"That's all taken into account. Ghat before shooting. Friends re-united. Buy you a drink soonest."
"Fine," Michaelmas said. He rubbed his thumb and fingers over his eyelids, head bowed momentarily, aware that when he slumped like this, he could notice the fatigue in his back and shoulders.
Something overhead was coming down as if on a string, metallic and glimmering—God's lure.
The military gates opened smoothly, so that the Oskar barely slowed. The guard nodded at their plate number and saluted, good sol-dier, explicit orders fresh in the gate shack teleprinter. The van moved towards the flight line. "What is that?" Mr Samir asked, looking up and out through the windscreen. He braked hard and stopped them at the edge of a hardstand.
The aircraft became recognizable overhead as a cruelly angled silvery wedge balanced on its tailpipes, but as it neared the ground its flanks began to open into stabilizer surfaces, landing struts, and blast deflectors.
"I believe that is a Type Beta Peacekeeper," Michaelmas said. "They are operated by the Norwegian Air Militia. I wouldn't open any doors or windows until it's down and the engines are idled." The windscreen glass began shivering in its gaskets, and the metal fabric of the Oskar began to drum.
Domino said: "It's on a routine check-ride to Kirkenes from the base at Cap Norvegia in the Antarctic. It's now had additions to the mission profile for purposes of further crew training. What you see is an equatorial sea-level touch-down; another has been changed in for the continental mountains near Berne. Excellent practice. Meantime, one unidentified passenger will be aboard on priority request from the local embassy which, like many another, occasion-ally does things that receive no explanation and whose existence is denied and unrecorded. Hardstand contact here is in thirty seconds; a boarding ladder will deploy. Your programmed flying time is twenty minutes.
Bon voyage."
The Beta came to rest. The engines quieted into a low rumble that caused little grains of stone to dance an inch above the concrete.
"Goodbye, Mr Samir. Thank you," Michaelmas said. He popped open the door and trotted through the blasts of sunlight, hugging the little black box to his ribs. A ladder ramp meant to accommodate an outrushing full riot squad folded down out of the fuselage like a backhand return.
He scrambled up it into the load space; a padded, nevertheless thrumming off-green compartment with hyd-raulically articulated seats that hung empty on this mission. He dropped into one and began pulling straps into place.
The ladder swung up and sealed.
"Are you seated and secure, sir?" asked an intercom voice from somewhere beyond the blank upper bulkhead. He sorted through the accent and hasty memories of the lan-guage. He snapped the last buckle into place. "Ja," he said, pronouncing the "a" somewhere nearer "o" than he might have, and hoping that would do. "Then we're going," said the unseen flight crew member, and the Type Beta first flowed upwards and then burst upwards. Michaelmas's jaw sagged, and he tilted back deeply against the airbagged cushions. His arms trailed out over the armrests. He said slowly to Domino : "One must always be cautious when one rubs your lamp." But he sat unsmiling, and while there might have been times when he would have been secretly delighted with the silent robotics of the seat suspensions, which kept him ever facing the direction of acceleration as the Peacekeeper topped out its ballistic curve and prepared to swap ends, he was gnawing at other secrets now. He drummed his fingertips on the cushiony armrest and squirmed. His mouth assumed the expression he kept from himself. "We have a few minutes," he said at last. "Is this compartment secure?"
"Yes, sir."
"I think we might let Douglas Campion find me at this time."
His phone rang. "Hello?" he said.
"What?, Who's this? I was calling—" Campion said.
"This is Laurent Michaelmas."
"Larry! Jesus, the damnedest things are happening. How'd I get you? I'm standing here in the UNAC lobby just trying to get through to my network again. Something's really screwed up."
Michaelmas sat back. "What seems to be the trouble, Doug? Is there some way I can help you?"
"Man, I hope somebody can. I—well, hell, you're the first call I've gotten made in this last half hour. Would you believe that? No matter who I call, it's always busy. My network's busy, the cab company's busy. When I tried a test by calling Gervaise from across the room, I got a busy signal.
And she wasn't using her phone. Something's crazy."
"It sounds like a malfunction in your instrument."
"Yeah. Yeah, but the same kinds of things happened when I went over and borrowed hers.
