Hawkins attacked him. Hawkins always won the arguments, of course. But in retrospect it seemed inevitable that Randolph Mays would show up in person during one of their little debates. Now Hawkins could brood at leisure upon his disastrous success in reducing Marianne to silence.
XI
A huge stupa-like dome dominated the port’s striated icy plain; big curving black-glass windows took in the pano-ramic view. Through one of them, Randolph Mays idly watched a pressurized moon buggy bound across the ice.
Mays stood slightly apart from the crowd of media-hounds who’d gathered to slice newsbites out of Inspector Ellen Troy and Professor J. Q. R. Forster. His new production assistant craned her neck to see the door, at present firmly shut, where the media victims were scheduled to appear. “Shouldn’t we be closer?” Marianne fretted. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“We’re quite well situated,” Mays replied, speaking into the microfiber that tight-linked him to the pickup unit Mar-ianne wore in her ear. When the time came to take his pic-tures and ask his questions, his great height and unmistakable voice would make it unnecessary to actually come in contact with the squirming mass of his fellows.
“I can’t see very well,” Marianne complained.
“I can,” said Mays, putting an end to the discussion. His assistant didn’t need to see in order to do her job —such as it was. Having decided he could use her help, Mays had been prepared to put up with bare competence in some areas pro-vided he got complete cooperation in others. To his surprise, Marianne had proved far from useless; indeed, she had shown herself quite adept at making travel arrangements and appointments and generally keeping his schedule in or-der, using the phonelink in that half-efficient, half-sexy, American college girl voice of hers as if she’d been born to the device. She didn’t even balk at carrying his luggage; in his workmanlike old leather satchel she’d brought along his recorders and extra chips and the old-fashioned notebook he sometimes used as a prop.
If Mays were given to such thoughts, he would have had to credit Bill Hawkins with his good luck. But Mays wasn’t the sort to give credit to others, unless forced to it. After all, he’d decided to seduce Marianne no matter what; Haw-kins had just made it that much easier. . . .
“Here they come, Randolph,” said Marianne. There was hissing and jostling in the pack of newshounds. She handed him the camera and microphone pick-up he’d specified.
Mays slipped into the rig and expertly framed the shot in time to catch the opening of the door. Professor Forster was first through it, followed by the rest of his crew. Last onto the dais was Inspector Ellen Troy, trim in her Space Board blues. Marianne stood by, thrilled, watching the scene unfold on her tiny auxiliary remote monitor.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Forster began. “I would like to start by . . .”
“Why have you been avoiding the media, Forster?” someone yelled at him. “What have you got to hide?” another screamed.
“Troy! Inspector Troy! Isn’t it true—”
“You, Troy! What about reports that you—”
“—that you’ve been locked up in an asylum for the past twelve months?”
“—tried to kill Howard Falcon and sabotage the Kon-Tiki expedition?”
Forster closed his mouth with an almost audible snap, tucked in his chin, and glared from beneath gingery brows, waiting for the questioners to wear themselves down. Fi-nally there was a lull in the cacophony. “I’ll read a brief statement,” he said, clearing his throat with a growl. “Ques-tions afterward.”
There were renewed shouts, but the majority of the reporters, realizing that Forster would go on ignoring them until he’d been given a chance to read his prepared remarks, turned on their fellows and shushed them smartly.
“If he says anything of the slightest interest , please make sure I’m
XI
A huge stupa-like dome dominated the port’s striated icy plain; big curving black-glass windows took in the pano-ramic view. Through one of them, Randolph Mays idly watched a pressurized moon buggy bound across the ice.
Mays stood slightly apart from the crowd of media-hounds who’d gathered to slice newsbites out of Inspector Ellen Troy and Professor J. Q. R. Forster. His new production assistant craned her neck to see the door, at present firmly shut, where the media victims were scheduled to appear. “Shouldn’t we be closer?” Marianne fretted. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“We’re quite well situated,” Mays replied, speaking into the microfiber that tight-linked him to the pickup unit Mar-ianne wore in her ear. When the time came to take his pic-tures and ask his questions, his great height and unmistakable voice would make it unnecessary to actually come in contact with the squirming mass of his fellows.
“I can’t see very well,” Marianne complained.
“I can,” said Mays, putting an end to the discussion. His assistant didn’t need to see in order to do her job —such as it was. Having decided he could use her help, Mays had been prepared to put up with bare competence in some areas pro-vided he got complete cooperation in others. To his surprise, Marianne had proved far from useless; indeed, she had shown herself quite adept at making travel arrangements and appointments and generally keeping his schedule in or-der, using the phonelink in that half-efficient, half-sexy, American college girl voice of hers as if she’d been born to the device. She didn’t even balk at carrying his luggage; in his workmanlike old leather satchel she’d brought along his recorders and extra chips and the old-fashioned notebook he sometimes used as a prop.
If Mays were given to such thoughts, he would have had to credit Bill Hawkins with his good luck. But Mays wasn’t the sort to give credit to others, unless forced to it. After all, he’d decided to seduce Marianne no matter what; Haw-kins had just made it that much easier. . . .
“Here they come, Randolph,” said Marianne. There was hissing and jostling in the pack of newshounds. She handed him the camera and microphone pick-up he’d specified.
Mays slipped into the rig and expertly framed the shot in time to catch the opening of the door. Professor Forster was first through it, followed by the rest of his crew. Last onto the dais was Inspector Ellen Troy, trim in her Space Board blues. Marianne stood by, thrilled, watching the scene unfold on her tiny auxiliary remote monitor.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Forster began. “I would like to start by . . .”
“Why have you been avoiding the media, Forster?” someone yelled at him. “What have you got to hide?” another screamed.
“Troy! Inspector Troy! Isn’t it true—”
“You, Troy! What about reports that you—”
“—that you’ve been locked up in an asylum for the past twelve months?”
“—tried to kill Howard Falcon and sabotage the Kon-Tiki expedition?”
Forster closed his mouth with an almost audible snap, tucked in his chin, and glared from beneath gingery brows, waiting for the questioners to wear themselves down. Fi-nally there was a lull in the cacophony. “I’ll read a brief statement,” he said, clearing his throat with a growl. “Ques-tions afterward.”
There were renewed shouts, but the majority of the reporters, realizing that Forster would go on ignoring them until he’d been given a chance to read his prepared remarks, turned on their fellows and shushed them smartly.
“If he says anything of the slightest interest , please make sure I’m
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