by Hogan, James
Price could only return a helpless shrug. "It's strange," Massey said to
Zambendorf. He paused and tilted his head curiously to one side. "For once I get
the feeling that you're telling the truth. Either you're the most accomplished
liar I've ever met—and I've met more than a few—or there's something very screwy
going on. I'd like to believe what you just told us."
Zambendorf tired suddenly of the feeling of being scrutinized under a
microscope. "Well, why won't you believe it, then?" he demanded loudly, turning
away and sounding annoyed. "What reason would I have to lie about something like
this? If you must know, I was offered such a deal only recently. I turned it
down. There, does that satisfy you?"
"You turned it down," Massey repeated, not quite able to prevent a trace of
mockery from creeping into his voice.
Zambendorf wheeled back again. "I turned it down." He forced the words out
slowly and deliberately, thrusting out his beard to within an inch of Massey's
face.
"Very likely the best offer you've ever had in your life, and maybe the best
you'll ever get," Price drawled sarcastically from behind them. "With everything
going for it, and all the right people lined up on your side . . . and you
turned it down. Now, why would you want to do a thing like that?"
"My reasons are my reasons," Zambendorf said. "What damn business is it of
either of you?"
"When you're helping people who are trying to condemn a whole race to
second-class status to further their own interests and claiming that they're
acting in my name, it is my business," Massey retorted.
Zambendorf colored visibly. "For God's sake, I haven't done anything to help
them!" he shouted. "I turned their offer down. How many times do I have to say
it? What's the matter with the pair of you?"
"Why would you turn it down?" Massey asked again.
"What is this? I refuse to be cross-examined in this fashion."
"Bah! . - . just as I thought," Massey snorted.
"He's copping out," Price murmured. "He has to. He's in with them up to his
neck."
"Doesn't it occur to you that you may not have a monopoly on all this touching
humanitarian concern for your brother beings?" Zambendorf raged. "If you must
know, I turned it down for the simple reason that I care what happens to the
Taloids just as much as you do ... even more, possibly. Do you understand that?
Is it plain enough to get through your thick skulls?" He glowered at Massey
defiantly, then shifted his gaze to Price for a moment. When he resumed
speaking, his voice quivered with emotion. "I probably know them better than any
other person on this mission. Wasn't it I who exchanged the first meaningful
information with them? Didn't they continue to come to me for confirmation even
after they'd been told repeatedly that Giraud and those walking procedure
manuals that he calls aides were the mission's official spokesmen? . . . Don't
ask me how, but I can sense the Taloid world that lies behind the words we see
on screens, and those unmoving metal faces."
Zambendorf's manner calmed a little. "There is a world there, you know—not a
world that we are able to experience directly, or even one that we're capable of
conceiving, maybe . . . but it's there—as warm, and as rich, and as colorful
when perceived through Taloid senses as Earth is to us. I can feel it when I
talk to them." The other two listened silently as he went on, now in a distant
voice, "The Taloids know I can too. That's why they trust me. They trust me to
teach them about the worlds that exist beyond their sky, and the new worlds of
mind that exist beyond the clouds obscuring their present horizons of knowledge.
They trust me to show them the ways of discovery that will enable them to
explore all those worlds. That's more than all those fools back on Earth ever
asked for, or understood that I could have done for them." His expression became
contemptuous. "And you think I would have traded that for anything a bunch of
deadhead executives and bureaucrats might have to offer—people who've never in
their lives had an inspired thought or a vision of what could be?" Zambendorf
focused his gaze back on Massey and Price, and shook his head. "No, don't you go
preaching at me about the meaning of the word human, the insignificance of
accidental differences in biological hardware, or any of that crap. Because I
could give both of you a whole lesson on it."
The cabin remained very quiet for what seemed a long time. Massey drank the last
of his coffee, then looked across at Price with his eyebrows raised
questioningly. Price looked uncomfortable and said nothing. "I, er . . . I guess
we owe you an apology," Massey murmured.
Zambendorf nodded curtly and left it at that. He looked at Massey curiously.
"You still haven't explained what made you think I'd accepted a deal," he said.
Massey looked over at Price again. Price made a face and shrugged. "I guess he's
got a right to know," he said. Zambendorf frowned uncomprehendingly.
Massey drew a long breath, held it for a second or two, then exhaled abruptly
and nodded his agreement. "Set it up, Vernon." Massey turned to Zambendorf.
"Obviously what you're about to see is not intended to become public knowledge.
I don't know if you're aware that the news from Earth is censored before it's
broadcast around the Orion. In particular, a lot of what goes out across the
Earth newsgrid is omitted from what's shown here. However, that was anticipated
before we left Earth and arrangements were made for me to have a private channel
direct into NASO."