Look, I don't mean to sound like somebody in an Edgar Allan Poe, but I can't even, reach Phone Repair Service."
"Good heavens! What will you do if this curse extends?"
"What do you mean ?"
"Have you had anyone call you since this happened?"
"No. No—you mean, can anybody reach
me?"
"Yes, there's that. Then, of course, a natural thing to wonder about is whether your bank is able to receive and honour credit transfers, whether the Treasury Department is continuing to receive and okay your current tax flow . . . That sort of thing. Assuming now that you find some way to get back across the ocean, will your building security system recognize you?" He chuckled easily.
"Wouldn't that be a pretty pickle? You'd become famous, if anyone could find you."
"My God, Larry, that's not funny."
"Oh, it's not likely to be lifelong, is it? Whatever this thing is? It's just some little glitch somewhere, I should think. Don't you expect it'll clear up ?"
"I don't know. I don't know what the hell. Look — where are you, anyway? What made you take off like that? What's going on?"
"Oh, I'm chasing a story. You know what that's like. How do you feel? Do you think it's really serious?"
"Yeah — listen, could you call Repair Service for me ? This crazy thing won't let even Gervaise or anybody here do it when I ask them. But if you're off some place in the city, that ought to be far enough away from whatever this short circuit is or whatever."
"Of course. What's your—" Michaelmas closed his phone and sat again while the aircraft flew.
He pictured Campion turning to Gervaise again.
"Mr Michaelmas," Domino said after some silence. "I just got Konstantinos Cikoumas's export licence pulled. Perma-nently. He might as well leave Africa,"
"Very good."
"Hanrassy has placed two calls to Gately in the past ten minutes and been told he was on another line."
"Ah."
"Gately's talking to Westrum."
"Yes."
"When they get confirmation from Norwood, they'll accept Wirkola's plan. Then Westrum will call Hanrassy and play her a recording of Norwood's confirming data. Gately was very pleased that Mr Westrum was making it unnecessary for Gately to speak to her at all."
"It's funny how things work out."
"You'll be landing in a few moments. Touchdown point is the meadow beyond the sanatorium parking lot. Even so, we may unsettle the patients."
"Can't be helped. If they can stand news crews, they can absorb anything. That's fine, Domino.
Thank you."
There was another pause.
"Mr Michaelmas."
"Yes."
"I'll stay as close as I can. I don't know how near that will be. If any opportunity affords itself, I'll be there."
"I know."
The flight crewman's voice said : "We are coming down now. A bell will ring." The vibration became fuller, and the tone of the engines changed. Michaelmas sank and rose in his cushions, cradling the terminal in his hands. There was a thump. The bell rang and the ladder flew open.
Michael-mas hit his quick release, slid out of his straps, and dropped down the ladder.
"Danke,"
he said.
He stepped out into the meadow above the parking lot, looking down at where they'd been parked, and the long steps down which the lens had rolled. He strode quickly forward, quartering across the slope towards the sanatorium entrance. Sanatorium staff were running forward across the grass.
"I have to go," Domino said. "I can feel it again."
"Yes. Listen—it's best to always question yourself. Do you understand the reasons for that?"
There was no reply from the terminal.
The attendants were close enough so that he was being recognized. They slowed to a walk and frowned at him. He smiled and nodded. "A little surprise visit. I must speak to Doctors Limberg and Cikoumas about some things. Where are they? Is it this way? I'll go there." He moved through them towards the double doors, and through the doors. He passed the place where she'd broken her heel. He pushed down the corridor towards the research wing, his mind automatically following the floor plan Harry Beloit had shown Clementine. "Not a public area?" he was saying to some staff person at his elbow. "But I'm not of the public. I speak to the public. I must see Doctors Limberg and Cikoumas." He came to the long cool pastel hallway among the labs. Limberg and Cikoumas were coming out of adjoin-ing hall doors, staring at him, as the Type Beta rumbled up. "Ah, there!" he said, advancing on them, spreading his arms and putting his hands on their shoulders. "Exactly so!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "Exactly the people I want.
