by Hogan, James
the street to fellow magicians and visiting professors from abroad.
Contrary to widespread belief, including that prevalent among many scientists,
scientific qualifications were largely irrelevant to assessing reliably the
claims of alleged miracle-workers, mind readers, psychics, and the like.
Scientists could be fooled by deliberate trickery or unconscious self-deception
as easily as the average layman and, sometimes, more easily if competence and
prestige earned in other fields were allowed to produce delusions of
infallibility. The world of natural phenomena that was properly the object of
the scientist's expertise could be baffling at times, but it never resorted to
outright dishonesty and always yielded rational answers in the end. Theorems
were provable; calculations, checkable; observations, repeatable; and
assumptions, verifiable. Things in the natural world meant what they said. But
that was seldom the case in the world of human affairs, where illogic operated
freely and deception was the norm. To catch a thief one should set a thief; the
adage tells; and to catch a conjuror, set a conjuror. If the skills of the
physicist and the neurochemist were of little help in comprehending the
deviousness of human irrationality and the art of the professional deceiver,
those of the psychologist and the magician were; Gerold Massey happened to be
both, and he was engaged regularly by government and private organizations as a
consultant on and investigator of matters allegedly supernatural and paranormal.
That was how Massey and Walter Conlon had come to know each other. In 2015 a
"psychic" had claimed to travel over vast distances through the "astral plane"
and described the surface features of Uranus and Neptune in vivid detail. When
French probes finally arrived and sent back pictures contradicting his accounts,
his excuse had been that he had perhaps underestimated his powers and projected
himself to planets in some entirely different star system! The year 2017 had
seen another flap about bodies from a crashed alien spacecraft—this time hidden
in a secret base in Nevada. A year later some officials in Washington were
giving serious consideration to an offer from a California-based management
recruiting firm to screen NASO flight-crew applicants on the basis of a crank
numerology system involving computerized personal "psychometric aptitudinal
configurator charts." And, inevitably, there was always someone pushing for NASO
to involve itself in the perennial UFO controversy. In fact Massey supposed that
Conlon wanted to talk about Senator Kerning and the whatever-it-was Church of
Oregon. But Massey was wrong. Conlon had involved him in some strange situations
over the years and occasionally sent him off to some out-of-the-way places. But
never anything like this. Conlon had never before wanted him to leave Earth
itself, and travel with a NASO mission across interplanetary space.
"The idea is to expand the pilot base at Meridian! Sinus into a mixed,
experimental community of about five hundred people to provide data on
extraterrestrial living for future space-colony design," Conlon explained from a
leather armchair standing before a grandfather clock built to look like an
Egyptian sarcophagus. "One area that needs a lot more study is how such
conditions will affect the behavior and emotions of sizeable groups of people,
what kinds of stress are likely to be experienced, and so on, which means
there'll be a number of psychologists going along. Officially you'd be filling
one of those slots, with Vernon there to assist. Unofficially some of us in NASO
want somebody knowledgeable to get the real story on this Zambendorf stunt . . .
and maybe even blow the whole thing out of the water if the opportunity presents
itself. It's gone too far, Gerry. We've got better things to do. If we don't put
a stop to this nonsense now, the next thing will be astrologers being hired to
fix launch dates."
Massey returned a puzzled frown from across the room, where he was sitting
sprawled untidily across a couch with one foot propped on a piece of a partly
dismantled trick-cabinet that he had been meaning to move for weeks. "You have
to do something,'' he agreed. "But what I don't understand is why it's happening
at all. What on earth possessed NASO to go along with this Zambendorf thing in
the first place?"
Conlon sighed and threw up his hands. "That was how it came down the line to me
. . there's been a lot of high-level politics between GSEC and NASO that I'm not
in on. Anyhow, most of the funding's coming from GSEC. Defense takes first place
for government money; social experiments on Mars don't even get on the list.
With lawyers and accountants taking over the government, we've had to depend
more on the private sector to keep a planetary program going at all. Naturally,
that gives outfits like GSEC a say in the planning and policymaking."
"Maybe the best thing would be for you to opt out," Vernon Price said from an
elaborately ornamented stool, his back to the church organ that Massey had
picked up in a yard-sale six years previously while driving through Mississippi.
He was in his late twenties, lithe, with dark, wavy hair and alert, bright brown
eyes. "I mean, if the mission's being turned into a circus, the wisest thing
might be to keep PEP out of it."
Conlon shook his head. "I hear what you're saying, Vemon, but we can't do that.
The scientific opportunities are too valuable to miss. And besides that, the
mission will involve the first operational use of the Orion, which we have to
retain our interest in for the sake of planetary projects now on the drawing
boards. If we dropped out, it would leave the Pentagon as the only government
department with an interest in further development of the Orion. We can't afford
to let that happen."
