"Nothing much," Harriman replied. "A bunch of report- ers and photographers crashed through the police cordon at the garage, but they were hustled off before we could say much to them. Then we met a lot of UN staff people in the afternoon. In the evening they trotted a dozen of the immi- grants past us. They all wanted to meet you, of course, but they had to settle for my charming self."
"The people who are coming to live in Selene?" Landau asked.
Harriman nodded as he munched a mouthful of bagel, cream cheese. Nova Scotia salmon, and onion. "Uh-hmm." He swallowed mightily. "Fascinating group of people, all of them rather stupefied that their governments are allowing them to leave. They fly out of Kennedy tomorrow; they're on their way down there now."
"On their way down to where?" Kinsman asked.
"Kennedy Space Center."
"In Florida? Not the JFK Aerospaceport here?"
Harriman blinked. "No, they told me the American government was taking them to Florida."
"Why wouldn't they take off from here?" Kinsman wondered.
"Damned if I know. Probably some bureaucratic red tape somewhere along the line. Anyway, that's not the important thing. The Secretary General is scheduled to meet you at ten this morning—less than an hour from now. Are you up to it?"
Kinsman started to nod, thought better of it. I'm getting to hate the sound of electric motors, he thought. "I'm fine. Where will the meeting be?"
"Right here. Mohammed's coming to the mountain."
Kinsman raised his eyebrows. At least I can still do that for myself.
A few minutes before ten Ted Marrett barged into the room unannounced, with Beleg Jamsuren trailing behind him. "Best meteorologist Mongolia's ever produced," he said by way of introduction.
"For your information," Jamsuren said softly as he shook 532 hands with the seated Kinsman, "Mongolia produces compar- atively few meteorologies. And actually, my training was in fluid dynamics."
"Well, the best in Asia," Marrett amended. "You seen the morning news? Your performance at the garage yesterday really's getting the big splash."
Without asking he crossed the room in a few long strides and touched a small inset wall panel. A holographic Chagall reproduction instantly disappeared from the wall, replaced by a three-dimensional image of a woman being wheeled through a hospital corridor. "Goddamned soaps," Marrett grumbled as he touched the panel again.
Kinsman sat back in his special chair and suddenly saw a holographic picture of himself striding painfully toward the crowd at the UN garage. The camera was somewhere in the crowd, heads and placards constantly getting in the way as his weird skeletal figure clambered up the garage ramp.
The newscaster's voice-over was saying things about "unearthly appearance . . . terrific physical strain of ordinary gravity . . . message of peace and friendship ..."
Good Christ! Kinsman said to himself as he watched. I actually did raise my hands like an old-time Indian scout.
Marrett abruptly shut off the picture. "The government's gone apeshit," he said, grinning broadly. "They thought they had everything all buttoned up and orchestrated. No news- men at the airport, nobody allowed to get near you guys."