We have to talk. Yes. We have to talk." He turned them and propelled them towards Limberg's door. "Is this your office, Doctor? Can we talk in here? It seems comfortable enough. We need privacy. Thank you, Doctors. Yes." He closed the door behind him, chatty and beaming. "Well, now!" He propped one buttock on the corner of Limberg's desk.
The two of them were standing in the middle of the floor, looking at him. He was counting in his head. He estimated about thirty minutes since Norwood's conversation with Gately. "Well, here we three are!" he said, resting his hands on his thighs and leaning towards them attentively. "Yes.
Let's talk."
Limberg put his head back and looked at him warily, his lips pursing. Then his mouth twitched into a flat little grimace. He turned and dropped into one of the two very comfortable-looking stuffed chairs. Against the raspberry-coloured velour, he seemed very white in his crisp smock and his old skin and hair. He brought his knees together and sat with his hands lying atop them.
He cocked his head and said nothing. His eyes darted sideward towards Cikoumas, who was just at the point of drawing himself up rigid and thrusting his hands into his pockets. Cikoumas said :
"Mister—ah—Michaelmas—"
"Larry. Please; this isn't a formal interview."
"This is no sort of interview at all," Cikoumas said, his composure beginning to return. "You are not welcome here; you are not—"
Michaelmas raised an eyebrow and looked towards Lim-berg. "I am not? Let me understand this, now . . . Med-limb Associates is refusing me hospitality before it even knows the subject I propose, and is throwing me out the door summarily?" He moved his hand down to touch the comm unit hanging at his side.
Limberg sighed softly. "No, that would be an incorrect impression." He shook his head slightly.
"Dr. Cikoumas fully understands the value of good media relations." He glanced at Cikoumas.
"Calm yourself, Kristiades, I suggest to you," he went on in the same judicious voice. "But, Mr Michael-mas, I do not find your behaviour unexceptionable. Surely there is such a thing as calling for an appointment?"
Michaelmas looked around him at the office with its rubbed shelves of books, its tapestries and gauzy curtains, its Bokhara carpet and a broad window gazing imperviously out upon the slopes and crags of a colder, harsher place. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked. "It seems so serene here." How much longer can it take to run? he was asking himself, and at the same time he was looking at Cikoumas and judging the shape of that mouth, the dex-terity of those hands which quivered with ambition. "It's only a few questions, Kiki," he said. "That's what they call you, isn't it—Kiki?"
Cikoumas suddenly cawed a harsh, brief laugh. "No, Mr Michaelmas,
they
don't call me Kiki,"
he said knowingly. "Is that what you're here to ask?"
"Would he have found some way to beg a lift on a military aircraft," Limberg commented, "if that was the gravity of his errand ?"
It didn't seem Cikoumas had thought that through. He frowned at Michaelmas now in a different way, and held himself more tensely.
Michaelmas traced a meaningless pattern on the rug with his shoe-tip. He flicked a little dust from his trouser leg, extending his wristwatch clear of his cuff. "A great many people owe me favours," he said. "It's only fair to collect, once in a while."
There was a chime in the air. "Dr. Limberg," a secretarial voice said. "You have an urgent telephone call." Michael-mas looked around with a pleasant, distracted smile.
"I cannot take it now, Liselotte," Limberg said. "Ask them to call later."
"It may be from Africa," Michaelmas said.
Cikoumas blinked. "I'll see if they'll speak to me. I'll take it in my office." He slipped at once through the con-necting door at the opposite side of Limberg's desk. Michaelmas traded glances with Limberg, who was motion-less. "Liselotte," Limberg said, "is it from Africa?"
"Yes,
Herr Doktor.
Colonel Norwood. I am giving the call to Dr. Cikoumas now."
"Thank you." Limberg looked closely at Michaelmas. "What has happened ?" he asked carefully.
Michaelmas stood up and strolled across the room to-wards the window. He lifted the curtain sideward and looked out. "He'll be giving Cikoumas the results of the engineering analysis on the false telemetry sender," he said idly. He scratched his head over his left ear. He swept the curtain off to the side, and turned with the full afternoon light behind him. He leaned his shoulders against the cool plate glass.
Limberg was twisted around in his chair, leaning to look back at him. "I had heard you were an excellent in-vestigative reporter," he said.
"I'd like to think I fill my role in life as successfully as you have yours."