Code Of The Lifemaker

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,