I said, “Let’s combine deals. Adam has been a mystery all along; keep him that way. He’ll be seen only over video–in a mask. Prof. you supply body; Mike, you supply voice.”
Prof shook head. “I can think of no surer way to destroy confidence at our most critical period than by having a leader who wears a mask. No, Mannie.”
We talked about finding an actor to play it. Were no professional actors in Luna then but were good amateurs in Luna Civic Players and in Novy Bolshoi Teatr Associates.
“No,” said Prof, “aside from finding an actor of requisite character–one who would not decide to be Napoleon–we can’t wait. Adam must start handling things not later than tomorrow morning.”
“In that case,” I said, “you’ve answered it. Have to use Mike and never put him on video. Radio only. Have to figure excuse but Adam must never be seen.”
“I’m forced to agree,” said Prof.
“Man my oldest friend,” said Mike, “why do you say that I can’t be seen?”
“Haven’t you listened?” I said. “Mike, we have to show a face and body on video. You have a body–but it’s several tons of metal. A face you don’t have–lucky you, don’t have to shave.”
“But what’s to keep me from showing a face, Man? I’m showing a voice this instant. But there’s no sound behind it. I can show a face the same way.”
Was so taken aback I didn’t answer. I stared at video screen, installed when we leased that room. A pulse is a pulse is a pulse. Electrons chasing each other. To Mike, whole world was variable series of electrical pulses, sent or received or chasing around his innards.
I said, “No, Mike.”
“Why not, Man?”
“Because you can’t! Voice you handle beautifully. Involves only a few thousand decisions a second, a slow crawl to you. But to build up video picture would require, uh, say ten million decisions every second. Mike, you’re so fast I can’t even think about it. But you aren’t that fast.”
Mike said softly, “Want to bet, Man?”
Wyoh said indignantly, “Of course Mike can if he says he can! Mannie, you shouldn’t talk that way.” (Wyoh thinks an electron is something about size and shape of a small pea.)
“Mike,” I said slowly, “I won’t put money on it. Okay, want to try? Shall I switch on video?”
“I can switch it on,” he answered.
“Sure you’ll get right one? Wouldn’t do to have this show somewhere else.”
He answered testily, “I’m not stupid. Now let me be, Man–for I admit this is going to take just about all I’ve got.”
We waited in silence. Then screen showed neutral gray with a hint of scan lines. Went black again, then a faint light filled middle and congealed into cloudy areas light and dark, ellipsoid. Not a face, but suggestion of face that one sees in cloud patterns covering Terra.
It cleared a little and reminded me of pictures alleged to be ectoplasm. A ghost of a face.
Suddenly firmed and we saw “Adam Selcne.”
Was a still picture of a mature man. No background, just a face as if trimmed out of a print. Yet was, to me, “Adam Selene.” Could not he anybody else.
Then he smiled, moving lips and jaw and touching tongue to lips, a quick gesture–and I was frightened.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Adam,” said Wyoh, “your hair isn’t that curly. And it should go back on each side above your forehead. You look as if you were wearing a wig, dear.”
Mike corrected it. “Is that better?’
“Not quite so much. And don’t you have dimples? I was sure I could hear dimples when you chuckle. Like Prof’s.”
Mike-Adam smiled again; this time he had dimples. “How should I be dressed, Wyoh?”
“Are you at your office?”
“I’m still at office. Have to be, tonight.” Background turned gray, then came into focus and color. A wall calendar behind him gave date, Tuesday 19 May 2076; a clock showed correct time. Near his elbow was a carton of coffee. On desk was a solid picture, a family group, two men, a woman, four children. Was background noise, muted roar of Old Dome Plaza louder than usual; I heard shouts and in distance some singing: Simon’s version of “Marseillaise.”