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.”
Eight
When they were alone again in the suite, Michaelmas went into the bathroom. He rummaged among his kit and found something for his stomach. He took it, went back to the drawing-room, and sat down on the end of the Morris chair. He looked at the terminal. “Why couldn’t you tell me about Limberg’s computer having made a simulated run on the shuttle flight?”
“I never reached that part of his data storage. I didn’t even know it existed.”
“And you still don’t, except by reasoning it out. Yes.” Michaelmas’s voice was dull. “That’s what I thought.” He sat with his head at an angle, as if it were heavy for his neck. He thought, and his expression grew bereft. “It appears he has a screen for his better secrets. One might describe it is a means of actually taking hold of and redirecting individual incoming electrons. If oceans were waves and not water, but you know what I mean. I’d postulate that if the incoming probe were intelligent in itself, then, it might have the sort of subjective experience you’ve described.”
“There’s never been any such technique. No one monitoring Limberg has ever encountered it before. That includes me.”
Michaelmas sighed. He held up his hand and ticked off fingers. “First,” he said wearily, “no probes would ordinarily ever register it; they’d only be diverted to reach whatever Limberg wanted 'em to find. The rest would seem nonexistent. Which, second, incidentally documents the nature of dear Dr. Limberg’s famous passion for privacy. He’s not a blushing virgin — he’s a fan dancer. Third, more important, on this occasion there was something special; greater proximity, perhaps —”
“You’re joking,” Domino said. “I’m no more a piece of hardware than you are a pound of flesh. Since when does the location of one of my terminals have anything to do with where I am?”
“I don’t know,” Michaelmas said. “I didn’t build Limberg’s system. But why are we surprised? Is it really unexpected to find something like this in the hands of Nils Hannes Limberg, famed research scientist savant pioneer?” Michaelmas shrugged. “Of course, if the method ever gets out and goes into general use, you and I are finished.”
“He’d never let go of it while he’s alive,” Domino said quickly. “Meanwhile, we can be developing some counter-technique.”
“If he lives long enough.”
“If any of these suppositions are true.”
“If truth is ever anything more than the most workable supposition.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Domino tentatively said: “Do you buy it? Do you think the Norwood story is true?”
“Well, what do you think? Does it square with the available data?”
“Unless the telemetry sender turns out to be a fake.”
Michaelmas shook his head. “It won’t.” He drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “Can you clock back on Kosmgorod? Is it true they could have used Norwood’s voice channel if the sender was cutting off the voice transmission from his module?”
“Absolutely. I checked that while Frontiere was talking about it. There’s no record in Kosmgorod’s storage of any such superimposing transmissions, but you wouldn’t expect it to be there, with a guilty crew to wipe out the evidence. I also checked Star Control’s files of the ostensible receptions. They’re on exactly the right frequency, in what you’d swear is Norwood’s voice making routine astrotalk, and the signal strength is exactly what you’d expect from that type of equipment in flight. Of course, that’s the sort of good job Kosmgorod would do, if they did it.”
“And they really did all that just to get a Soviet name in the history books instead of an American one.”
“Well,” Domino said, “you know, people will do these things.”
Michaelmas closed his eyes. “And we will do what we can. All right. We’ve got to take hold of this situation, even if we don’t know what it is. Let’s tie down as many factors as we can. Let’s tell UNAC I want to do a documentary on Papashvilly. Right away. Find a buyer, find Frontiere, set up interviews with Papashvilly, the UNAC bureaucracy, and all that. Norwood too. Norwood too — that’s important. I haven’t the foggiest notion of what this piece is about, and I don’t care, but I want them holding Norwood for me. Get us in there. Fastest route to the Star Control complex. Also stay on top of the Hanrassy situation. Do what you can to keep tab on Limberg. For God’s sake, keep me informed on what’s happening inside the USSR.” He slumped back into the chair.
“Gervaise,” Domino said.
Michaelmas’s eyes opened. “What?”
“If I can arrange it, do you want Madame Gervaise’s network and her crew?”
“No,” Michaelmas said quickly. “There’s absolutely no need for any such thing. We can use local talent and sell the job as a package. To anyone who meets my standards.” He shut his eyes precisely and squirmed in the chair to settle himself. “Another thing,” he said as he turned and curled on his side. His back was presented to the machine on the table, and his voice was muffled. “Find out when, why, and for how long Gervaise was a patient at Limberg’s sanatorium.”
“Ah,” Domino said. “All right.”
It became quiet in the suite. The sunlight filtered through the drapes and touched the case of the terminal lying on the polished mahogany. Michaelmas’s breathing became steady. A growing half-moon of perspiration spread through the fabric of his shirt under the sleeve inset. The air-conditioning murmured. Michaelmas began to make slight, tremblant moves of his arms and legs. His hands twitched as if he were running and clutching. “Hush, hush,” Domino murmured, and the motions first smoothed and then were ameliorated almost completely.