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.
Seven
The sorry business wound itself down towards eleven-thirty. For his audience, Michaelmas ran off a few closing comments 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 Norwood. 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, stepping 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 monarch. 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,” Limberg 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, presumably 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 between 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 appropriate. There were pens in his outer breast pocket, and chemical 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.”