Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  earlier times, it appeared, the American system had worked fine as a means of

  stimulating productivity and creativity, and of raising the living standards of

  a whole nation for the first time in history. But habits of thought had failed

  to change as quickly as technology. When the spread of automation made it

  possible for virtually all of life's basic needs to be met with a fraction of

  the available capacity, new, artificial needs had to be created to keep the

  machines and the workforce busy.

  With the Third World looking after its own, a major portion of the West's

  ingenuity and effort came to be expended on manufacturing new appetites for

  trivia and consumer junk in its own domestic markets. Unfortunately, left to

  themselves, rational, educated, and discerning people tended not to make very

  good consumers; therefore no great attempt had been made to create a rational,

  educated, and discerning population. The mass media that could have been an

  instrument of genuine mass education had become instead an instrument of mass

  manipulation which delivered uncritical audiences to advertisers, and the school

  system had degenerated to little more than a preprocessing which cultivated the

  kind of banality that moved products. Nevertheless, despite the plethora of

  conspiracy theories in vogue among intellectuals, academics, and political

  activists, Conlon didn't believe that cabals of tycoons plotting secretly in

  boardrooms had planned it all; things had simply evolved, a little at a time,

  through the selective reinforcement of whatever happened to be good for profits.

  The call tone from his desk terminal interrupted his thoughts, and Conlon tapped

  the unit's touchpad to accept. The face that appeared on the screen was of a man

  approaching fifty or so, with a high forehead left by a receding hairline,

  rugged features setting off a full beard that was starting to show streaks of

  gray, and bright, penetrating eyes that held an elusive, mirthful twinkle. It

  was Gerold Massey, a professor of cognitive psychology at the University of

  Maryland and one of Conlon's long-standing friends. Massey was also an

  accomplished stage magician who took a special interest in exposing fraudulent

  claims of paranormal powers. It was Conlon's familiarity with Massey's work that

  had prompted him to mention the subject to Allan Brady earlier.

  "Hello, Walter," Massey said. "My computer tells me you've been calling. What

  gives?"

  "Hi, Gerry. Yes, since yesterday. Where've you been?"

  "Florida—Tallahassee."

  "Oh? What's happening there?"

  "Some research that Vernon and I are working on." Vernon Price was Massey's

  assistant, magical understudy, and general partner in crime. "We're presenting

  Vernon in an ESP routine to classes of students around the country. Some are

  told beforehand that it's just a conjuring act, and some are told it's the real

  thing. The object is to get a measure of how strong preconceived beliefs are in

  influencing people's interpretations of what they see, and how much difference

  what they're told at the rational level makes." Massey's specialty was the study

  of why people believed what they believed.

  "Sounds interesting."

  "It is, but I doubt if you were calling to ask me about it," Massey replied.

  "True. Look, I'd like to get together with you and talk sometime soon. It's

  about a NASO project we've got coming up, but I really don't want to go into the

  details right now. How are you fixed?"

  "Sounds like you might be trying to offer me a job," Massey commented. While he

  spoke he looked down to operate the terminal, and then back up again but

  slightly to the side, apparently reading something in an inset area of his

  screen. "Pretty busy just about every day for a while," he murmured. "Any reason

  why we couldn't make it an evening? How would you like to come round here again?

  We could make it a dinner, and maybe go to that Italian place you like."

  "Sounds good," Conlon said.

  "How about tomorrow?"

  "Even better. Oh—and I'll be bringing Pat Whittaker with me. He's involved with

  it too."

  "Why not? I haven't seen him for a while." Patrick Whittaker was a production

  executive with Global Communications Networking, a major provider of TV and

  dataservices. Massey's features contorted into a bemused frown. "Say, what the

  hell is this all about, Walt? Are you sure you don't want to give me a clue

  even?"

  Conlon grinned crookedly. "Get Vernon to tell you via ESP. No, really, I'd

  rather leave that side until tomorrow. We'll see you at about what, six-thirty?"

  "That'll do fine. Okay, we'll see you then."

  Conlon returned his attention to his desk and allowed his eyes to stray over it

  while he reviewed what he planned to do next. His gaze came to rest on the

  folder from the Project Executive Review Committee containing the final

  appraisal, specification of goals, and departmental assignments for the Mars

  project. Lying next to it was a copy of that day's Washington Post, folded by

  someone in the department and marked at an item reporting Karl Zambendorf's

  return to the U.S.A. The hue of Conlon's face deepened, and his mouth compressed

  itself into a tight downturn.

  "Psychics!" he muttered to himself sourly.

  3

  "LOOK, WE HAVE TO DO A TV SHOW THAT'S GOING OUT LIVE AT seven-thirty," Drew West

  shouted through the partition at the cab driver. "There's an extra twenty if we

  make it on time."

