“Sorry, Vance.”
“What happened?”
“Apparently the President has sent instructions from North Ten that your family are to wait in the Octagon until you get there. She’s on her way there now, and they can’t contact her, so nobody would authorize transportation into the City for your wife. I don’t understand it.”
“I think I do,” Garamond replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the forward view plate and its image of a universe which was divided in two by the cosmic hugeness of Orbitsville, one half in light, the other in total darkness.
The effort of moving under multiple gravities was almost too much for Garamond, but he was standing in the cramped airlock — sealed up and breathing suit air — before the transit boat reached the docking clamps. He cracked the outer seal on the instant the green disembarkation light came on, went through the boat’s outer door and found himself in a lighted L-shaped tube. It was equipped with handrails and at the rounded corner, where the sphere’s gravitation came into effect, there was the beginning of a non-skid walkway.
Garamond pulled himself along the weightless section with his hands, forced his way through the invisible syrup of the lenticular field, achieved an upright position and strode into the arrival hall. He was immediately walled in by faces and bodies and, as soon as he had opened his helmet, battered by the sound of shouting and cheering. People surged around him, reaching for his hands, slapping his back, pulling hoses and connectors from his suit for souvenirs.
At the rear of the crowd were men with scene recorders and, as he scanned their faces, an uncontrollable impulse caused Garamond to raise his arm like a Twentieth Century astronaut returning from an orbital mission. He cursed the autonomous limb, appalled at its behaviour, and concentrated on finding the right face in the bewildering seething mass, aware of how much he had always depended on Cliff Napier in similar circumstances. There was a high proportion of men in the uniforms of top-ranking Starflight officials, any of whom could have arranged transport to the Octagon, but he had no way of knowing which were members of Elizabeth’s inner cadre and therefore hostile. After a blurred moment he saw a heavy-shouldered young man with prematurely greying hair working his way towards him and recognized Colbert Mason. He caught the outstretched hand between both of his gloves.
“Captain Garamond,” Mason shouted above tie background noise, “I can’t tell you how much…”
Garamond shook his head. “We’ll talk later. Have you a car?”
“It’s outside.”
“I’ve got to get out of here right now.”
Mason hesitated. “There’s official Starflight transportation laid on.”
“Remember the first day we met, Colbert? You needed wheels in a hurry and I…”
“Come on.” Mason lowered his head and went through the crowd like an ice-breaking ship with Garamond, hampered by the bulk of the suit, struggling in his wake. In a matter of seconds they had reached a white vehicle which had ‘TWO WORLDS NEWS AGENCY’ blazoned on its side in orange letters. The two men got in, watched by the retinue which had followed them from the hall, and Mason got the vehicle moving.
“Where to?” he said.
“The Octagon — as fast as this thing will go.”
“Okay, but I’m not welcome out there. The guards won’t let this car in.”
“I’m not welcome either, but we’re going in just the same.” Garamond began working on the zips of the spacesuit. That was a good line to hand the Press, he thought as the yammerings of panic began to build up. That was an authentic general-purpose man of action speaking. Why do I do these things? Why don’t I let him know I’m scared shitless? It might make things easier…
Mason hunched over the wheel as he sped them through the industrial environs of the city. “This is the part you flattened, but they rebuilt it just as ugly as ever.”
“They would.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Garamond hesitated. “Sorry, Colbert — not yet.”
“I just wondered.”
“Either way, you’re going to get another big story.”
“Hell, I know that much already. I just wondered… as a friend.”
“I appreciate the friendship, but I can’t talk till I’m sure.”
“It’s all right,” Mason said. “We’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”
For the rest of the short drive Garamond concentrated on removing the spacesuit. In the confines of the car it was an exhausting, frustrating task which he welcomed because it enabled his mind to hold back the tides of fear. By the time he had finally worked himself free the octagonal building which housed the Starflight Centre was looming on a hilltop straight ahead, and he could see the perimeter fence with its strolling guards. As the car gained height, and greater stretches of the surrounding grasslands came into view, Garamond saw that there was also a northern approach road to the Octagon. Another vehicle, still several kilometres away, was speeding down it, trailing a plume of saffron dust. It was too far away for him to distinguish the black-and-silver Starflight livery, but on the instant a steel band seemed to damp around his chest, denying him air. He stared wordlessly at the massive gate of the west entrance which was beginning to fill the car’s windshield. The car slowed down as guards emerged from their kiosk.
“Go straight through it,” Garamond urged. “Don’t slow down.”
“It’s no use,” Mason said. “It would take a tank to batter down that gate — we’d both be killed. We’ll just have to talk our way in.”
“Talk?” Garamond looked north and saw that the other vehicle seemed to be approaching with the speed of an aircraft. “There’s no time for talking.”
He leaped from the car as soon as it had slid to a halt and ran to the kiosk at the side of the gate. A sunvisored guard emerged, carrying a rifle, and stared warily at Garamond’s stained travesty of a Starflight uniform.
“State your business,” he said, at the same time making a signal to the other two guards who were seated inside.
“I’m Captain Garamond of the Stellar Exploration Arm. Open the gate immediately.”
“I don’t know if I can do that, Captain.”
“You’ve heard of me, haven’t you? You know who I am?” “I know who you are, Captain, but that doesn’t mean I should let you in. Have you an authorization?”
“Authorization?” Garamond considered putting on a display of righteous indignation, but decided it would not work coming from a man who looked like a hobo. He smiled and pointed at the dust-devil which was now within a kilometre of the northern gate. “There’s my authorization. President Lindstrom is in that car, coming here specially to meet me.”
“How do I know that’s true?”
“You’ll know when she finds out you wouldn’t let me through. I think I’ll go back to my car and watch what happens.” Garamond turned away.
“Just a minute.” The guard gave Garamond a perplexed look. “You can come in, but that other guy stays where he is.”
Garamond shrugged and walked straight at the gate. It rolled out of his way just in time, then he was inside the perimeter and heading for the Octagon’s west entrance door, not more than a hundred paces away. A second before it was lost to view behind the flank of the building, he glimpsed the other car arriving at the north gate. It was black and silver, and he was able to see a pale feminine figure in the shaded interior. The certainty of being too late made his heart lapse into an unsteady, lumping rhythm. He was breaking into a run, regardless of what the watchful patrolmen might think, when his attention was caught by a flicker of movement as a window opened in the transparent wall of the uppermost floor. Again he picked out a womanly figure, but this time it was that of his wife. And she was looking down at him.