acquaintance of a friend of some-one he'd worked with, the man to call if you were ever in Switzerland and had a ballistics problem. The name might have been there for years, beside the telephone number of the only place in Madrid that served a decent Chinese dinner, the memory of a girl who lived upstairs from a cafe in Luxembourg, a reliable place to get your shirts done in Ceuta, and the price of a second-class railway ticket from Ghent to Aix. "You've been out-newsmanned, my friend. What do you want to bet Horse is headed straight as a die for the same place you've got marked with an X on your map?"
"Not a farthing. Precisely my point," Domino said. "There is more to the situation."
"Go on."
"Following an exchange of phone calls with the sana-torium, UNAC Star Control has authorized a press confer-ence for Norwood at any time no later than one o'clock p.m. local. One of the men they sent in here last night was Getulio Frontiere."
"Check." Frontiere was a smooth, capable press secretary. The conference would go very cleanly and pretty much the way UNAC wanted it. "No later than one o'clock. Then they want to say their say in time for the breakfast news on the east coast of the United States. Do you think they smell trouble with more heads like Gately?" He got to his feet and began to undress.
"I think it's possible. They're very quick to sense changes in the wind."
"Yes. Horse said that last night. Very sensitive to the popular dynamic." Stripped, Michaelmas picked up the machine, carried it into the bathroom, and set it down near the washbowl as he began to splash water, scrubbing his neck and ears.
"There's more," Domino said. "By happenstance, Tim Brodzik last week rescued the California governor's teenage daughter from drowning. He was invited to Sunday dinner at the governor's house, and extensively photographed with the grateful parents. He and the girl had their arms around each other."
Michaelmas stopped with his straight razor poised beside one soap-filmed cheek. "Who's that?"
"The beachboy Stever was involved with."
"Oh." He took a deep breath. Last year, he and Domino had invested much time in getting the governor elected. "Well—you might as well see if you can intercept that note to Sam Lemoyne. It would only confuse things now."
"Done. Finally, a registered airmail packet has cleared the New York General Post Office, routed through St. Louis. Its final destination is Cape Girardeau, Missouri. It was mailed from Berne, clearing the airport post office here yesterday afternoon. I think it's going to US Always."
"Yesterday afternoon? Damn," said Michaelmas, feeling his jaw. His face had dried, and he had to wet it and soap it again. "Who from?"
"Cikoumas et Cie. They are a local importer of dates, figs, and general sweetmeats. But there is more to them than that."
"Figs," Michaelmas said, passing his right forearm over his head and pulling his left cheek taut with his fingertips as he laid the razor against his skin. "Sweetmeats." He watched the action of the razor on his face. Shaving this way was one of those eccentric habits you pick up when away from sources of power and hot water.
He was remembering days when he had been a graduate engineering student helping out the family budget with an occasional filler for a newspaper science syndicate. His wife had worked as a temporary salesclerk during Decem-ber and sent him a chrome-headed, white plastic lawnmower of a thing that would shave your face whether you plugged it into the wall or the cigarette lighter of your car, if you had a car. He remembered very clearly the way his wife had walked and talked, the schooled attentive mannerisms intelligently blended from their first disjointed beginnings at drama classes. She had always played older than her age. She was too tall and too gaunt for an ingénue, and had had trouble getting parts. She had not been grown inside yet, but she had been very fine and he had been waiting warmly for her maturity.
"Not a farthing. Precisely my point," Domino said. "There is more to the situation."
"Go on."
"Following an exchange of phone calls with the sana-torium, UNAC Star Control has authorized a press confer-ence for Norwood at any time no later than one o'clock p.m. local. One of the men they sent in here last night was Getulio Frontiere."
"Check." Frontiere was a smooth, capable press secretary. The conference would go very cleanly and pretty much the way UNAC wanted it. "No later than one o'clock. Then they want to say their say in time for the breakfast news on the east coast of the United States. Do you think they smell trouble with more heads like Gately?" He got to his feet and began to undress.
"I think it's possible. They're very quick to sense changes in the wind."
"Yes. Horse said that last night. Very sensitive to the popular dynamic." Stripped, Michaelmas picked up the machine, carried it into the bathroom, and set it down near the washbowl as he began to splash water, scrubbing his neck and ears.
"There's more," Domino said. "By happenstance, Tim Brodzik last week rescued the California governor's teenage daughter from drowning. He was invited to Sunday dinner at the governor's house, and extensively photographed with the grateful parents. He and the girl had their arms around each other."
Michaelmas stopped with his straight razor poised beside one soap-filmed cheek. "Who's that?"
"The beachboy Stever was involved with."
"Oh." He took a deep breath. Last year, he and Domino had invested much time in getting the governor elected. "Well—you might as well see if you can intercept that note to Sam Lemoyne. It would only confuse things now."
"Done. Finally, a registered airmail packet has cleared the New York General Post Office, routed through St. Louis. Its final destination is Cape Girardeau, Missouri. It was mailed from Berne, clearing the airport post office here yesterday afternoon. I think it's going to US Always."
"Yesterday afternoon? Damn," said Michaelmas, feeling his jaw. His face had dried, and he had to wet it and soap it again. "Who from?"
"Cikoumas et Cie. They are a local importer of dates, figs, and general sweetmeats. But there is more to them than that."
"Figs," Michaelmas said, passing his right forearm over his head and pulling his left cheek taut with his fingertips as he laid the razor against his skin. "Sweetmeats." He watched the action of the razor on his face. Shaving this way was one of those eccentric habits you pick up when away from sources of power and hot water.
He was remembering days when he had been a graduate engineering student helping out the family budget with an occasional filler for a newspaper science syndicate. His wife had worked as a temporary salesclerk during Decem-ber and sent him a chrome-headed, white plastic lawnmower of a thing that would shave your face whether you plugged it into the wall or the cigarette lighter of your car, if you had a car. He remembered very clearly the way his wife had walked and talked, the schooled attentive mannerisms intelligently blended from their first disjointed beginnings at drama classes. She had always played older than her age. She was too tall and too gaunt for an ingénue, and had had trouble getting parts. She had not been grown inside yet, but she had been very fine and he had been waiting warmly for her maturity.
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