The European-American scientific base near the Martian equator at Meridiani
Sinus had begun as a purely American attempt to rival the Soviet plan for
establishing a permanently manned facility at Solis Lacus. However, the U.S.
program had bogged down over problems with the development of the inertial
fusion drive considered essential to supporting human life reliably over
interplanetary distances. A crash program conducted cooperatively with the
European NATO nations and Japan had eventually provided a prototype system that
did work, and Meridian! Sinus had followed as a joint U.S.-European venture two
years behind both the original American schedule and the Soviets; shortly
afterward, the space agencies on both sides of the Atlantic were merged to form
NASO. Intensified work from then on had made up for some of the lost time and
produced a series of test designs for thermonuclear-propelled space-vehicles,
culminating in the Orion—the first vessel built specifically for carrying heavy
payloads and large numbers of passengers between planets. Completed in orbit in
2019, the Orion had been shuttling back and forth on trials between Earth and
Moon for over half a year, six months to a year ahead of a similar project which
the Japanese were pursuing independently. The Soviets, who were concentrating on
large platforms in Eart
h orbit, had nothing to compare with either of the large
interplanetary ships, so at least the U.S. had some compensation for the
embarrassment incurred by its earlier fiasco.
Massey turned his head to look across at Whittaker, tall and tanned, with dark,
crinkly hair just beginning to show gray at the temples, who was sitting in the
armchair opposite Conlon. With the comfortable income that he commanded
independent of his position at Global Communications Networking, he seemed to
regard his job as much as an intellectual exercise and a challenge in
problem-solving as anything else, and had always struck Massey as something of
an enigma. "So how do you fit into this, Pat?" Massey asked. "Is this where you
get your chance to give us some real news for a change?"
Whittaker's eyes twinkled briefly as he nodded. "It sounds as if it could be,
doesn't it."
Things that were different were supposed to constitute news, Whittaker had often
said. But miracle-workers, disaster-imminent scares, nonexistent Soviet
super-weapons, economic ruin always just around the comer, and all the other
media-manufactured myths that kept millions glued to screens in order to sell
products were no longer different. Therefore they weren't news. But turning a
contrived sensation round and boomeranging it by reporting the intended
deception straight for once—that could be very different.
"Well, if Pat did manage to pull something spectacular out of it, it might
persuade other GSECs to stay out of NASO's business in future," Vernon remarked.
"That's what I want," Conlon said, nodding emphatically.
Whittaker spread his hands and made a face. "Well, I mean . . . using a NASO
mission to try and legitimatize this kind of nonsense? Do you think the
directors at GSEC believe in it?"
Massey shrugged. "How do I know? Nothing would surprise me these days, Pat. I
hope you guys at GCN don't rely too much on them for advertising revenues
though."
"Aw, what the hell?" Whittaker said. "Someone's got to do something to put a
stop to this nonsense before it goes any further."
There wasn't a lot more to be said. Conlon looked from Vernon to Massey and
asked simply, "Well?"
They looked at each other, but neither of them had pressing questions. "What do
you think?" Massey asked at last. Vernon raised his eyebrows, hunched his
shoulders, and opened his arms in a way that said there could be only one
answer. Massey nodded slowly, tugged at his beard and thought to himself for a
few moments longer, and then looked back at Conlon. "I guess we'll buy it, Walt.
You've just got yourself a deal."
Conlon looked pleased. "Good. The Orion's scheduled for liftout from Earth orbit
three months from now. I'll have NASO's confirmation of the offer, including
remuneration, wired through within forty-eight hours. We'll have the other
details and specifics worked out for you both in about a week. There'll be a
training and familiarization course at the NASO Personnel Development Center in
North Carolina for all the non-NASO people going on the mission, so leave the
last -three weeks or so clear when you make your arrangements for leave of
absence from the university, et cetera."
Whittaker sat up in his chair, rubbed his hands together, and picked up his
empty wineglass from the side table next to him. "I think this calls for a
refill," he said. "Same again for everyone?"
"I'll get them," Massey said.
Whittaker watched as Massey collected the glasses and took them over to the open
liquor cabinet. "Did you see Zambendorf on the Ed Jackson Show last night?"
"Uh-huh," Massey grunted over his shoulder.
"Quite a performance," Whittaker said.
"Oh, Zambendorf's a good showman—let's not make any mistake about that," Massey
answered. "And if he'd only be content to come up with a straight act, he'd make
a first-rate stage magician. But I can't go along with this business about
claiming to be genuine. A lot of people are taken in by it and spend too much of
their time and money looking for fairyland when they could be getting something
worthwhile out of life. It's a tragic squandering of human potential and
talent."
