Read Online Michaelmas by Algis Budrys - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Algis Budrys
Tags: Fiction, Science-Fiction
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never been a prime commander. He was only a third or fourth crew alternate on the UNAC lists and wasn't even in the Star Control flight cadre. But he was nevertheless the only human being to have crewed both to the Moon and aboard the Kosm-gorod orbital station.
"What do you suppose that means?" Michaelmas asked, rubbing his face.
"I haven't the foggiest, yet."
"Have you notified UNAC?"
"No. By the way, Papashvilly went out to the Afrique airfield but then back again a few minutes ago. Sakal phoned Star Control with a recall order."
"Forgive me, Clementine," Michaelmas said. "I must arrange my thoughts."
"Of course." She sat back, well-mannered, chic, attentive. Her arm departed from his with a little petting motion of her hand.
"Stand by for public," Domino said. He chimed aloud. "Bulletin. UPI Berne September 29. A helicopter crash near this city has claimed the life of famed newsman Melvin Watson. Dead with the internationally respected journalist is the pilot . . ." His speaker continued to relay the wire service story. In Michaelmas's ear, he said : "She's reacting."
Michaelmas turned his head stiffly towards her. Clemen-tine's mouth was pursed in dismay.
Her eyes developed a sheen of grief. "Oh, quel dommage! Laurent, you must have known him, not so?"
His throat working convulsively, Michaelmas asked Dom-ino for data on her.
"What you'd expect." The answer was a little slow. "Pulse up, respiration up. It's a little difficult to be precise. You're rather isolated up there right now and I'm having to do a lot of switching to follow your terminal. I'm also getting some echo from all the rock around you; it's metallic."
Michaelmas glanced out the window. They were on the highway, skimming closely by a drill-marked and blasted mountain shoulder on one side and an increasingly dis-quieting drop-off on the other. Veils of snow powder, whisked from the roadside, bannered behind them in the wind of their passage. The city lay below, popping in and out of view as the car followed the serpentine road. Some-where down there was the better part of Domino's actual present location, generally except for whatever might be flitting overhead in some chance satellite.
The spoken bulletin came to an end. It had not been very long. Clementine sat forward, her expression anxious. "Laurent?"
"I knew him," Michaelmas said gently. "I regret you never met him. I have lost a friend." And I am alone now, among the Campions. "I have lost a friend," he said again, to apolo-gize to Horse for having patronized him.
She touched his knee. "I am sorry you are so hurt."
He found himself unable to resist putting his hand over hers for a moment. It was a gesture unused for many years between them, he began to think, and then caught himself. "Thank you, Madame Gervaise," he said, and each of them withdrew a little, sitting silently in the back of the car.
As they approached the sanatorium gate, they drove past many cars parked beside the highway, tight against the rock. There were people with news equipment walking in the road, and the car had to pull around them. Some shouted; others ignored them. At the gate, there was the usual knot of gesticulants who had failed to produce convincing press credentials.
There was a coterie of warders—a gloved private gate-keeper in a blue uniform with the sanatorium crest, plus a sturdy middle-aged plainclothesman in a sensible vested suit and a greatcoat and a velour hat, and a bright young fellow in a sportcoat and topper whom Michaelmas recog-nized as a minor UNAC press staff man. The UNAC man looked inside the car, recognized Michaelmas, and flashed an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. The Swiss policeman nodded to the gatekeeper, who pushed the elec-tric button which made the wrought iron gates fold back briefly behind their brick posts. Leaving outcries behind, the Citroën jumped forward and drove through.
Michaelmas said to Domino: "I wonder if time-travelling cultures are playing with
"What do you suppose that means?" Michaelmas asked, rubbing his face.
"I haven't the foggiest, yet."
"Have you notified UNAC?"
"No. By the way, Papashvilly went out to the Afrique airfield but then back again a few minutes ago. Sakal phoned Star Control with a recall order."
"Forgive me, Clementine," Michaelmas said. "I must arrange my thoughts."
"Of course." She sat back, well-mannered, chic, attentive. Her arm departed from his with a little petting motion of her hand.
"Stand by for public," Domino said. He chimed aloud. "Bulletin. UPI Berne September 29. A helicopter crash near this city has claimed the life of famed newsman Melvin Watson. Dead with the internationally respected journalist is the pilot . . ." His speaker continued to relay the wire service story. In Michaelmas's ear, he said : "She's reacting."
Michaelmas turned his head stiffly towards her. Clemen-tine's mouth was pursed in dismay.
Her eyes developed a sheen of grief. "Oh, quel dommage! Laurent, you must have known him, not so?"
His throat working convulsively, Michaelmas asked Dom-ino for data on her.
"What you'd expect." The answer was a little slow. "Pulse up, respiration up. It's a little difficult to be precise. You're rather isolated up there right now and I'm having to do a lot of switching to follow your terminal. I'm also getting some echo from all the rock around you; it's metallic."
Michaelmas glanced out the window. They were on the highway, skimming closely by a drill-marked and blasted mountain shoulder on one side and an increasingly dis-quieting drop-off on the other. Veils of snow powder, whisked from the roadside, bannered behind them in the wind of their passage. The city lay below, popping in and out of view as the car followed the serpentine road. Some-where down there was the better part of Domino's actual present location, generally except for whatever might be flitting overhead in some chance satellite.
The spoken bulletin came to an end. It had not been very long. Clementine sat forward, her expression anxious. "Laurent?"
"I knew him," Michaelmas said gently. "I regret you never met him. I have lost a friend." And I am alone now, among the Campions. "I have lost a friend," he said again, to apolo-gize to Horse for having patronized him.
She touched his knee. "I am sorry you are so hurt."
He found himself unable to resist putting his hand over hers for a moment. It was a gesture unused for many years between them, he began to think, and then caught himself. "Thank you, Madame Gervaise," he said, and each of them withdrew a little, sitting silently in the back of the car.
As they approached the sanatorium gate, they drove past many cars parked beside the highway, tight against the rock. There were people with news equipment walking in the road, and the car had to pull around them. Some shouted; others ignored them. At the gate, there was the usual knot of gesticulants who had failed to produce convincing press credentials.
There was a coterie of warders—a gloved private gate-keeper in a blue uniform with the sanatorium crest, plus a sturdy middle-aged plainclothesman in a sensible vested suit and a greatcoat and a velour hat, and a bright young fellow in a sportcoat and topper whom Michaelmas recog-nized as a minor UNAC press staff man. The UNAC man looked inside the car, recognized Michaelmas, and flashed an okay sign with his thumb and forefinger. The Swiss policeman nodded to the gatekeeper, who pushed the elec-tric button which made the wrought iron gates fold back briefly behind their brick posts. Leaving outcries behind, the Citroën jumped forward and drove through.
Michaelmas said to Domino: "I wonder if time-travelling cultures are playing with
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