"Hmph!" Walter Conlon Director of the North Atlantics Space Organization's Planetary Exploration Program, scowled down at the sheet of paper lying on the desk in front of him, took in the objections and deletions copiously scattered in heavy red ink along with the initials of various people from the top levels of NASO's management hierarchy, and raised his face defiantly. It was a florid pink face with untamable bushy eyebrows, and made all the more vivid and pugnacious by his white, inch-cropped hair, short, stocky build, and somewhat bulbous nose. The senior scientists in PEP called him the GNASO Gnome. "I still don't see what's wrong with it," he repeated. "It says what needs to be said and it's factual. You wanted my input. Well, that's it. I'm not in the political cosmetics and don't-upset-the-freaks business. What else can I say?"
Allan Brady, the NASO North American Division's recently appointed broad-shouldered, fair-haired, and stylishly dressed public relations director, managed to suppress his exasperation with an effort as he sat in the chair opposite. He had been warned to expect problems in dealing with Conlon, and had thought that in going out of his way to solicit Conlon's opinion on the Korning UFO-flap press release, due out the next day, he would at least be making a start in the right direction. But the draft that had come back over the wire from Conlon's desk terminal within fifteen minutes of Brady's request had come close to causing heart attacks in the PR department. "But we can't go putting out things like this, Walt," Brady protested. "It's saying in effect that a U.S. senator is either a simpleton or a fraud. And the—"
"He is," Conlon retorted. "Both. Scientifically he's an illiterate, and if the truth were known, he's got about as much interest in New Gospel Scientific Solidarity as I have in medieval Turkish poetry. It's pure politics—bank-rolling, bandwagoning, ballyhoo, and baloney. You can quote me on that.
Brady bunched his mouth for a second, and then raised his hand briefly in a conciliatory gesture. "Okay. That's as may be, but we can't make allegations like this in an official NASO statement. Ethics apart, we're a government-driven operation, and we can't afford to make enemies of people like Korning. And programs like PEP that are still primarily public funded—" He broke off and shook his head, giving Conlon a puzzled look. "But I don't have to spell things like that out to you, Walt. You know how the system works. We just need something milder in tone and worded more tactfully. It doesn't really even have to say anything."
Conlon shook his head. "Not from me. The precedent has gone too far already and should never have been set in the first place. We can't afford to let ourselves be seen acquiescing to things like this. If it goes on the way it is, we'll end up with every kook and nut-cult in the country parading crusaders around Washington to decide what NASO's business ought to be. I don't want to get mixed up with them. I've got enough already with this Zambendorf nonsense on Mars. I don't have the time; I don't have the budget; I don't have the people."
The New Gospel Scientific Solidarity Church of Oregon had combined a complete retranslation of the Bible with the latest pseudoscientific writings on ancient astronauts to produce a new, "rationalized" doctrine in which all the revelations and mystical happenings of old were explained by visitations of benevolent aliens with supernatural powers, who had access to secrets that mankind would be privileged to share on completion of its "graduation." The Second Coming was really a symbolic reference to the time when the Powers would be divulged, and contemporary UFO lore had been woven into the theme as tangible evidence that the Day of Return was imminent. The church claimed a following of millions, certainly commanded a monthly income of such, and had been campaigning vigorously for recognition of scientific legitimacy, which—the skeptics quickly noted—would qualify the movement for federal research funding. Orthodox scientists challenged to refute the sect's claims found themselves in the usual no-win bind: If they responded at all they were proclaimed as having "acknowledged the importance" of the assertions, and if they didn't they had "no answers." The church supported an ardent lobby that was demanding, among other things, specific allocations of NASO resources and funds for investigating UFO phenomena, and which had ostensibly succeeded in recruiting Senator Korning of Oregon as a spokesman and champion. And Korning had made the headlines often enough to ensure a response of some kind from NASO.
Brady sought to avoid leaving the meeting empty-handed. "Well, I guess PR can handle the Korning side of it, but there's another part of this draft that ridicules the whole UFO phenomenon and doesn't mince any words about it." He sat back and showed his palms imploringly. "Why go out of your way to upset lots of people who don't care about Korning and aren't interested in any religion, but who tend to be enthusiastic about the space program? NASO has some strong supporters among UFO buffs. Why antagonize them?"
"I'm in the science business, not the business of making myself popular by propping up popular myths," Conlon replied. "That means looking for explanations of facts. In that area there aren't any facts that need explaining. Period."
Brady looked across the desk in surprise. He wasn't a scientist, but he thought he did a pretty good job of keeping abreast by reading the popular literature. Something was going on in the skies that scientists couldn't account for, surely. And, Senator Korning's demands aside, Brady rather liked the idea of NASO's committing some serious effort to investigating the subject. It would be an exciting activity to be associated with and something interesting to tell his friends about. "But there has to be something but there," he objected. "I mean, I know ninety-five percent, or whatever, of what's reported is rubbish, but what about the other five? How can you explain that?"
Conlon snorted and massaged his forehead. How many times had he heard this before? "I can't, and neither can anyone else," he replied. "That's why they're what they call unidentified. That's what the word means. It's no more mysterious than car accidents. If you analyze the statistics, you'll find that some percent are due to drunks, some to carelessness, some to vehicle defects, and so on until you end up with five percent that nobody can pin down to any specific cause, and nobody ever will. The causes are unidentified—but that's no reason to say they have anything to do with aliens. It's the same with UFOs."
"That doesn't prove they don't have something to do with aliens though," Brady pointed out.
"I never said it did," Conlon replied. "I can't prove Santa Claus doesn't exist either. You can't prove a negative. Philosophically it's impossible."
"So, what are you saying?" Brady asked him.