"The thing with the color and the number was pretty straightforward, I thought,"
Whittaker said.
"Simple probability matches, weren't they?" Conlon said, looking at Vernon.
Vernon nodded. Whittaker looked at him inquiringly.
"With an audience that size, enough people would think of yellow to make the
demonstration look impressive—or any other color you care to name, come to
that," Vernon explained. "Zambendorf didn't have to be thinking of anything. The
audience only assumed he was because he said he was."
"How about the number?" Whittaker asked. "That couldn't have worked the same
way, surely. Thirty-something . . . thirty-seven, wasn't it? I'd have thought
the odds would be much worse there."
"So would most people," Vernon said. "But think back to what Zambendorf said—a
number below fifty with both digits odd but different. If you work it out, there
aren't really that many possibilities. And do you remember him giving fifteen
and eleven as examples? That narrows it down further because for some reason
hardly anyone will pick them after they've been mentioned. Of the numbers that
are left, about thirty-five percent of a crowd will go for thirty-seven every
time. No one knows why. It's just a predictable behavior pattern among people.
Psychologists call it a 'population stereotype.' And it also happens to be a
fact that around twenty-three percent will choose thirty-five. So all that
business about changing his mind at the last moment was baloney to widen his
total catch to over half. And it worked—it looked as if every hand in the place
were up."
"Mmm . . . interesting," Whittaker said.
"Do you remember Zambendorf telling the woman about her daughter's being about
to get married to a navigation officer, in the navy, on submarines?" Massey
asked, turning away from the cabinet and coming back with two refilled glasses.
"Yes," Whittaker said. "That was impressive. Now how could he have known all
that?"
"He didn't," Massey replied simply. Whittaker looked puzzled. Massey handed the
drinks to Whittaker and Conlon, then returned to the cabinet to pour his own and
Vernon's. "Your memory's playing tricks, Pat. We've got a recording of the whole
show that I'll replay if you like. Zambendorf only said Alice's daughter was
about to get married to a sailor. He never said navy, he never said submarines,
and he never mentioned navigation. Alice did—but people don't remember it that
way. In fact Zambendorf guessed that the guy was in engineering, which was
reasonable but wrong as it happened, and Alice corrected him. But not only
that—she turned the miss into a semihit by manufacturing an excuse for him. Did
you notice? I'd bet that practically everyone who saw it has forgotten that
failure; but if he'd guessed right, they'd all have remembered. People see and
remember what they want to see and remember. The Zambendorfs in the world get a
lot of mileage out of that fact."
Vernon nodded. "So the only information he actually originated himself was that
the daughter was marrying a sailor."
"So how could he have known even that much?" Whittaker asked.
Massey shrugged. "There are all kinds of ways he might have done it. For
instance, anyone hanging around the box office before the show could have
overheard plenty of that kind of talk."
Whittaker looked astonished. "What, seriously? You're kidding! I mean, it's
too—too simple. A child could have thought of that."
"Easily," Massey agreed. "But most adults wouldn't. Believe me, Pat, that one's
been worked for years. The simpler the answer, the less obvious it is to most
people. They always look for the most complicated explanations imaginable."
Massey handed a glass to Vernon and began moving past Whittaker to return to the
couch.
"Was the wallet planted?" Conlon asked. "Martha says it had to be, but I'm not
so sure. Somehow I don't think Ed Jackson would have gone out of his way to lie
so brazenly."
Massey was about to reply when his arm knocked against the side table beside
Whittaker, causing a drop of wine to spill from the glass that Massey was
carrying. "Oh, I'm sorry, Pat! Here, I'll take care of it," he exclaimed,
setting down the glass and dabbing lightly at the collar of Whittaker's jacket.
"Only a spot—it won't show." Then Massey picked up his drink again, sat down on
the couch, and looked over at Conlon. "Sorry, Walt. What were you saying?"
"I said I wasn't convinced the wallet was planted."
"Oh yes, I think I agree with you," Massey said. "The Mexican guy looked genuine
enough to me. That part didn't come across as an act at all."
Whittaker looked from Massey to Vernon, who was grinning oddly, and back at
Massey. "So . . . how did he know it was a wallet, and how did he know who owned
it?" he asked.
"You really want to know?" Massey asked lightly.
"Well, sure." Whittaker looked puzzled. "What's so funny? Am I missing the
obvious or something? If I am, all I can say is that a hell of a lot of other
people must have missed it too."
There was silence for a few seconds. Then Vernon said, "Remember, we're pretty
sure that Zambendorf had a confederate or two around the place. The information
he came up with was all the kind of stuff you'd expect to find inside a wallet,
