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 hun-dred 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 informa-tion 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 des-tination? 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 Nor-wood. "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.
The sorry business wound itself down towards eleven-thirty. For his audience, Michaelmas ran off a few closing com-ments in dignity. After everything was off the air, Frontiere announced a small press reception in the dining-hall, "for those who could stay." It was understood on occasions of this sort that crew technicians are too busy to stay, since it had long ago been discovered that even one cameraman at a buffet was worth a horde of locusts, and tended to make awkward small talk.
The dining-hall featured a glass overlook of the depths below and the heights above; even through the metallized panes, the sun would have driven in fiercely if a drape, gauzy as a scrim, had not been hung upon it. Air-warming ducts along the wall set it to rippling. The world beyond the dining-hall was beautiful and rhythmic. The press strolled from bunch to bunch of themselves and various UNAC functionaries, sanatorium staff, and of course Nor-wood. There was a bar at each end of the large room, and the carpet underfoot was conducive to a silent, gliding step that was both restful and ennobling. For some, step-ping back and forth from one end of the room to the other was particularly exhilarating.
Michaelmas wore his smile. He took a Kirr and nibbled tender spiced rare lamb slivers on a coaster of trimmed pumpernickel. He found Norwood, Limberg and Frontiere all together, standing against a tapestry depicting medieval physicians in consultation at the bedside of a dying mon-arch. Up close, Norwood looked much more like he ought — fineline wrinkles in the taut skin, a grey hair for every two, blond ones, a few broken capillaries in his cheeks. By now Michaelmas had downed the
hors d'oeuvre.
He held out his hand. "Good morning, Walt. You don't appear the least bit changed, I'm pleased to be able to say."
"Hello, Larry." Norwood grinned. "Yeah. Feels good."
Limberg had taken off his white duster and was revealed in a greenish old tweed suit that accordioned at the elbows and knees. A tasselled Bavarian pipe curved down from one corner of his mouth and rested in the cup of one palm. He sucked on it in measured intervals, and aromatic blue wisps of smoke escaped his flattened lips. Michaelmas smiled at him. "My congratulations, Doctor. The world may not contain sufficient honours."
Limberg's hound-dog eyes turned upward towards Michaelmas's face. He said: "It is not honours that cause one to accomplish such things."
"No, of course not." Michaelmas turned to Frontiere. "Ah, Getulio. And where is Ossip? I don't see him."
"Mr Sakal is a little indisposed and had to leave," Lim-berg said. "As his co-host for this reception, I express his regrets." Frontiere nodded.
"I am very sorry to hear that," Michaelmas said. "Getulio, I wonder if I might take you aside and speak with you for just a moment. Excuse me, Dr. Limberg, Walter. I must leave for my hotel almost immediately, and Mr Frontiere and I have an old promise to keep."
"Certainly, Mr Michaelmas. Thank you for coming." Suck suck. Wisp.
Michaelmas moved Frontiere aside with a gentle touch on the upper arm. "I am at the Excelsior," he said quietly. "I will be in Switzerland perhaps a few hours more, perhaps not. I hope you'll be able to find the time to meet me." He laughed and affectionately patted Frontiere's cheek.
"I hope you can arrange it," he said in a normal tone.
"Arrivederci."
He turned away with a wave and moved towards where he had seen Clementine chatting beside a tall, cadaverous, fortyish bald man with a professorial manner.
Clementine was wearing a pair of low canvas shoes, pre-sumably borrowed from a crew member. She smiled as she saw Michaelmas looking at her feet. "Laurent," she said with a graceful inclination of her head. He took her hand, bowed, and kissed it.
"Thank you."
"Merci. Pas de quoi."
A little bit of laughter lingered be-tween them in their eyes. She turned to the man beside her. His olive skin and sunken, lustrous, and very round brown eyes were not quite right for a pin-striped navy blue suit, but the vest and the gold watch-chain were fully appropri-ate. There were pens in his outer breast pocket, and chem-ical stains on his spatulate fingertips. "I would like you to meet an old acquaintance," Clementine said. "Laurent, this is Medical Doctor Kristiades Cikoumas, Dr. Limberg's chief associate. Kiki, this is Mr Michaelmas."
