by Hogan, James
have to get us into it, Karl? You said the GSEC Board would never take any
notice of a turkey like Hendridge. That was why the rest of us agreed to go
along with the crazy idea—because there would be all kinds of good publicity
opportunities when GSEC turned it down . . . you said." He threw out his hands
and sent an exasperated look up to the ceiling. "But now what have we got? Mars!
... as if we didn't have better things to do than go fooling around on Mars for
six months. Is there really no way we can get ourselves out of this?"
Zambendorf shrugged unconcernedly and showed his empty palms. "Certainly—we can
call the whole thing off and admit to the world that we never really expected
anybody to take us seriously . . . because that's how they'll see it. And as for
better things to do, well, maybe we could spend the time in better ways and
then, maybe not. Who knows? When was the last time a psychic operated from Mars?
The situation might turn out to have opportunities we never thought of."
"Very philosophical," Abaquaan commented, with less than wild enthusiasm. It was
all very well for Zambendorf to talk about grandiose schemes and opportunities;
it would be Abaquaan and the rest of the team who did the legwork.
"'Philosophical,' my dear Otto, is the state of mind one reverts to when unable
to change anything anyway. And that's the situation we are in. In short, we
don't have a choice."
GSEC, General Space Enterprises Corporation, and NASO—the European-American
military and civilian North Atlantic Space Organization that had grown from a
merger of many of the former interests of NASA, ESA, and NATO—were funding
expansion of one of the pilot bases on Mars to test ideas on the organization of
extraterrestrial communities as a prelude to the construction of full-scale
colonies. A GSEC director by the name of Baines Hendridge—a long-standing true
believer in ESP and the "paranormal," and a recent convert to the Zambendorf
cult—had proposed sending Zambendorf with the mission in order to perform the
first-ever tests of clairvoyance and psychic communication over interplanetary
distances, and to conduct ESP experiments in conditions free from terrestrial
"interference." Zambendorf, confident that the GSEC Board would never go along
with the idea, had reacted with a show of enthusiasm, partly because anything
else would have failed the expectations of the faithful and partly to set the
stage in advance for exploiting another "Scientists Back Off Zambendorf
Challenge" story when the proposal was turned down. Baines Hendridge's influence
had turned out to be greater than he had calculated, however, and the Board's
acceptance of the proposal had left Zambendorf in a position that he could
retreat from only at the cost of more public ignominy than his image could
afford.
"I guess you're right," Abaquaan conceded after a short silence. "But I still
don't like the idea of getting mixed up with a NASO space mission." He shook his
head again, dubiously, "It's not like dealing with the public. There are some
good scientists in that outfit ... in a different league from the assholes we're
used to handling. It's risky."
"Scientists are the easiest to fool." That was one of Zambendorf's favorite
lines. "They think in straight, predictable, directable, and therefore
misdirectable, lines. The only world they know is the one where everything has a
logical explanation and things are what they appear to be. Children and
conjurors—they terrify me. Scientists are no problem; against them I feel quite
confident."
Abaquaan smiled humoriessly. "Confidence is what you feel when you don't really
understand the situation." He raised his arm to glance at his wristset.
Zambendorf was about to reply when the call tone sounded from the room's comnet
terminal. Abaquaan walked across to answer it. The screen came to life to show
the smooth, clean-cut features of Drew West, Zambendorf's business manager,
calling from another suite farther along the hallway. "Those NBC people should
be arriving downstairs anytime now," West said. "You'd better be getting on down
to the lobby." Clarissa Eidstadt, who handled the team's publicity affairs, had
arranged for a short television interview to be taped that morning, for
screening later in the day to mark Zambendorf's return to New York.
"I was just about on my way," Abaquaan said.
"Has Karl finished breakfast yet?" West asked. "Time's getting on. We've got a
full schedule this afternoon."
"Yes," Abaquaan said. "He's right here. You want to talk to him?"
"Good morning, Drew," Zambendorf said cheerfully, stepping into the viewing
angle as Abaquaan moved away. "Yes, I'm almost ready. How did you sleep?" He
nodded across the room as Abaquaan let himself out the door.
"Hi, Karl. Fine, thanks," Drew West acknowledged. West had accepted the Mars
situation matter-of-factly. Taking the team to the Andromeda galaxy would have
been fine by him as long as there was money in it. "The NBC team's due here in
about fifteen minutes, and there are a couple of things we need to go over
before they show up. If you're through with breakfast, we'll come on down."
"Yes, why don't you do that," Zambendorf said. "We can talk while I finish
dressing."
"See you in a couple of minutes, Karl."
Downstairs, at the hotel's side foyer in front of the ramp leading down to the
parking levels, Otto Abaquaan pretended to study a New York street map while he
memorized the details and registration number of the car that had arrived with
the NBC van from which two men were unloading TV cameras and recording
equipment. The smartly dressed, fair-haired woman who had driven the car was
standing nearby, holding a briefcase and a sheaf of papers and talking with two
colleagues—another woman and a man—who had come with her. Abaquaan guessed her
to be the owner of the car and also the reporter who would be interviewing
Zambendorf; but he needed to be sure.
