The only people in the common room when Pacey entered a few minutes later were Sverenssen, Daldanier, and two of the other delegates, who were all together at the bar. They acknowledged his arrival with a few not overfriendly nods of their heads and continued talking among themselves. Pacey collected a coffee from the dispenser on one side of the room and sat down at a table in the far corner, wishing inwardly that he had picked somewhere else. As he studied them surreptitiously over his cup, he listed in his mind the unanswered questions that he had collected concerning the tall, immaculately groomed Swede who was standing in the center of the vassals gathered around him at the bar.
Perhaps Pacey’s fears about the Shapieron had been misplaced. Could what Janet had overheard have been connected with the communications from Gistar ceasing so abruptly? It had happened suspiciously soon afterward. If so, how could Sverenssen and at least one other member of the delegation have known about it? And how were Sverenssen and Daldanier connected with Verikoff, whom Pacey knew from CIA reports to be a Soviet expert in space communications? If there were some conspiracy between Moscow and an inner clique of the UN, why had Sobroskin cooperated with Pacey? Perhaps that had been part of some even more elaborate ruse. He had been wrong to trust the Russian, he admitted to himself bitterly. He should have used Janet and kept Sobroskin and Malliusk out of it.
And last of all, what was the motive behind the attempt to character-assassinate him personally, compromise Karen Heller, and misrepresent the role they had played at Bruno? It seemed strange that Sverenssen had expected the plan to work, because the document Janet had described would not be substantiated by the official minutes of all the delegation’s meetings, a copy of which would also be forwarded to UN Headquarters in New York. Furthermore, Sverenssen knew that as well as anybody; and whatever his other faults, he was not naive. Then a sick feeling formed slowly in his stomach as the truth dawned on him-he had no way of being certain that the minutes which he had read and approved, which had recorded the debates verbatim, would be the versions that would go to New York at all. From what Pacey had glimpsed of whatever strange machinations were in progress behind the scenes, anything was possible.
"In my opinion it would be a good thing if the South Atlantic deal did go to the Americans," Sverenssen was saying at the bar. "After the way the United States almost allowed its nuclear industry to be wrecked just before the turn of the century, it’s hardly surprising that the Soviets gained a virtual monopoly across most of Central Africa. An equalizing of influence in the general area and the stiffening of competition it would produce could only be in the better long-term interests of all concerned." The three heads around him nodded obediently. Sverenssen made a casual throwing-away motion. "After all, in my position I can hardly allow myself to be swayed by mere national politics. The longer-term advancement of the race as a whole is what is important. That is what I have always stood for and shall continue to stand for."
After everything else this was too much. Pacey choked down his mouthful of coffee and slammed his cup down hard on the table. The heads at the bar turned toward him in surprise. "Hogwash," he grated across the room at them. "I’ve never heard such garbage."
Sverenssen frowned his distaste for the outburst. "What do you mean?" he asked coldly. "Kindly explain yourself."
"You had the biggest opportunity ever for the advancement of the race right in your hand, and you threw it away. That’s what I mean. I’ve never listened to such hypocrisy."
"I’m afraid I don’t follow you."
Pacey couldn’t believe it. "Goddammit, I mean this whole farce we’ve been having here!" He heard his voice rising to a shout, knew it was bad, but couldn’t stop himself in his exasperation. "We were talking to Gistar for weeks. We said nothing, and we achieved nothing. What kind of ‘standing for advancement’ is that?"
"I agree," Sverenssen said, maintaining his calm. "But I find it strangely inappropriate that you should protest in this extraordinary fashion. I would advise you instead to take the matter up with your own government."
That didn’t make any sense. Pacey shook his head, momentarily confused. "What are you talking about? The U.S. policy was always to get this moving. We wanted a landing from the beginning."
"Then I can only suggest that your efforts to project that policy have been singularly inept," Sverenssen replied.
Pacey blinked as if unable to believe that he had really heard it. He looked at the others, but found no sympathy for his predicament on any of their faces. The first cold fingers of realization as to what was going on touched at his spine. He shifted his eyes rapidly across their faces in a silent demand for a response, and caught Daldanier’s gaze in a way that the Frenchman couldn’t evade.
"Let us say it has been apparent to me that the probability of a more productive dialogue would have been improved considerably were it not for the negative views persistently advanced by the representative of the United States," Daldanier said, avoiding the reference to Pacey by name. He spoke in the reluctant voice of somebody who had been forced to offer a reply he would have preferred left unsaid.
"Most disappointing," Saraquez, the Brazilian, commented. "I had hoped for better things from the nation that placed the first man on the Moon. Hopefully the dialogue might be resumed one day, and the lost time made good."
The whole situation was insane. Pacey stared at them dumbfounded. They were all part of the plot. If that were the version that was going to be talked about back on Earth, backed by documentary records, nobody would believe his account of what had happened. Already he wasn’t sure if he believed it himself, and he hadn’t left Bruno yet. His body began shaking uncontrollably as a rising anger took hold. He got up and moved forward around the table to confront Sverenssen directly. "What is this?" he demanded menacingly. "Look, I don’t know who you think you are with the high-and-mighty act and the airs and graces, but you’ve been making me pretty sick ever since I arrived here. Now let’s just forget all that. I want to know what’s going on."
"I would strongly advise you to refrain from bringing personal issues into this," Sverenssen said, then added pointedly, "especially somebody of your inclination toward the . . . indiscreet. "
Pacey felt his color rising. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
"Oh, come. . ." Sverenssen frowned and looked away for an instant like somebody seeking to avoid a delicate subject. "Surely you can’t expect your affair with your American colleague to have escaped notice completely. Really . . . this kind of thing is embarrassing and uncalled for. I would rather we dropped the matter."
Pacey stared at him for a moment in frank disbelief, then turned his gaze toward Daldanier. The Frenchman turned to pick up his drink. He looked at Saraquez, who avoided his eyes and said nothing. Finally he turned to Van Geelink, the South African, who had only been listening so far. "It was very unwise," Van Geelink said, almost managing to sound apologetic.
"Him! " Pacey gestured in Sverenssen’s direction and swept his eyes over the others again, this time offering a challenge. "You let him stand there and spew something like that? Him of all people? You can’t be serious."
"I’m not sure that I like your tone, Pacey," Sverenssen said. "What are you trying to insinuate?"
The situation was real. Sverenssen was actually brazening it out. Pacey felt his fist bunch itself against his side but resisted the urge to lash out. "Are you going to try and tell me I dreamed that too?" he whispered. "Malliusk’s assistant-it never happened? Are these puppets of yours going to back you up on that too?"