Free Michaelmas by Algis Budrys

Watson's seat and microphone time?"
    "Yes, sir. And please let me express—"
    "Thanks. What's the sea location?"
    There was nothing actually nasty about him, Michaelmas decided sadly. One could assume there was regret, grief, or almost anything else you cared to attribute to him, kept somewhere within him under the heat shield.
    He watched Campion move away across the foyer to-wards the auditorium's rear doors, and then he and Clemen-tine were stepping forward.

    The aide smiled as if he'd been born ten seconds ago. "Nice to see you, Mr Michaelmas, Miz Gervaise," he said.
    The fading wetness of anger in his eyes gave them a win-ning sparkle. He checked off the names on his list, got a photo-copied floor-diagram from his table, and made a mark on it for Clementine. "We've given your crew a spot right here in the first row of the balcony," he said. "You just go up those stairs over there at the back of the foyer and you'll find them. And Mr Michaelmas, we've put you front row centre in the main auditorium." He grinned. "There won't be any microphone passing. Limberg's got quite a place here—remote PA mikes and everything. When you're recognized for a question, just go ahead and speak. Your crew sound system will be patched in automatically."
    "Thank you." Michaelmas changed the shape of his lips. He did not appear to alter the tone or level of his voice, but no one standing behind him could hear him. "Is Mr Frontiere here?"
    The aide raised his eyebrow. "Yes, sir. He'll be up on the podium for the Q and A."
    "I wonder if I could see him for just a moment now."
    The aide grimaced and glanced at his wristwatch. Michaelmas's smile was one of complete sympathy. "Sorry to have to ask," he said.
    The aide smiled back helplessly. "Well," he said while Michaelmas's head cocked insouciantly to block anyone's view of the young man's lips. "I guess we do owe you a couple, don't we? Sharp left down that side hall. The next to the last door leads into the auditorium near your seat. The last door goes backstage. He's there."
    "Thank you." There was pressure at Michaelmas's back. He knew without looking that a score of people were filling the space back to the doors, and others were begin-ning to elbow each other subconsciously at the head of the outside steps. They were all craning forward to see what the hang-up might be, and getting ready to avenge dis-courtesy or to make dignified outcry at the first sign of favouritism.
    "I will manage it for you, Laurent," Clementine said quietly.
    "Ah? Merci. A bientôt," Michaelmas said. He stepped around the reception table and wondered what the hell.
    Clementine moved with him, and then a little farther forward, her stride suddenly became long and masculine. She pivoted towards the balcony stairs and the heel snap-ped cleanly off one shoe. She lurched, caught her balance by slapping one hand flat against the wall, and cried out
    "merde!" hoarsely. She plucked off the shoe, threw it clatter-ing far down the long foyer, and kicked its mate off after it. She padded briskly up the stairs in her stockinged feet, still followed by every eye.
    Michaelmas, grinning crookedly, moved down the side hall, his progress swift, his manner jaunty, his footsteps soundless. He pushed quickly through the door at the end.
    Heads turned sharply—Limberg, Norwood, a handful of UNAC administrative brass, Frontiere, their torsos sup-ported by stiff arms as they huddled over a table spread with papers and glossy photographic enlargements. Lim-berg's lump-knuckled white forefinger tapped at one of the glossies.
    Michaelmas waved agreeably as they regarded him with dismay. Frontiere hurried over.
    "Laurent—"
    "Giorno, Tulio. Quickly—before I go in—is UNAC going to reshuffle the flight crew?"
    Frontiere's angular, patrician face suddenly declared it would say nothing. The very dark eyes in their deep sockets locked on Michaelmas's, and Frontiere crossed his slim hands with their polished nails over the lean biceps in