"Better she than someone with staying power. But I think we'd better take this committee chairman pawn away from her. Sam Lemoyne's still on the night side for the
Times-Mirror.
It'd be good if he got the idea to go buy a drink for that beachboy Stever beat up in his apartment last year." "I'll drop him a note," Domino said.
It was nearly eight o'clock. "All right, unless there's a real emergency, go ahead and follow standard practice with anything else that's pending." With the passage of time, Domino was beginning to learn more and more about how Michaelmas's mind worked. He didn't like it, but he could follow it when instructed. That fact was the only thing that let Michaelmas contemplate the passage of time with less than panic.
Michaelmas's house phone chimed. He listened and said : "Send her up." His crew director was here.
She came in just ahead of the room-service waiter. Michael-mas 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 Clemen-tine 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 ex-pressed 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 som-nolized 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 un-fortunately 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, com-petent individual in a high-paying profession which under-wrote 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:
You come upon me like the morning air
Rising in summer on the dayward hills.
And so unlock the crystal freshets waiting, still,
Since last they ran in joy among the grasses.
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 straight-ened and began to stride about the parlour. "But what have we here? Has someone been applying a great deal of de-ductive 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.
Domino woke him from a dream. "Mr Michaelmas." He opened his eyes immediately.
"What? Oh, I'm afraid to go home in the dark," he said.
"Wake up, Mr Michaelmas. It's nine twenty-three, local."
"What's the situation?" Michaelmas asked, sitting up.
"Multiple. A few moments ago, I completed my analysis of where the capsule crash site must be. I based my think-ing on the requirements of the premise—a low trajectory to account for the capsule's escaping radar notice following the shuttle explosion; the need to have the crash occur within reasonable distance of Limberg's sanatorium, yet in a place where other people in the area would not be likely to notice or find it; and so forth. These conditions of course would fit either the truth or your hypothesis that Limberg is a resourceful liar.
"At any rate, I called the network, as you, and asked for a helicopter to investigate the site. I learned that they were already following Melvin Watson, who had recently taken off. Checking back on his activities, I find that just before catching the plane in New York last night he placed a call to a Swiss Army artillery major here. That officer is also on the mailing lists of a number of amateur rocket societies. On arrival here, Mr Watson called the Major again several times.
Following the last call, which was rather lengthy, Mr Watson immediately boarded one of his client's helicopters and departed, leaving Campion to watch the sanatorium."
"Ah," Michaelmas chuckled. "If Horse had only been modern enough to call the university centre here and get his data from their computer. You would have been on to him in a flash."
Michaelmas patted the cold black top of the machine sitting on the nightstand. He knew exactly what had happened. Somewhere in the back of Watson's mind had been the name of an acquaintance of a friend of some-one he'd worked with, the man to call if you were ever in Switzerland and had a ballistics problem. The name might have been there for years, beside the telephone number of the only place in Madrid that served a decent Chinese dinner, the memory of a girl who lived upstairs from a cafe in Luxembourg, a reliable place to get your shirts done in Ceuta, and the price of a second-class railway ticket from Ghent to Aix. "You've been out-newsmanned, my friend. What do you want to bet Horse is headed straight as a die for the same place you've got marked with an X on your map?"
"Not a farthing. Precisely my point," Domino said. "There is more to the situation."
"Go on."
"Following an exchange of phone calls with the sana-torium, UNAC Star Control has authorized a press confer-ence for Norwood at any time no later than one o'clock p.m. local. One of the men they sent in here last night was Getulio Frontiere."
"Check." Frontiere was a smooth, capable press secretary. The conference would go very cleanly and pretty much the way UNAC wanted it. "No later than one o'clock. Then they want to say their say in time for the breakfast news on the east coast of the United States. Do you think they smell trouble with more heads like Gately?" He got to his feet and began to undress.
"I think it's possible. They're very quick to sense changes in the wind."
"Yes. Horse said that last night. Very sensitive to the popular dynamic." Stripped, Michaelmas picked up the machine, carried it into the bathroom, and set it down near the washbowl as he began to splash water, scrubbing his neck and ears.
"There's more," Domino said. "By happenstance, Tim Brodzik last week rescued the California governor's teenage daughter from drowning. He was invited to Sunday dinner at the governor's house, and extensively photographed with the grateful parents. He and the girl had their arms around each other."
Michaelmas stopped with his straight razor poised beside one soap-filmed cheek. "Who's that?"
"The beachboy Stever was involved with."
"Oh." He took a deep breath. Last year, he and Domino had invested much time in getting the governor elected. "Well—you might as well see if you can intercept that note to Sam Lemoyne. It would only confuse things now."
"Done. Finally, a registered airmail packet has cleared the New York General Post Office, routed through St. Louis. Its final destination is Cape Girardeau, Missouri. It was mailed from Berne, clearing the airport post office here yesterday afternoon. I think it's going to US Always."
"Yesterday afternoon? Damn," said Michaelmas, feeling his jaw. His face had dried, and he had to wet it and soap it again. "Who from?"
"Cikoumas et Cie. They are a local importer of dates, figs, and general sweetmeats. But there is more to them than that."
"Figs," Michaelmas said, passing his right forearm over his head and pulling his left cheek taut with his fingertips as he laid the razor against his skin. "Sweetmeats." He watched the action of the razor on his face. Shaving this way was one of those eccentric habits you pick up when away from sources of power and hot water.
He was remembering days when he had been a graduate engineering student helping out the family budget with an occasional filler for a newspaper science syndicate. His wife had worked as a temporary salesclerk during Decem-ber and sent him a chrome-headed, white plastic lawnmower of a thing that would shave your face whether you plugged it into the wall or the cigarette lighter of your car, if you had a car. He remembered very clearly the way his wife had walked and talked, the schooled attentive mannerisms intelligently blended from their first disjointed beginnings at drama classes. She had always played older than her age. She was too tall and too gaunt for an
ingénue,
and had had trouble getting parts. She had not been grown inside yet, but she had been very fine and he had been waiting warmly for her maturity. By the time the Depart-ment of Speech would have graduated her from North-western, she would have been fully co-ordinated. But in 1968 she'd had her head broken in front of the Conrad Hilton, and then for a while she'd vegetated, and then after a while she'd died.
When he was even younger, and had to work on the East Coast because he wanted to take extension courses at MIT, he had called his wife often at Northwestern, in Evanston, Illinois. He would say: "I can get a ride to Youngstown over Friday night with this fellow who lives there, and then if I can get a hitch up US 30, I could be in Chicago by Saturday late or Sunday morning. I don't have any classes back here until Tuesday, and I can call in sick to work." She would say:
"Oh, that sounds like a lot of trouble for just a few hours. And I think I have a singing job at a coffee house Monday anyhow." He would say : "But I don't mind," and she would say: "I don't want you to do it. It's more important for you to be where you are." And he had said more, patiently, but so had she. That had been back when Domino had just been a device for making telephone calls. He had barely been a programme at all. And now look at him.