NBC had neglected to advise them of the name of their reporter in advance, which
was unusual and meant, possibly, that Zambendorf was being set up for something.
An enquiry from Clarissa Eidstadt or from Drew West could no doubt have answered
the question easily enough, but that would have wasted an opportunity of exactly
the kind that Zambendorf and his team excelled at seizing. A gamble was
involved, of course—Abaquaan might turn up nothing in the short time available—
but one of the advantages enjoyed by psychics was that negative results were
always soon forgotten.
A hotel valet drove the car away toward the ramp, and the woman and her two
companions walked through into the main lobby with Abaquaan following them
inconspicuously at a short distance. One of the clerks at the front desk raised
his eyebrows enquiringly. "Can I help you, ma'am?"
"Yes. My name is Marion Kearson, from NBC. I arranged with the assistant
manager, Mr. Graves, to tape an interview in the lobby with Karl Zambendorf. Is
Mr. Graves available, please?"
"One moment. I'll call his office."
That answered one question. Time was now crucial if the gamble was going
to pay
off. Abaquaan turned and walked quickly to the line of comnet terminals at the
rear of the lobby, sat in one of the booths, closed the door, and called a
number in the Vehicles Registration Department of the State of New Jersey.
Seconds later a man with pink, fleshy features and a balding head appeared on
the screen. "Hello, Frank. Long time no see. How're things?" Abaquaan spoke
quietly but urgently.
The face frowned for a moment, then recognized the caller. "Say, Harry! Things
are good. How's the private-eye business?" Abaquaan never made public
appearances and hence could command a long list of aliases.
"It's a living. Look, I need some information fast. The usual deal and terms.
Any problem?"
Frank glanced about him with an instinctively furtive look. "Can I ask what it's
to do with?"
"Nothing to lose any sleep over—a domestic thing. I need to find out who owns a
car that's been seen in a couple of places. The usual suspicious husband
routine."
Frank licked his Ups, then nodded. "Okay. Got the number?"
"New Jersey registration KGY27-86753."
"Hang on a minute." Frank looked away and began operating another terminal
offscreen. Abaquaan produced a pen and notebook, and then sat drumming his
fingers on the side of the terminal while he waited. "Well?" he asked as Frank
at last turned back to look out of the screen.
"It's registered under the name of a Mrs. Marion Kearson, 2578 Maple Drive,
Orangeton," Frank said. "You want details of the car?"
"I've got a description. Has it been reregistered at the same address for very
long, and is there any accident record?"
"Renewed successively for the last three years. No accidents."
"Any other vehicles registered at the same address? What information do you have
on the drivers? . . ."
"Very well, we'll be down in a few minutes," Drew West said to the screen of the
terminal in the living room of Zambendorf's suite. He cut the call, turned, and
announced, "That was Graves, the assistant manager. He's with Clarissa
downstairs. The NBC people are all set up and ready when we are."
Dr. Osmond Periera, middle-aged, wispy haired, wearing a bow tie with a maroon
jacket and smoking a Turkish cigarette through an ornate silver holder, resumed
talking from the point where the call had interrupted. The introductions and
author profiles in his best-selling pseudoscience books described him as
Zambendorf's discoverer and mentor; certainly he was among the staunchest of the
disciples. "One of the most intriguing possibilities on Mars will be the
opportunity to verify that extrasensory information does indeed propagate in a
mode not constrained by any form of inverse-square law. Although experiments on
Earth seem to suggest that the field strength does not diminish with distance at
all, my feeling is that until now the scale has simply been too small to reveal
significant differences. After all, even though we are venturing into a
completely new phenomenological realm, we mustn't allow ourselves to lose our
sense of realism and scientific plausibility, must we?"
Zambendorf blinked and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Periera's
ability to invent the most outrageous explanations for Zambendorf's feats and,
moreover, to believe them himself totally uncritically and without reservation,
constantly amazed even Zambendorf. "It's an interesting thought," he agreed.
"Another possibility is that the remoteness of negative influences might well
have a beneficial effect on repeatability."
Periera brought a hand up to toy unconsciously with his bow while he considered
the suggestion. It was intriguing—certainly something that hadn't occurred to
him before. "I could design tests to be conducted through the voyage for
investigating any correlations with distance," he mused. "That might be very
informative."
"Yes, why don't you do that," Zambendorf agreed.
Periera turned to Baines Hendridge, a dark-haired, clean-shaven man with a
collegiate look about him, who was wearing his usual intense expression.