Zambendorf watched as Price unlocked a storage locker in the wall and took out a
small metal strongbox which in turn yielded a collection of video cartridges.
Price selected one of the cartridges and walked over to the cabin's terminal to
insert it, at the same time switching the terminal to off-line local mode.
Whatever was stored in the cartridges evidently was too sensitive to be
entrusted to the ship's databank. Zambendorf gave Massey a puzzled look. "If you
were told we were going to Mars too, why would anyone give you a private
information line?" he asked. "Why would you be supposed to need one?"
Massey smiled faintly. "I didn't know I had one until a timelocked message from
the databank told me about it after we'd left Earth. I guess you weren't the
only one who didn't find out what he was really here for until a while after
you'd signed up."
"You mean you weren't sent to monitor the ESP experiments on Mars?" Zambendorf
said, surprised.
"No more than you were sent to conduct them."
"So . . . what were you sent for?"
"I very much suspect that we're just beginning to find out."
The terminal screen came to life to show a man with a red, gnomish face topped
by a mat of white, close-cropped hair saying something that was inaudible since
the sound was still turned down. Zambendorf stared hard for a moment, then said,
"Isn't that Conlon from NASO?"
Massey raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You know him?"
"I know his face."
"How come?"
"I make it my business to know
lots of things."
The view on the screen changed to a picture of Saturn with the words TITAN
MISSION superposed in large letters along with the GCN logo; then followed a
shot of the Orion in orbit against a background of part of Titan's disk.
Evidently the footage was a replay of a routine newscast from Earth. A woman's
voice faded in as Price turned up the sound, and the picture changed again, this
time to a view of an area of cluttered machinery and scrap piled just outside
Genoa Base.
". . . said that there might be a possibility of salvaging something useful from
the remnants of the defunct alien civilization discovered on Titan, but most of
it must be considered a total write-off. In any case, the cost of attempting a
full-scale cleanup operation from Earth would more than offset any benefits that
could conceivably be obtained." A good-looking, aubum-haired, smartly dressed
woman, probably in her midforties appeared, sitting at a desk facing the camera.
She smiled out at the viewers as she turned a sheet of paper in front of her. "A
disappointment, I'm afraid, for those people who have been hoping for a new
Industrial Revolution that would change the lives of all of us here on Earth.
But it's still the biggest junkpile in the known universe, I'm told. So who
knows—it could turn out to be good news yet for all you scrap-metal dealers.
Better start submitting your bids. You'll probably have to add a reserve tank to
your pickup though."
Zambendorf turned a stunned face toward Massey and shook his head
disbelievingly. Massey nodded for him to keep watching.
The newscaster looked down and scanned quickly over the next sheet. "More news
about the Taloids—the man-size, walking maintenance robots that have been
catching a lot of people's imagination. They see a composite image made up of
electronically intensified optical wavelengths—in other words ordinary visible
light highly amplified— and infrared wavelengths, or heat, according to an MIT
professor who has been studying reports from the Orion. The pitviper and boid
families of terrestrial snakes employ a similar system, apparently, but nothing
as sensitive as the Taloid version. We'll be talking to Professor Morton
Glassner to hear more about that in just a few minutes. . . .
"Another question that a lot of people have been asking is, Can the Taloids
think?" The woman's face vanished and was replaced by a shot of two U.S.
soldiers in EV suits facing a Taloid. Although the shot was from Genoa Base,
nothing of the city was visible in the background; only a jumble of derelict
machines was visible. The view gave the impression that the Taloid had just
emerged from some habitat in a kind of jungle. One of the soldiers was offering
something, then pulling it away as the Taloid reached for it—as if teasing a big
metal bear—while the second soldier could be seen grinning through his
faceplate. Zambendorf wondered how many hours of recordings this particular
sequence had been selected from.
"Well, there's no getting away from the fact that they are extraordinary
machines," the voiceover continued. "But then, wouldn't we expect to find at
least a few cute tricks in machines left behind by an alien civilization that
most of our scientists are convinced must have achieved interstellar travel? It
all depends what you mean by think, says well-known philosopher and social
scientist, Johnathan Goodmay, in an article in this month's issue of Plato. If
you mean the ability to accept and process information, and manufacture
self-improving rules for problem-solving based on that information, then the
answer is yes, the Taloids can do that—but so can any of the so-called smart
machine tools in a modem automobile factory, an editor-transcriber computer, or
any reasonably proficient chess-playing program that learns. The difference is
merely one of degree, according to Dr. Goodmay, and not anything fundamental.
