Michaelmas frowned. “You’re instructing Norwood to act in conformity with this line?”
Frontiere shook his head. “How can I do that? Issue an instruction to manage the news? If someone protested, or even remembered it afterwards, what would all our careers be worth? No,” Frontiere said, “we simply trust to Campion’s ability to uncover his truth for himself.” He sipped the wine. “This is very good,” he murmured.
“I remember we would have it with crayfish,” Michaelmas concurred, “on the Viti sea terrace, and watch the girls in little motorboats going out to the yacht parties.”
“In the days when we were younger.”
Michaelmas wondered how thoroughly Campion had thought his action through. It was very delicate, for someone nurturing himself toward prominence, to be quite so much of a volunteer. Word got out quickly; the beginnings of careers were when appraisals were swapped most freely.
To be courtly was one thing; to be considered fast and loose was another.
But it was late to be thinking in terms of advice for Campion. And what sort of advice did he have for Getulio Frontiere on this sad occasion? Choose another career in your youth?
“Well, Getulio, I think you’re still some years from turning into a toothless old man with his hands between his knees.”
“And you. I see the teeth,” Frontiere said, surprising Michaelmas a little. “I have Papashvilly ready and waiting for you at Star Control. You have a crew already hired for the interview, I suppose? Good, they will be met and made comfortable pending your arrival, if necessary. Sakal and others will interrupt all but the most urgent business to speak to you at your convenience. I only regret there will not be time on this flight for you to more than begin with Norwood after Campion is done.”
“I can always get whatever I need from him at Star Control. You’ve been very courteous and thoughtful, Getulio. And now I’ll just amuse myself back there and let you get on with your responsibilities.”
All protocol satisfied, he undid his seatbelt and rose to his feet. Frontiere rose with him, shaking his hand like an American. Interesting. It was interesting. They were a little afraid of him. And well they ought to be: a person in his position could do immense things. But he had never thought his awareness of it could be discerned. He had spent his career perfecting a manner of an entirely different kind.
He smiled at Getulio again and stepped out of the compartment, turning to move up the aisle toward the back of the plane. And yet of course one does not construct an exterior unless one is aware the interior is perhaps a little too true. Here were Norwood, Campion, and Clementine coming toward him from the lounge. Clementine leaned to speak over the shoulder of a seat, and a technician with hand-held apparatus rose and joined them. They all passed him in the narrow aisle. “Nice to meet you again,” Campion said, closed his jaw, and was gone toward the cabin. “Hey, there,” Norwood said. Clementine smiled. “Perhaps later?” she murmured as she passed. They had all been watching the cabin door without seeming to. Waiting on him. Only the technician walked by him without glancing, silently, with the toes-down step of a performer on high wires, his grace automatic, his skills coming to life within him, his face consequently reflecting nothing not his own. Of them all, he was the most pure.
Michaelmas went up toward the lounge, holding the terminal in one hand to keep it from bouncing against things. He nodded and chatted as the young press aides renewed or established acquaintances and saw to it he had a comfortable seat and a cup of coffee. After a few minutes they apparently saw he wanted to be alone, and went away one by one. He sat looking out the window at the mountains far below, and the blue sky and the Mediterranean coast beginning to resolve itself as far as Toulon. Then the Pyrenees emerged like a row of knuckles far beyond as the plane reached maximum altitude and split the air just north of Corsica. Try as he might, he had not been able to see anyone’s handiwork in her face.
“Mr Michaelmas,” Domino said in his ear.
“Uh-huh.”
“Viola Hanrassy has postponed her state chairman meeting. Her information officer receipted the Cikoumas package fifteen minutes ago.”
Michaelmas’s lips thinned. “What’s she doing?”
“Too soon to tell. Her secretary called her Washington manager at home and instructed him to be at the US Always office there directly for possible phone calls. He lives in College Park and should be there in twenty minutes.
His local time is seven twenty-three am. That’s all I have on it so far.”
“Anything else pertinent?”
“I’m still working on Papashvilly’s defence. He’s surrounded by implanted devices! And I have something else you’ll have to hear shortly. Wait two.”
“What’s the Watson obit status?”
He waited.
“Domino —”
“We’ve had no luck, Mr Michaelmas.”
He straightened in the seat. “What do you mean?”
“I… can’t place it.”
“You can’t place an obituary for Melvin Watson.” He searched his mind for a convincer. “By Laurent Michaelmas.”
“I’m—sorry.” The voice in his skull was soft. “You know, it really isn’t very probable someone would want to sponsor an obituary. I asked in a great many places. Did you know the principal human reason for seeking corporate employment is awareness of death? And the principal motivation for decision-making is its denial?” Domino paused. “After reaching that determination, I stopped looking for sponsors and approached a number of the media. They might have underwritten the time themselves, if it had been some other subject. One or two appeared to consider it, but they couldn’t find a slot open on their time schedules.”
“Yes,” Michaelmas gradually said. And of course, for the media it wasn’t just a case of three unsold minutes and two minutes of house promo spots. It was making room for the piece by cancelling five minutes that had already been sold. It wasn’t very reasonable to expect someone to go through that degree of complication. “Watson’s frequent sponsors wouldn’t go for it ?”
“Well, it’s very late in the fiscal year, Mr Michaelmas. All the time-buying budgets are very close to bottom.”
“What about Watson’s network?”
“They’re having a few words read by the anchorman on the regular news shows. Many of the networks are doing that, of course.”
Michaelmas looked out the window and bounced his palms on the ends of his armrests. “What will five minutes' time cost us?”
“That’s not something you should ever do for any reason,” Domino said quickly. “You’re a seller, never a buyer—”
“How comforting to have an incorruptible business manager.”
“—and in any case the time isn’t available.”
Michaelmas shook his head, neck bent. “Damn it, isn’t there anything?”
“We can get time on a local channel in Mrs Watson’s community. At least she and his children will be able to see what you thought of him.”
He settled back in the seat, his eyes closing against the glare while the plane dipped the offside wing, banked left, and took up a place on the MARS-D’AF route running southeastward from Marseilles.
“No. It wasn’t written for them.” Good Lord! It was one thing to have them see it build to that last shot when they could know it was making Horse real to the outside world. It was entirely different to have such a thing done essentially in private. “Forget it. Thank you for trying.” He rubbed his face.