“I’ve swept the main building, and everything else Papashvilly might approach. I’m fairly certain I have them. I don’t understand,” Domino said peevishly, “where they got so many of them, or who thought of them, or why this technique. It seems to me they’d want to plant one good bomb and get it over with.”
“Not if what they want to kill is the whole idea of effective astronautics. They don’t want isolated misfortunes. They want a pattern of wrangling and doubt. They want to roil up the world’s mind on the subject. Damn them, they’re trying to gnaw the twentieth century to death. They just don’t want us poking around the Solar System. Their Solar System? Any ideas along those lines?”
“I believe they are the descendants of the lost Atlantean civilization,” Domino said. “Returning from their former interstellar colonies and battling for their birthright. It seems only fair.”
“Very good. Now, the gadgets. Do you understand what each of those gadgets could do?”
“I think so. There’s a nearly infinite variety. Some will start fires and cut off the adjacent heat sensors simultaneously. Others will most likely do things such as overloading Papashvilly’s personal car steering controls—at a moderate speed if you’re right, at a higher one if you’re not. The elevator you know about. There’s something I think will cut out the air-conditioning to his block of flats, probably at the same time the night-heater thermostat oversets. If I were doing it, that would also be the time the fire doors all dropped shut, sealing off that wing with him inside it, at, say, no degrees Fahrenheit. Should I go on?”
“That will do for samples. Are all of these pieces wired into the building circuits?”
“All that aren’t concerned with free-standing machinery like the car. They’re all perfect normal-acting components —with a plus.”
“All right. I’ve been thinking. You could trip them, couldn’t you? You tested that elevator part.”
“Right,” Domino said slowly. “I could. Use the building systems to give 'em an overload jolt of current. That would fry 'em as surely as their own triggers could.”
Michaelmas steepled his fingertips. “Well, that’s all right, then. How’s this for a sequence: At the appropriate time, Pavel gets a call to come down to the lobby. You let his door open. He goes out in the hall, and the tampered elevator won’t open its doors; you can do that through the normal systems. So he has to take another. Make sure it’s a clean one. Meanwhile, you’re tidying up behind him. As soon as he clears each problem area, you blow each of the gimmicks in it. By the time he’s down to ground level, the building will be safe for him. A little disarranged, but safe. A priority repair order to the garage systems ties up his car, should he get it into his head to go for a spin. Et cetera. Good scenario?”
Domino made a peculiar noise. “Oh, my, yes. Can do. When do you want it?”
“When appropriate. UNAC will surely call him to come down when Norwood is almost there. Initiate it then.”
“All right.”
“And Konstantinos Cikoumas. Let him get a call from a UNAC funtionary right away, inviting him to join the greeters at the airport gate.”
“No problem.”
“Excellent. He has plenty of gates and things to pass through as he approaches the debarking ramp, right? Heat locks, friskers, and so forth.”
“It’s a hot country. And it’s an ultramodern airport, yes.”
“Make sure he has no difficulty arriving at the last gate exactly on time, will you?”
“No problem. He’s already left his apartment; I’m monitoring his cab’s dispatch link. And I can help or hinder with the traffic signals.”
“There, now,” Michaelmas said with a sigh. “Remember, he’s coming through the last gate as Norwood arrives.”
“Absolutely,” Domino made the noise again; this time, he seemed to manage it a little better.
Michaelmas ignored it. He cook a deep breath and settled back in his seat. “Pillar to post,” he muttered. “Pillar to post.”
The plane flared out past the outer marker, and Michaelmas folded his hands loosely in his lap. In a few moments it was down, tyres thumping as the thin air marginally failed to provide a sufficient cushion. There were the usual roarings and soft cabin chimes, and surging apparent alterations in the direction his body wanted to go. There was a sharp change in the smell of the cabin as the air-conditioning sucked in the on-shore breeze, chilled it, and the relative humidity rose thirty percent in an instant.
“Frank Daugerd is airborne from the Lake of the Ozarks,” Domino said. “His pilot has filed an ETA of 07:35, their time. That’s thirty-three minutes from now.”
“And then… let’s see…” Michaelmas rubbed his nose; his sinuses were stuffed. He grimaced and counted it up in his head : the touchdown on the Mississippi, floats pluming the water, and the drift down to the landing. The waiting USA staffer with the golf cart, and the silent, gliding run from the landing up the winding crushed-shell drive to the east portico; the doors opening, and Daugerd disappearing inside, haunched and busy, still wearing his fishing vest and hat, probably holding his hand over the bowl of his pipe; the conversation with Hanrassy, the bending over the table, the walking around the holograms, the snap decision and then the thoughtful review of the decision, the frowning, the looking closer, and then, for good and all, the nod of confirmation, the farewell handshake with Hanrassy, the departure from the room, and Hanrassy reaching for her telephone. “Ten minutes? Fifteen? Between the time he lands at her dock and the time she reacts to a confirmation?”
“Yes,” Domino said. “That’s how I count it. Adding it all up, fifty minutes from now, all she’ll have left to do is call Gately and have him call Norwood the direct question, Norwood gives the direct answer, Gately’s back on the phone to Hanrassy, and Bob’s your uncle. One hour from now, total, it’s all over.”
“Ah, if men had the self-denial of Suleiman the Wise,” Michaelmas said, “to flask the clamorous djinns that men unseal.”
“What’s that from?”
“From me. I just made it up. These things come to my mind. Isn’t it bloody awful?” He winced; his voice seemed to echo through the back of his neck and rebound from the inner surfaces of his eardrums. The price of wit.
A cabin attendant said nasally over the PA: “We shall be at the UNAC deplaning area shortly. Please retain your seats until we have come to a complete stop.”
Michaelmas unclenched his hands, opened his seatbelt, rose, and moved deftly down the aisle. He passed between Campion and Clementine, and dropped lightly into the forward seat beside Harry Beloit. “I’ll just want a word with Getulio before we get into all the bustle at the terminal,” he said. “That’ll be possible, won’t it?” he smiled engagingly.
Beloit returned the smile. “No problem.” He understood. Whatever Michaelmas might say to Getulio at this point was irrelevant. The famous newsman simply needed a reason to be with Frontiere at the deplaning since Norwood would also be kept in close proximity, and therefore all three of them would be on camera together at the arrival gate. That would include Campion’s camera. There was such a thing as giving ground in a statesmanly manner while the plane was in the air and Campion had first call on the astronaut’s time. There was another thing entirely in being upstaged before the world.
Beloit smiled again, fondly. Even the greatest were as transparent as children, and he clearly loved them for it.
Michaelmas’s head cocked and turned as he peered through the windows at the approaching terminal buildings; he felt the reassuring rumble of the wheels on concrete, and his eyes sparkled.