to hear: “… sss… err… mass…” and it was very faint. He put one fist around the cord and pulled the jack out, removed the headphones, and laid them gently on the workshelf. He turned to Limberg: “Shut it down. Everything on your end; all the stuff Cikoumas has wired in over the years.”

Limberg looked at him, overwhelmed. But he saw something in Michaelmas’s face and nodded. He ran his hands over the controls and all of them went steady red. He bowed his head.

“I’m in. I’m here,” Domino said. “I’ve got their household systems. Where’s the rest?”

“Wait,” Michaelmas said. Limberg had left the panel and gone over to where Cikoumas lay. He sat down on the floor beside him and with his fingers began combing the lank hair forward over the wound. He looked up at Michaelmas. “He was attempting to protect humanity,” he said. “He couldn’t let the astronauts reach Jupiter.”

Michaelmas looked back at him. “Why not?”

“That’s where the creatures must be. It is the largest, heaviest body in the Solar System, with unimaginable pressures and great electrical potentials. It is a source of radio signals, as everyone knows. Kristiades discussed it with me increasingly after he saw all your broadcasts with the astronauts. ”Such men will find the race of Zusykses,“ he said. ”It will be a disaster for us.“ And he was right. We are safe from their full attentions only as long as they think we are not real. We must remain hidden among all the accidental systems.”

“Yes,” Michaelmas said. “Of course.”

“He was a brilliant genius!” Limberg declared. “Far worthier than I!”

“He sold out his fathers and his brothers and his sons for a striped suit.”

“What will I tell his family?”

“What did you tell them when you said you’d send the grocer’s boy to Paris ?”

Limberg’s upper body rocked back and forth. His eyes closed. “What shall I do with his body?”

“What was he going to do with mine?” Michaelmas began to say. Looking at Limberg, he said instead: “Your systems are being monitored now, and you mustn’t touch them. But a little later today, I’ll call you, and you can begin to reactivate them step by step under my direction.”

“Right,” Domino said.

Michaelmas watched Limberg carefully. He said: “When you’ve re-established contact with Fermierla, you can shift out this Cikoumas and shift in —”

Limberg’s creased cheeks began to run with silent tears.

“For his family,” Michaelmas said. He turned to go. “For their sake, find one who’s a little easier to get along with, this time.”

Limberg stared. “I would not in any case have it want to be here with me. I will send it home to him.” He said: “I felt when first you began here with us that you were a messenger of death.”

“Domino,” Michaelmas said, “get me a cab.” He pushed through the door and out into the hall, then along that and past the auditorium, where convalescent ladies and gentlemen were just chattily emerging and discussing the psychically energizing lecture of the therapy professor, and then out through the double doors, and waited outside.