Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  space-engineering corporations, and the decision has been made to conduct

  comprehensive experiments to assess the effects of the extraterrestrial

  environment on parapsychological phenomena. . . ."

  Zambendorf went on to outline the Mars project, at the same time managing to

  imply a somewhat exaggerated role for the team without actually saying anything

  too specific. Jackson listened intently, nodded at the right times, and injected

  appropriate responses, but he kept his eye on the auditorium for the first signs

  of restlessness. "It sounds fascinating, Karl," he said when he judged the

  strain to have increased to Just short of breaking point. "We wish you all the

  success in the world, or maybe I should say out of the world—this one,

  anyhow—and hope to see you back here on the show again, maybe, after it's all

  over."

  "Thank you. I hope so," Zambendorf replied.

  Jackson swiveled to face Zambendorf directly, leaned back to cross one foot over

  the opposite knee, and allowed his hands to fall from his chin to the armrests

  of his chair, his change of posture signaling the change of mood and subject. He

  grinned mischievously, in a way that said this was the part everyone knew had to

  come eventually. Zambendorf maintained a composed expression. "I have an object

  in my pocket," Jackson confided. "It's an item of lost property that was handed

  in at the theater office earlier this evening, probably belonging to somebody in

  the audience here. Somebody thought Zambendorf might be able to tell us

  something about it." He turned away for a second and made a palms-up gesture of

  candor toward the cameras and the audience. "Honestly, folks, this is absolutely

  genuine. I swear it wasn't set up or anything like that." He turned back to

  resume talking to Zambendorf. "Well, we thought it was a good idea, and as I

  said, I have the object with me right here in my pocket. Can you say anything

  about it ... or maybe about the owner? ... I have to say I don't know a lot

  about this kind of thing, whether this would be considered too tough an

  assignment, or what, but—" He broke off as he saw the distant look creeping over

  Zambendorf's face. The auditorium became very still.

  "It's vague," Zambendorf murmured after a pause. "But I think I might be able to

  connect to it. ..." His voice became sharper for a moment. "If anyone here has

  lost something, please don't say anything. We'll see what we can do." He fell

  silent again, and then said to Jackson. "You can help me, Ed. Put your hand

  inside your pocket, if you would, and touch the object with your fingers."

  Jackson complied. Zambendorf went on, "Trace its outline and visualize its image

  . . . Concentrate harder . . . Yes, that's better . . . Ah! I'm getting

  something clearer now . . . It's something made of leather, brown leather ... A

  man's wallet, I think. Yes, I'm sure of it. Am I right?"

  Jackson shook his head in amazement, drew a light tan wallet from his pocket,

  and held it high for view. "If the owner is here, don't say anything, remember,"

  he reminded the audience, raising his voice to be heard above the gasps of

  amazement and the burst of applause that greeted the performance. "There might

  be more yet." He looked back at Zambendorf with a new respect. When he spoke

  again, he kept his voice low and solemn, presumably to avoid disturbing the

  psychic atmosphere. "How about the owner, Karl? Do you see anything there?"

  Zambendorf dabbed his forehead and returned his handkerchief to his pocket. Then

  he took the wallet, held it between the palms of his hands, and stared down at

  it. "Yes, the owner is here," he announced. He looked out to address the

  anonymous owner in the audience. "Concentrate hard, please, and try to project

  an image of yourself into my mind. When contact is established, you will feel a

  mild tingling sensation in your skull, but that's normal." A hush fell once

  more. People closed their eyes and reached out with their minds to grasp the

  tenuous currents of strange forces flowing around them. Then Zambendorf said, "I

  see you . . . dark, lean in build, and wearing light blue. You are not alone

  here. Two people very close to you are with you . . . family members. And you

  are far from home . . . visiting this city, I think. You are from a long way

  south of here." He looked back at Jackson. "That should do."

  Jackson swiveled to speak to the audience. "You can reveal yourself now if

  you're here, Mr. Dark, Lean, and Blue," he called out. "Is the owner of this

  wallet here? If so, would he kindly stand up and identify himself, please?"

  Everywhere, heads swung this way and that, and turned to scan the back of the

  theater. Then, slowly and self-consciously, a man rose to his feet about halfway

  back near one of the aisles. He was lean in build, Hispanic in appearance, with

  jet-black hair and a clipped mustache, and was wearing a light-blue suit. He

  seemed bewildered and stood rubbing the top of his head with his fingers,

  looking unsure of what he was supposed to do. A boy in the seat beside him

  tugged at his sleeve, and a dark-skinned woman in the next seat beyond was

  saying something and gesticulating in the direction of the stage. "Would you

  come forward and identify your property, please, sir," Jackson said. The man

  nodded numbly and began picking his way along the row toward the aisle while

  applause erupted all around, lasting until he had made his way to the front of

  the auditorium. The noise abated as Jackson came forward to the edge of the

  stage and inspected the wallet's contents. "This is yours?" he said, looking

  down. The man nodded. "What's the name inside here?" Jackson enquired.