Hendridge had come to the Hilton early that morning to convey personally the
news of the GSEC Board's decision concerning the Mars project, and to invite
Zambendorf and colleagues to lunch with some of the other directors. "It is a
well-established fact that manifestations of paranormal phenomena differ from
observables at the more mundane, material level of existence in that their
repeatability is affected by the presence of negative or critical influences,"
Periera explained. "The effect is predictable from elementary quantum mechanics,
which proves the interdependence between the observer and the observed."
Hendridge nodded as he absorbed the revelation, and looked even more intense.
The call tone sounded from the room's terminal. Drew West answered, and a second
later Otto Abaquaan's face appeared on the screen. "Is Thelma there?" Abaquaan
enquired, signaling with an eyebrow that he had information to impart. "I need
to talk to her." He meant that he couldn't talk openly with Periera and
Hendridge there in the room.
Zambendorf looked across at Thelma, the team's blonde, shapely, long-legged
secretary, who was listening from the couch by the far wall. "Oh, it's probably
about some places I told him he ought to see while we're in New York," Thelma
said. "He's planning to spend the afternoon touring the city."
"Yes, well, can you talk to him on the extension next door?" Zambendorf said.
Thelma nodded, unfolded herself from the couch, and disappeared into the suite's
bedroom. Drew West switched the call and cleared the screen in the living room.
Periera and Hendridge could be tedious at times, but their wealthy and
influential social acquaintances made them worth putting up with.
"Where are we due to have lunch?" Zambendorf asked, looking at West.
"At that Austrian place you liked last time—Hoffmann's on East Eighty-third,"
West answered. "We can go straight on after the interview. I'll have a cab
waiting."
"Is Osmond joining us?" Zambendorf asked.
Periera shook his head. "I have to attend a meeting this afternoon, thanks all
the same. Next time, hopefully."
"A pity," Zambendorf murmured, and went on to talk for a minute or two about the
food at Hoffmann's. Then, judging that they had given Abaquaan and Thelma enough
time, he gave West a barely perceptible nod.
West glanced at his watch. "We'd better be moving."
Joe Fellburg, the huge, six foot three, black ex-fighter and former
military-intelligence agent who functioned as Zambendorf's bodyguard and the
team's security man, straightened up from the wall just inside the doorway,
opened the closet next to him, and took out Zambendorf's overcoat.
Zambendorf shook his head as he put on his jacket. "No, I don't think the
weather's quite cool enough for that, Joe. Perhaps my blue cape . . ."He looked
around the room. "Oh yes, I left it next door. Excuse me for a moment." He went
through into the bedroom where Thelma was waiting and allowed the door to swing
shut behind. "What have you got?" he asked in a low voice.
"We're in luck," Thelma said, speaking quickly. "The reporter is a woman called
Marion Kearson. She drives a 2018 Buick six-seat limo compact, hydrogen-burning,
silver-gray, black trim, white wheels; small dent on driver's side, front;
registration is New Jersey, KGY27-86753. Kearson's address is 2578 Maple Drive,
Orangeton." Zambendorf nodded rapidly as he concentrated on memorizing. Thelma
went on, "Two other drivers with cars are registered at the same address:
William Kearson, born August 4, 1978, five ten in height, brown hair, green
eyes, one hundred eighty pounds—has to be her husband; drives a USM Gazelle, new
this year; speeding fine last April, minor accident the previous fall; also a
Thomas Kearson, bom January 14, 2001 , also five ten, fair hair, gray eyes, one
twenty pounds; drives a 2013 Datsun— sounds like the son."
Zambendorf repeated the information, and Thelma confirmed it. "Good," Zambendorf
said. "Will you and Otto be able to get anything on those GSEC people we're
having lunch with?"
"Maybe. Otto's following up a couple of leads."
"Call Drew or me at Hoffmann's after twelve-thirty with whatever you come up
with."
"Hoffmann's, East Eighty-third, after twelve-thirty," Thelma con-finned. "Okay.
You'd better get moving."
Ten minutes later, Zambendorf, his sky-blue silk cape flowing grandly over his
black velvet jacket, swept into the lobby with Drew West, Joe Fellburg, Osmond
Periera, and Baines Hendridge bringing up the rear. Clarissa Eidstadt, the
team's publicity matron, her short black hair cut off in a fringe across her
forehead, her eyes framed by heavy-rimmed butterfly glasses, and her mouth
accentuated by lipstick that was too heavy and too red, was waiting. She
escorted Zambendorf over to Marion Kearson and the NEC crew while curious hotel
guests began to gather in the background. "Who's the reporter?" Zambendorf
murmured. "The blonde in the pink coat?"
"Yes."
"Do you know her name?"
"They didn't tell me, and I didn't ask them," Clarissa muttered from the corner
of her mouth.
Zambendorf nodded and smiled to himself. "Even better."
And then a rapturous Marion Kearson was pushing a microphone close to
Zambendorf's face. "Well, here in the New York Hilton after getting back from