"A pleasure, Mr Michaelmas." The long fingers extended themselves limply. Cikoumas had a way of curling his lips inward as he spoke, so that he appeared to have no teeth at all.
Michaelmas found himself looking up at the man's palate.
"An occasion for me," Michaelmas said. "Permit me to extend my admiration for what has been accomplished here."
"Ah." Cikoumas waved his hands as if dispersing smoke. "A bagatelle. Your compliment is natural, but we look forward to much greater things in the future."
"Oh."
"You are with the media? A colleague of Madame Gervaise?"
"We are working together on this story."
Clementine murmured: "Mr Michaelmas is quite well known, Kiki."
"Ah, my apologies! I am familiar with Madame from her recent stay with us, but I know little of your professional world; I never watch entertainment."
"Then you have an enviable advantage over me, Doctor. Clementine, excuse me for interrupting your conversation, but I must get back to Berne. Is there an available car?"
"Of course, Laurent. We will go together.
Au voir,
Kiki."
Cikoumas bowed over her hand like a trick bird clamped to the edge of a water tumbler.
"A
revenance."
Michaelmas wondered what would happen if he were to put his shoe squarely in the man's posterior.
On the ride back he sat away from her in a corner, the comm unit across his lap. After a while she said :
"Laurent, I thought you were pleased with me."
He nodded. "I was. Yes. It was good working with you."
"But you are disenchanted." Her eyes sparkled and she touched his arm. "Because of Kiki? I enjoy calling him that. He becomes so foolish when he has been in a cafe too long." Her eyes grew round as an owl's and her mouth be-came toothless. "Oh, he looks, so—
comme un hibou,
tu sais? —
like the night bird with the big ears, and then he speaks amazingly. I am made nervous, and I joke with him a little, and he says it does not matter what I call him. A name is nothing, he says. Nothing is unique. But he does not like it, entirely, when I call him Kiki and say I do not think anyone else ever called him
that
before." She touched Michaelmas's arm again. "I tease too much." She looked contrite, but her eyes were not totally solemn. "It is a forgiveable trait, isn't it so, if we are friends again?"
"Yes, of course." He patted her hand. "In the main, I'm simply tired."
"Ah, then I shall let you rest," she said lightly. But she folded her arms and watched him closely as she settled back into her corner.
The way to do it, Michaelmas was thinking, would be to get pieces of other people's footage on stories Horse had also covered. A scan of the running figures in the mob, or the people advancing in front of the camera, would turn up many instances over the years of Watson identifiably taking positions ahead of other people who'd thought they were as close to the action as possible. If you didn't embarrass your sources by naming them, Domino could find a lot of usable stuff in a hurry.
You could splice that together into quite a montage.
Now, you'd open with a talking head shot of Watson tagging off: "And that's how it is right now in Venezuela," he'd be saying, and then you'd go to voice-over. Your opening line would be something like: "That was Melvin Watson. They called him Horse," and then go to your action montage. You'd rhythm it up with drop-ins of, say, Watson slugging the Albanian riot cop, Watson in soup-and-fish taking an award at a banquet, Watson with his sleeves rolled up as a guest teacher at Medill Journalism School, Watson's home movies of his wedding and his kids graduat-ing. You'd dynamite your way through that in no more than 120 seconds, including one short relevant quote from the J class that would leave you only 90 for the rest of it, going in with Michaelmas shots of Watson at Maracaibo.
You'd close with a reprise of the opening, but you'd edit-on the tags from as many locations as would give you good effects to go out on: "And that's how it is right now in Venezuela . . ." and then a slight shift in the picture to older, grimier, leaner, younger, neck-tied, cleaner, open-shirted versions of that head and shoulders over the years ... "in Kinshasa ... on board the Kosmgorod station . . . in Athens ... in Joplin, Missouri ... in Dacca . . ." And then you'd cut, fast, to footage from the helicopter that had followed Watson into the mountains: blackened wounds on the face of the mountain and in the snow, wild sound of the wind moaning, and Michaelmas on voice-over saying "and that's how it is right now."
The little hairs were rising on Michaelmas's forearms. It would play all right. It was a nice piece of work.
"We are nearly there, Laurent. Will I see you again?"