  Grumbling under his breath, the cabbie backed up to within inches of the car

  behind, U-tumed across the oncoming traffic stream amid blares of horns and

  squeals of brakes, and exited off Varick into an alley to negotiate a way round

  the perpetual traffic snarl at the Manhattan end of the Holland Tunnel. On one

  side the streets were blacked out for seven blocks beneath the immense, ugly

  canopy of aluminum panels and steel-lattice supports that made up the ill-fated

  Lower West Side Solar Power Demonstration Project, which was supposed to have

  proved the feasibility of supplying city electricity from solar. Before the

  harebrained scheme was abandoned, it had cost the city $200 million to teach

  politicians what power engineers had known all along. But it kept the streets

  dry in rainy weather and a thriving antique, art, and flea market had come into

  being in the covered arcades created below.

  "I'm certain there's more to it. Drew," Zambendorf resumed as West sat back in

  his seat. "Lang and Snell were only being polite to avoid embarrassing

  Hendridge. They were classical corporation men—hard-nosed, pragmatic,

  no-nonsense—and not a grain of imagination between the two of them. They weren't

  at lunch because of interest in paranormal powers. They were there on GSEC

  business."

  West nodded. "I agree. And what's more my gut-feel tells me they're

  representative of official thinking inside GSEC's Board, which says that GSEC

  isn't interested in psychic experiments on Mars. That's just for public

  consumption. But if that's so, what's the real reason they want to send us

  along, Karl?"

  The cab slowed to a halt at the intersection with Broadway. From the seat on


  Zambendorf's other side, Joe Fellburg kept a watchful eye on a group of unkempt

  youths lounging outside a corner store smoking something that was being passed

  round. "Maybe someone in the corporation somewhere decided it's time that space

  arrived for the people," he offered.

  Zambendorf frowned and looked at West. West shrugged. "What do you mean?"

  Zambendorf asked, looking at Fellburg.

  Fellburg relaxed as the cab began moving again, turned his head from the window,

  and opened a pair of black ham-fists. "Well, things like space and space bases

  have always been for astronauts, scientists, NASO people—people like that.

  They've never been for just anybody. Now, if GSEC is making plans to put up

  space colonies someday, somebody somewhere is gonna have to do some work to get

  that image changed. So maybe they figure that getting someone like Karl in on

  this Mars thing might do them a lotta good."

  "Mmm . . . you mean by sending along a popular figure that everyone can relate

  to ..." Drew West nodded and looked intrigued. "It makes sense . . . Yes, if you

  could establish that kind of connection in people's minds . . . And that could

  also explain why Lang, and Snell, and probably most of the other GSEC directors

  might go along with Hendridge even if they think the guy's crazy."

  "That's just what I'm telling you," Fellburg said. "What would they care whether

  Karl's for real or not?"

  Zambendorf stroked his beard thoughtfully while he considered the suggestion.

  Then he nodded, slowly at first, and then more rapidly. Finally he laughed. "In

  that case we have nothing to worry about. If GSEC has no serious interest in

  experiments, then nobody will be trying very hard to expose anything. In fact,

  when you think about it, good publicity for us would be in their interests too.

  So the whole thing could turn out to be to our advantage after all. I told you

  that Otto worries too much. The whole thing will be a piece of cake, you'll

  see—a piece of cake."

  Hymn-singing evangelists with placards warning against meddling in DARK POWERS

  and denouncing Zambendorf as a CONSORT OF SATAN occupied a section of the

  sidewalk opposite NBC's television studio by the Trade Center when the cab

  rounded the comer into Fulton Street. Drew West spotted Clarissa Eidstadt

  waiting at the curb in front of the crowd outside the entrance, and directed the

  cabbie to stop next to her. She climbed in by the driver and waved for him to

  keep moving. "The freaks are out in force tonight," she said, turning her head

  to speak through the partition. "The stage door's under siege, but I've got

  another one opened for us round the side." Then to the driver, "Make a right

  here . . . Drop us off by those guys talking to the two cops."

  The cab halted, and they climbed out. While West was paying the driver, Clarissa

  slipped Zambendorf a folded piece of paper, which he tucked into his inside

  pocket. Written on the paper were notes of things that Otto Abaquaan and Thelma

  had observed and overheard during the last hour or so, such as oddments glimpsed

  inside a purse opened in the course of purchasing tickets at the box office, or

  snatches of conversation overheard in the ladies' room and the cocktail lounge.

  Upon such seeming trivia were many wondrous miracles built.

  The party was whisked inside, and Zambendorf excused himself to visit the

  washroom in order to study the notes Clarissa had given him. He rejoined the

  others in a staff lounge five minutes later and was introduced to Ed Jackson,

  the genial host of the popular "Ed Jackson Show," on which Zambendorf would be

  appearing as the principal guest. Jackson exuberated and enthused for a while in

  the standard manner of a media-synthesized Mr. Personality, and then left to

  begin the show with the first of the evening's warm-up guests. Zambendorf and

  his companions drank coffee, talked with the production staff, and watched the

  show on the green-room monitor. A makeup girl came in and banished a couple of

  shiny spots on Zambendorf's nose and forehead. Zambendorf checked with the stage

  manager that a couple of props would be available on the set as previously

  requested.