  "The name is Miguel," Zambendorf supplied from where he was still sitting.

  "He's right!" Jackson made an appealing gesture as if inviting the audience to

  share his awe, looked back at Zambendorf, and then stooped to hand the wallet to

  Miguel. "Where are you from, Miguel?" he asked.

  Miguel found his voice at last. "From Mexico ... on vacation with my wife and

  son . . . Yes, this is mine, Mr. Jackson. Thank you." He cast a final nervous

  glance at Zambendorf and began walking hastily back up the aisle.

  "Happy birthday, Miguel," Zambendorf called after him.

  Miguel stopped, turned round, and looked puzzled.

  "Isn't it your birthday?" Jackson asked. Miguel shook his head.

  "Next week," Zambendorf explained. Miguel gulped visibly and fled the remaining

  distance back to his seat.

  "Well, how about that!" Jackson exclaimed, and stood with his arms outstretched

  in appeal while the house responded with sustained applause and shouts of

  approval. Behind Jackson, Zambendorf sipped from his water glass and allowed the

  atmosphere to reinforce itself. He could also have revealed that the unknown

  benefactor who had turned the wallet in after picking Miguel's pocket, and whose

  suggestion it had been to make a challenge out of it, had also been of swarthy

  complexion —Armenian, in fact—but somehow that would have spoiled things.

  Now the mood of the audience was right. Its appetite had been whetted, and it

  wanted more. Zambendorf rose and moved forward as if to get closer to them, and

  Jackson moved away instinctively to beco
me a spectator; it had become

  Zambendorf's show. Zambendorf raised his arms; the audience became quiet again,

  but this time tense and expectant. "I have said many times that what I do is not

  some kind of magic," he told them, his voice rich and resonant in the hall. "It

  is anyone's to possess. I will show you ... At this moment I am sending the

  impression of a color out into your minds—all of you—a common color. Open your

  minds . . . Can you see it?" He looked up at the camera that was live at that

  moment. "Distance is no barrier. You people watching from your homes, you can

  join us in this. Focus on the concept of color. Exclude everything else from

  your thoughts. What do you see?" He turned his head from side to side, waited,

  and then exclaimed, "Yellow! It was yellow! How many of you got it?" At once a

  quarter or more of the people in the audience raised their hands.

  "Now a number!" Zambendorf told them. His face was radiating excitement. "A

  number between one and fifty, with its digits both odd but different, such as

  fifteen ... but eleven wouldn't do because both its digits are the same. Yes?

  Now . . . think! Feel it!" He closed his eyes, brought his fists up to his

  temples, held the pose for perhaps five seconds, then looked around once more

  and announced, "Thirty-seven!" About a third of the hands went up this time,

  which from the chorus of "ooh"s and "ah"s was enough to impress significantly

  more people than before. "Possibly I confused some of you there," Zambendorf

  said. "I was going to try for thirty-five, but at the last moment I changed my

  mind and decided on—" He stopped as over half the remaining hands went up to add

  to the others, but it looked as if every hand in the house was waving eagerly.

  "Oh, some of you did get that, apparently. I should try to be more precise."

  But nobody seemed to care very much about his having been sloppy as the

  conviction strengthened itself in more and more of those present that what they

  were taking part in was an extremely unusual and immensely significant event.

  Suddenly all of life's problems and frustrations could be resolved effortlessly

  by the simple formula of wishing them away. Anyone could comprehend the secret;

  anyone could command the power. The inescapable became more palatable; the

  unattainable became trivial. There was no need to feel alone or defenseless. The

  Master would guide them. They belonged.

  "Who is Alice?" Zambendorf demanded. Several Alices responded. "From a city far

  to the west . . . on the coast," he specified. One of the Alices was from Los

  Angeles. Zambendorf saw a wedding imminent, involving somebody in her immediate

  family—her daughter. Alice confirmed that her daughter was due to be married the

  following month. "You've been thinking about her a lot," Zambendorf said.

  "That's why you came through so easily. Her name's Nancy, isn't it?"

  "Yes . . . Yes, it is." Gasps of astonishment.

  "I see the ocean. Is her fiance a sailor?"

  "In the navy ... on submarines."

  "Involved with engineering?"

  "No, navigation . . . but yes, I guess that does involve a lot of engineering

  these days."

  "Exactly. Thank you." Loud applause.

  Zambendorf went on to supply details of a successful business deal closed that

  morning by a clothing salesman from Brooklyn, to divine after some hesitation

  the phone number and occupation of a redheaded young woman from Boston, and to

  supply correctly the score of a football game in which two boys in the second

  row had played the previous Tuesday. "You can do it too!" he insisted in a voice

  that boomed to the rear of the house without aid of a microphone. "I'll show

  you."

  He advanced to the edge of the stage and stared straight ahead while behind him

  Jackson wrote numbers on a flip-chart. "Concentrate on the first one,"

  Zambendorf told everybody. "All together. Now try and send it ... Think it ...

