"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-turned across the on-coming 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," Zantbendorf 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-feeling 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 corner 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 bear 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 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. "Iit'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 become 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 fiancé 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.