  At last it was time to descend backstage, and Zambendorf found himself waiting

  in the wings with an assistant while Ed Jackson went through a verbal buildup

  with the audience to fill an advertising break on air-time. Then Jackson was

  half turning and extending an arm expectantly while the orchestra's theme

  crescendoed to a trumpet fanfare; the director's finger stabbed its cue from the

  control booth, and Zambendorf was walking forward into the glare of spotlights

  to be greeted by thunderous applause and a wave of excitement.

  Jackson beamed as Zambendorf turned from side to side to acknowledge the

  applause before sitting down behind the low, glass-topped table, and then took

  his own seat and assumed a casual posture. "Karl, welcome to the show. I guess

  we're all wondering what kinds of surprises you might have in store for us

  tonight." Jackson paused to allow the audience and viewers a moment to attune

  themselves to his approach. "Were you, ah ... were you surprised at the small

  demonstration outside in the street here when you arrived earlier?"

  "Oh, I'm never surprised by anything." Zambendorf grinned and looked out at the

  audience expectantly. After a second or two he was rewarded with laughter.

  Jackson smiled in a way that said he ought to have known better. "Seriously

  though, Karl, we hear some rather scary warnings from certain sections of the

  religious community from time to time concerning your abilities and the ways in

  which you make use of them—that you're dabbling in realms that no good can come

  out of, tapping into powers that we were never meant to know about, and that

  kind of thing. . . . What's your answer to fears like these? Are they

  groundless? Or is there something to them that people ought to know about?"

  Zambendorf frowned for a second. This was always a delicate question. Anything

  that sounded like a concession or an admission would not serve his interests,

  but nothing was to be gained by being offensive. "I suspect it's a case of our

  not seeing the same thing when we look at the subject," he replied. "Their

  perceptions result from interpreting reality from a religious perspective,

  obviously, and must necessarily be influenced by traditional religious notions

  and preconceptions . . . not all of which, I have to say, are reconcilable with

  today's views of the universe and our role in it." He made a half-apologetic

  shrug and spread his hands briefly. "My interpretation is from the scientific

  perspective. In other words, what I see is simply a new domain of phenomena that

  lie beyond the present horizons of scientific inquiry. But that doesn't make

  them 'forbidden,' or 'unknowable,' any more than electricity or radio were in

  the Middle Ages. They are simply 'mysterious' —mysteries which cannot adequately

  be explained within the contemporary framework of knowledge, but which are

  explainable nevertheless in principle, and will be explained in the fullness of

  time."

  "Something we should treat with respect, then, possibly, but not something we

/>   need be frightened of," Jackson concluded in an appropriately sober tone.

  "The things that frighten people are mostly products of their own minds,"

  Zambendorf replied. "What we are dealing with here opens up entirely new

  insights to the mind. With improved understanding of themselves, people will be

  able to comprehend and control the processes by which they manufacture their own

  fears. The ultimate fear of most people is the fear of being afraid."

  "Maybe there isn't any real conflict at all," Jackson commented. "Isn't it

  possible that religious mystics through the ages have experienced intuitively

  the same processes that people like you are learning to apply at the conscious

  level, scientifically ... in the same way, for example, that magnetism was

  applied to making compasses long before anyone knew what it was? At the bottom

  line, you could all be saying the same thing."

  "That is exactly how I see it," Zambendorf agreed. "The medieval Church

  persecuted Galileo, but religion today has come to terms with the more orthodox

  sciences. We can learn a lot from that precedent." Zambendorf was being quite

  sincere; the implication was ambiguous, and what he meant was the exact opposite

  of what most people chose to assume.

  Jackson sensed that the audience had had its fill of profound thoughts and heavy

  philosophy for the evening, and decided to move on. "I understand you're just

  back from a long trip, Karl—to Argentina. How was it? Is there as much activity

  and enthusiasm in Latin America as here?"

  "Oh, the visit was a success. We all enjoyed it a lot and met some very

  interesting people. Yes, they are starting to get involved in some serious work

  there now, especially at one of the universities we visited—But speaking of long

  trips, have you heard about our latest one, which has just been confirmed?"

  "No, tell us."

  Zambendorf glanced out at the audience and then across at the live camera.

  "We're going to Mars as part of an official NASO mission. Not many people know

  how much research NASO has been doing in the field of the paranormal, especially

  in connection with remote perception and information transfer." That was true.

  Not many people did know; and the ones who did knew that NASO hadn't been doing

  any. "We've been talking with NASO for some time now via one of the larger