But if by think you mean the ability to imagine, create, aspire to greater
things, see the world through emotion-tinted glasses, and all the other things
we take for granted when we apply the word to people, then the answer is no way.
People can externalize aspects of their own thinking and project them into
Taloids in much the same way as children can convince themselves that the
computers they talk to at home are really alive and understand what the kids are
saying."
Before Zambendorf could recover from the shock of what he was hearing, the
picture changed to show himself with Osmond Periera, walking along a corridor
inside the Orion and disappearing through a doorway. He couldn't remember when
the shot had been taken—it could have been from any time in the voyage. The
commentary resumed, "Another person who's spending a lot of time looking for
answers to the same question is Karl Zambendorf, seen here with Dr. Osmond
Periera, the Orion's principal investigator of the parapsychological sciences."
Zambendorf choked over the mouthful of coffee he had been about to swallow; the
screen showed him apparently discussing experimental procedures and nodding at
Periera, who was holding a clipboard in front of panels of flashing lights and a
computer console. The voice went on, "After the encouraging results of the
experiments performed during the voyage and after arrival at Titan to assess the
effectiveness of extrasensory communications away from the terrestrial
environment, the Austrian psychic and other experts with the mission have been
examining the possibility of probing whatever emergent Taloid psyche might exist
by means of what are called psychodynamic sympathetic resonances, or what
amounts to the same thing, mind reading." Now Zambendorf was being shown with a
set of wires and electrodes taped around his forehead and temples, staring, with
an expression of deep concentration, at a wall of equipment racks. That was an
old shot from the early part of the voyage. It was a stunt he had pulled to
demonstrate how he could alter the readings of a mass spectrometer by changing
its magnetic field profile through mind power; in fact Thelma had simply kicked
the leg of the table supporting the chart recorder and produced an abnormal
trace at a moment when everybody's attention had been on Zambendorf. The view
switched to one of a Taloid surrounded by electronics equipment and recorders,
which Zambendorf recognized as part of Dave Crookes' setup for capturing Taloid
speech and facial patterns at the first meeting in the desert. The two shots had
been taken months apart, but the continuity of the TV presentation suggested
they were closely connected parts of a single process.
"This is insane!" Zambendorf protested. "I don't know anything about this. I've
never tried any mind reading of Taloids."
The commentary went on: "Preliminary results were negative, however. Zambendorf
was unable to detect any trace of the energy patterns that characterize
intelligent mental activity, a certain degree of which, he says, he has no
trouble picking up even from higher animals such as primates, whales, and some
species of monkeys, dogs, and cats."
"Lies! Lies! Lies!" Zambendorf shouted. "I said
no such thing. They're more
intelligent than that stupid woman!"
"But the scientists out at Titan are not about to give up yet. According to Dr.
Periera, a whole new technique might have to be developed for tuning into
holoptronic minds. In any case, even if everything does turn out to be the way
it looks at present and there aren't any minds on Titan to tune into,
nevertheless, Zambendorf thinks it might be possible to link human minds into
Taloid sensory systems and use them as free-moving vehicles for remote
perception." The newscaster lowered the sheet and concluded with another smile
from the screen, "There, wouldn't that be great—send your own Taloid wherever
you'd like to go, and see the world through its eyes. Maybe one day that will
turn out to be the regular way of exploring the surface of Titan—without any
need for a spacesuit . . . and maybe other places too. Who knows? Whatever
happens, I'm sure we're in for more exciting developments."
She laid the paper aside. "And now, returning from Titan, we move to Sydney,
Australia, where a young man by the name of Clive Drummond is planning to—"
Price stopped the recording.
"There's more," Massey said. "But I think you get the gist of it."
Zambendorf was nonplussed as he stared at the blank screen. "How long has this
kind of thing been happening?" he whispered.
"About three weeks," Massey told him. "Before that, the media hadn't started
systematically developing any particular thematic image of the Taloids."
"So there's no question it's deliberate?"
"None."
"What about that man Conlon back at NASO, and whoever else he's working with?"
Zambendorf asked. "If you've got a direct line, they must know that what the
public are being told is garbage. You must have told them. . . . Can't they do
anything?"
"They're trying," Massey said. He shrugged. "But you know how it is."
Zambendorf shook his head. "Leaherney, Lang, all of them . . . they knew. Even
while they were talking about oners, they knew these distortions were being
made. And even though there was no question that I'd have to find out sooner or
later."
"Perhaps they were certain they'd be able to swing you round if they simply
cranked their oner high enough," Price said. "That is pretty much the way they
operate."