Conlon tossed his hands up and shrugged. "I told you, I'm a scientist. Science doesn't have anything to say about it. It's not a scientific matter."
"How can you say that, Walt?" Brady sounded incredulous. "It's connected with space and spacecraft, alien life . . . How can you say it's not scientific?"
"The way a theory is constructed logically is what makes it scientific. Not its content. To be scientific, one of the conditions a theory has to meet is that it must be falsifiable—there must be some way you can test it to see if it's wrong. You can never prove, absolutely, that any theory is right. If you've got a theory that says Some UFOs might be alien spacecraft, then I agree with you—some might. There's no way I could prove it false. That's all I could say, and that's all science says. It isn't a falsifiable theory. See what I mean?"
Brady was shaking his head reluctantly. "I can't buy that. There has to be some way for science to evaluate the subject, some way to test some part of it at least."
"There is. You invert the logic and put forward the theory that I do: No UFOs are alien spacecraft. Now, that theory can be falsified conclusively and very simply, but not by anything that's been offered as evidence so far."
"But what about the astronomers who've endorsed it publicly?" Brady persisted.
"What astronomers?"
"Oh, I can't recall their names offhand, but the ones you read about."
"Pah!" Conlon pulled a face. "You mean people like Jannitsky?"
"Well, he's one, yes."
"He used to be a scientist—shut up in a lab all day with nobody ever having heard of him. Now he's a celebrity. Some people will do anything for recognition. How many more like him can you find? You can count 'em on one hand, and in a country this size that's the least you'd expect. It doesn't mean a damn thing, Al. Less than two percent of professional American astronomers consider the subject even worth showing an interest in. That does mean something." After a few seconds of silence Conlon added, "Anyhow, asking astronomers for opinions on something like that is ridiculous. It's not a subject they're competent to comment on."
"What!" Brady exclaimed.
"What does an astronomer know about UFOs?" Conlon asked him.
Brady threw up his hands helplessly. "Well, how do I answer that? They're things in the sky, right? So, astronomers are supposed to know about things in the sky."
"What things in the sky?"
"What things? . . . The ones people say they see."
"Exactly!" Conlon sat back and spread his hands in a show of satisfaction. "The things people say they see—All of the evidence boils down to eyewitness testimony. What does an astronomer know about evaluating testimony? How many times in his whole career does he have to try to learn whether a witness believes his own story, or decide whether the witness saw what he thought he saw, and whether it meant what he thought it meant? See my point? An astronomer's the wrong guy. What you need is a good lawyer or police detective, except they've all got other things to do than worry about investigating UFOs."
"But at least you know an astronomer's not just any dummy," Brady said.
"If that's all you need, why not ask a heart surgeon or a poker player?" Conlon shook his head. "Being an expert in one field doesn't make somebody's opinions on subjects they're not qualified to talk about worth more than anybody else's. But all too often they think they're infallible about anything and everything, and people believe them. You can see it everywhere—political economists who think they know more about fusion than nuclear engineers do; lawyers trying to define what's alive and what isn't; Nobel Prize-winning physicists being taken with simple conjuring tricks by so-called psychics. What does a physicist know about trickery and deception? Quarks and photons don't tell lies. We have stage magicians and conjurors who are experts on deception and the art of fooling people—it's their business. But who ever thinks of asking them in?"
Conlon's tone had mellowed somewhat while he was talking, and Brady began to sense the message that he was trying to communicate: Whether Brady agreed with him or not about UFOs, Conlon and the people in the Planetary Exploration Program had better things to do than get involved in public relations concerning the likes of Senator Korning. That was Brady's department. And the way Conlon was beginning to fidget in his chair said that he was getting near the end of the time he was prepared to spend trying to communicate it.
Brady spread his hands for a moment, then acknowledged with a nod and picked the paper up from Conlon's desk as he rose to his feet. "Well, sorry to have taken your time," he said. "We'll take care of this. I just thought . . . maybe you'd appreciate the opportunity to contribute something." He turned and walked over to the door.
"Al," Conlon called out gruffly as Brady was about to leave the room. Brady stopped and looked back. "I realize that you meant it for the best. Don't think you goofed. You've got your job to do—I know that. I guess from now on we understand each other, huh?"
Brady returned a faint smile. "I guess so," he replied. "I'll talk to you more about UFOs sometime."
"Do that."
"Take care." With that, Brady left.
Conlon sighed and sat staring down at the desk for a while with his chin propped on his knuckles. He wondered where it would all lead—pendulum-wavers being hired by oil companies to locate deposits; degrees in the "paranormal" being awarded by universities that should have known better; kook papers appearing in what used to be reputable scientific publications; politicians calling for a phase-down of the fusion program because they were convinced of the imminence of unlimited "cosmic energy" forever from pyramids, this at a time when the U.S. was having to import up-to-date tokamak reactors from Japan.
It was becoming all but impossible to find good engineers and technicians. Science, engineering, the true arts, and the professions—in fact just about anything that demanded hard work, patience, and diligence—were coming increasingly, it seemed, to be regarded among younger people as out of style, strictly for nurds. And as fast as they were trained and gained some experience, the ones who did manage to turn themselves into something worthwhile tended to leave for more lucrative and challenging opportunities overseas. The peoples of such places as Japan, China, India, and Africa had lived too close to reality for too long to be deluded by notions of "finding themselves," whatever that meant, or searches for mystical bliss. Having "found" the twenty-first century, they were rapidly abandoning their trust in the magic and superstitions that had solved nothing, and were busy erecting in their place the solid foundations of advanced, industrialized, high-technology civilization.
Conlon wasn't really sure where the degeneration had started either—in the latter half of the twentieth century, he suspected from what he had read. In 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 longstanding 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.