Michaelmas Read Online Free PDF Page A

for Astronautics, and a former astronaut. Always lobbying for his own emotions, he was the perfect man for a job the administration had tacitly committed to inepti-tude. "The wave of public jubilation at this unconfirmed report," his voice said, "may be premature. It may be damp-ened tomorrow by the cold light of disappointment. But tonight, at least, America goes to bed exhilarated. Tonight, America remembers its own."
    Watson's belly shook. "And tomorrow Russia reminds the world about the denationalization clause in the UN astro-nautics treaty. Jesus, I believe Kerosene Willy may revive the Space Race yet."
    Michaelmas smiled as if Gately's faux pas hadn't fore-closed Major Papashvilly's chances of immediate promotion. Especially now, the USSR couldn't risk raising the world's eyebrows by making their man Norwood's equal in rank. By that much, Gately and the Soviet espousal of fervent gentle-manliness in pursuit of the Balanced Peace might have conspired to put the spritely little Georgian in more certain danger.
    Campion said, startlingly after his silence, "The good doctor sure knows how to use his prime time." Michaelmas cocked his head towards him. Campion was right. But he was also making himself too knowledgeable for a man who'd never met Limberg. "Three-thirty a.m. local time on September twenty-nine when he got that Reuters man out of bed." Campion was documenting his point. "Hit the good old USA right in the breadbasket", meaning the ten p.m. news on September 28.
    It occurred to Michaelmas that Campion realized Lim-berg had moved as if to play directly to the Gately-types. But Watson was missing that because Campion had made himself annoying.
    "What I'm thinking," Watson had said right on top of Campion's final consonant, "is we're going to hit Berne about seven-thirty a.m. local. Limberg's still up in that sanatorium with the UNAC
    people and Norwood, and the conversa-tion's flying. Then you figure that old man will go without his beauty sleep? I don't. It's going to be maybe noon local before we stand any chance of talking to that crafty son of a bitch, and that's six hours past my bedtime. Meanwhile, all the media in Europe is right now beating the bushes there for colour, background, and maybe even the crash site. Which means that the minute we touch ground, we've got to scurry our own feet like crazy just to find out how far behind we are."
    "Don't their European people have some staff on the ground there now?" Michaelmas asked gently, nodding towards the network decal on Watson's comm unit while Campion sat up a little, smiling.
    "Oh, sure," Watson pressed on, "but you know how string-ers are. They'll be tryin' to sell me postcard views of the mountains with Xs inked on 'em where the capsule may have come down except it's got months of snow on it. And meanwhile, will UNAC give us anything to work on? They need their sleep too, and, besides, they won't peep till Limberg's explained it all, and talked about his prizes he was fortunate enough to scoff up although he's of course above money and, mundane gewgaws and stuff like that. Norwood stays under wraps, and he sleeps, or else they switch us a fast one and slide him out of there. What do you bet we get a leak he's been moved to Star Control when all the time they've got him in New York, God forbid Houston, or maybe even Tyura Tam. You'd enjoy the Aral climate in the summer, Doug. You'd like the commissars, too—they eat nice fresh press credentials for breakfast over there, Sonny."
    Michaelmas blinked unhappily at Watson, who was con-centrating now on the approaching liquor caddy and fishing in his breast pocket for money. He felt terribly sorry Watson felt obliged to hire Campion for an assistant when he was so afraid of him.
    "Let me buy you fellows a drink," Watson was saying. Since he knew Michaelmas's drinks were on his ticket, and he despised Campion, Horse Watson was trying to buy his way into the company of men. Michaelmas could feel him-self