sole and ran through the routine of integrating the contents of the cartridge into the message buffer already assembled for transmission later that day. Where the transmission was intended for she didn’t know, but it was part of whatever had brought the UN delegation to Bruno. Malliusk always took care of the technical side of that personally, and he never talked about it with the rest of the staff.
Sverenssen had told her that the cartridge contained some mundane data that had come in late from Earth for appending to the transmission that had been already composed; everything that went out was supposed to be approved formally by all of the delegates, but it would have been silly to call them all together merely to rubber-stamp something as petty as this. But a couple of them could be touchy, he had said, and he cautioned her to be discreet. She liked the feeling of being confided in over a matter of UN importance, even if it had only to do with some minor point, especially by somebody so sophisticated and worldly. It was so deliciously romantic! And, who knew? From some of the things that Sverenssen had said, she could be doing herself a really big favor in the long run.
“He is a guest here, like the rest of you, and we have done our best to be accommodating,” Malliusk told Sobroskin later that morning in the Soviet delegate’s offices. “But this is interfering with the observatory’s work. I do not expect to have to be accommodating to the point of having my own work disrupted. And besides that, I object to such conduct in my own establishment, particularly from a man in his position. It is not becoming.”
“I can hardly intervene in personal matters that are not part of the delegation’s business,” Sobroskin pointed out, doing his best to be diplomatic as he detected more than merely outraged propriety beneath the scientist’s indignation. “It would be more appropriate for you to try talking to Sverenssen directly. She is your assistant, after all, and it is the department’s work that is being affected.”
“I have already done that, and the response was not satisfactory,” Malliusk replied stiffly. “As a Russian, I wish my cornplaint to be conveyed to whichever office of the Soviet Government is concerned with the business of this delegation, with the request that they apply some appropriate influence through the UN.
Therefore I am talking to you as the representative here of that office.”
Sobroskin was not really interested in Malliusk’s jealousies, and he didn’t particularly want to stir up things in Moscow over something like this; too many people would want to know what the delegation was doing on Farside in the first place, and that would invite all kinds of questions and poking around. On the other hand, Malliusk obviously wanted something done, and if Sobroskin declined there was no telling whom the professor might be on the phone to next. There really wasn’t a lot of choice. “Very well,” he agreed with a sigh. “Leave it with me. I’ll see if I can talk to Sverenssen today, or maybe tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Malliusk acknowledged formally, then marched out of the office.
Sobroskin sat there thinking for a while, then reached behind himself to unlock a safe, from which he took a file that an old friend in Soviet military intelligence had sent up to Bruno unofficially at his request. He spent some time thumbing through its contents to refresh his memory, and as he thought further, he changed his mind about what he was going to do.
There were a number of strange things recorded in the file on Niels Sverenssen-the Swede, supposedly born in Malmo in 1981, who had vanished while serving as a mercenary in Africa in his late teens a~id then reappeared ten years later in Europe with inconsistent accounts of where he had been and what he had been doing. How had he suddenly reemerged from obscurity as a man of considerable wealth and social standing with no record of his movements during that time that could be traced? How had he established his international connections without it being common knowledge?