  That's better ... A three! I see three. Now the next . . ."He got seven right

  out of eight. "You see!" he shouted exultantly. "You're good—very good. Let's

  try something more difficult."

  He picked up the black velvet bag provided by prior arrangement and had Jackson

  and a couple of people near the front verify that it was opaque and without

  holes. Then he turned his back and allowed Jackson to secure the bag over his

  head as a blindfold. Then, following Zambendorf's instructions, Jackson pointed

  silently to select a woman in the audience, and the woman chose an item from

  among the things she had with her and held it high for everyone to see. It

  happened to be a green pen. She then pointed to another member of the audience—a

  man sitting a half dozen or so rows farther back—to repeat the procedure. The

  man held up a watch with a silver bracelet, and so it went. Jackson noted the

  objects on the flip-chart. When he had listed five, he covered the chart, turned

  the stand around to face the wall for good measure, and told Zambendorf he was

  free to remove the blindfold.

  "Remember, I'm relying on every one of you," Zambendorf said. "You must all help

  if we're going to make this a success. Now, the first of the objects—recall it

  and picture it in your minds. Now send it to me. . . ." He frowned,

  concentrated, and pounded his brow. The audience redoubled its efforts. Viewers

  at home joined in. "Writing . . . something to do with writing," Zambendorf said

  at last. "A pen! Now the color. The color is ... green! I get green. Were you

  sending green?" By the time he got the fifth item correctly, the audience was

  wild.

  For his finale Zambendorf produced his other prop—a solid-looking metal rod

  about two feet long and well over an inch thick. Jackson couldn't bend it when

  challenged, and neither could three men from near the front of the audience.

  "But the power of the mind overcomes matter," Zambendorf declared. He gave

  Jackson the rod to hold, and touched it lightly in the center with his fingers.

  "This will require all of us," Zambendorf called out. "All of us here, and

  everybody at home. I want you all to help me concentrate on bending. Think

  it—bending. Say it—bending! Bending!" He looked at Jackson and nodded in time

  with the rhythm as he repeated the word.

  Jackson caught on quickly and began motioning with a hand like a conductor

  urging an orchestra. "Bending! Bending! Bending! Bending! . . ." he recited, his

  voice growing louder and more insistent.

  Gradually, the audience took up the chant. "Bending! Bending! Bending! Bending!"

  Zambendorf turned fully toward them and threw his arms wide in exhortation. His

  eyes gleamed in the spotlights; his teeth shone white. "Bending! Bending!

  Bending!" He laid a hand on the rod. Jackson gasped and stared down wide-eyed as

  the metal bowed. Some of the audience were staring ashen-faced. Zambendorf took

  the rod and held it high over his head in one hand, gazing up at it triumphantly

  while it continued to bend in full view while a thousand voices in unison raised

  themselves to a frenzy. Women had started screaming. A number of people fled

  along the aisles toward the exits. A bearded, hawk-faced man with an open Bible

  in one hand climbed onto the stage, pointed an
accusing finger at Zambendorf,

  and began reading something unintelligible amid the pandemonium before security

  guards grabbed him and hustled him away.

  A frantic viewer in Delaware was trying to get past a jammed NBC switchboard to

  report that her aluminum chair had buckled at the precise moment that Zambendorf

  commanded the rod to bend. Another's lighting circuits all blew at the same

  instant. A hen coop in Wyoming was struck by lightning. A washing machine caught

  fire in Alabama. Eight people had heart attacks. A clock began running backward

  in California. Two expectant mothers had had spontaneous abortions. A nuclear

  reactor shut itself down in Tennessee.

  In the control room on a higher level behind the stage area, one of the video

  engineers on duty stared incredulously at the scenes on the main panel monitor

  screens. "My God!" he muttered to the technician munching a tuna sandwich in the

  chair next to him. "If he told them to give him all their money, rip off their

  clothes, and follow him to China, you know something, Chet—they'd do it."

  Chet continued eating and considered the statement. "Or to Mars, maybe," he

  replied after a long, thoughtful silence.

  4

  EARLY THE FOLLOWING EVENING, CONLON AND WHITTAKER arrived at Gerold Massey's

  house, situated at the end of a leafy cul-de-sac on the north side of

  Georgetown. Although lofty, spacious, and solidly built, it was an untidy and in

  some ways inelegant heap of a house—a composition of after-thoughts, with walls

  and gables projecting in all directions, roofs meeting at strange angles, and a

  preposterous chateau-style turret adorning the upper part of one comer. The

  interior was a warren of interconnecting rooms and passages, with cubbyholes and

  stairways in unexpected places, old-fashioned sash windows, and lots of wood

  carving and paneling. The part of the cellars not dedicated to storing the junk

  that Massey had been accumulating through life contained a workshop-lab which he

  used mainly for developing psychological testing equipment and perfecting new

  magic props, while the floors above included, in addition to the usual living

  space, an overflowing library, a computer room, and accommodations for his

  regular flow of short-term guests, who varied from students temporarily out on