Code Of The Lifemaker

by Hogan, James

  that the image you just saw is real this time—really out there. I'm not looking

  at something being relayed from a remote space operation that involves other

  people thousands of miles away, or a recording slipped into a space-fiction

  movie. If the walls and structures around me here were made of glass and I could

  look out right through them, I'd be able to see, first-hand with my own eyes,

  exactly what's on the screen here. You know, it makes those walls and structures

  seem very flimsy all of a sudden, and the Orion very tiny compared to everything

  else around, which from where I'm seeing it is enough to swallow up even the

  whole of Earth itself. Well, you can take it from me—I sure hope those NASO

  engineers and all the other people who designed and built this ship are as good

  as everyone tells me they are."

  From a position just below Vantz's console, a flight engineer motioned to

  attract Connel's attention and raised five fingers and a thumb, signaling that

  the countdown was entering its final sixty seconds. Connel's face became

  serious, and he injected a note of rising tension into his voice. "The countdown

  is into the last minute now. Back in the tail of this huge ship, the field

  generators that Captain Matthews talked about are up to power, and those immense

  accelerators are ready to fire. Here are the final moments now on the Control

  Deck of the Orion as this historic voyage to Mars begins." Connel waited for

  camera 2's light to go out as transmission switched back to camera 1, then sat

  back in his seat to follow the proceedings.

  "Master Sequencer is Go; Backup Sequencer is Go," the Chief Engineer reported

  from beside Vantz. "Checkpoint zero-minus-two, positive function. Ground Control

  acknowledgment checks positive, and GC override veto standing down."

  "PSX status?" Vantz queried.

  "GCV disconnects one through five confirmed," another voice answered. "PSX

  integration reads positive function. SSX confirms."

  "Tracking two seconds into exit window," another called out.

  "Main fields: six-eight, green; seven-seven, green; nine-five on synch."

  "Alignment good."

  "Focus fields good."

  "Injectors primed. Ten-ten, all beams."

  "Checkpoint zero-minus-one—holding now."

  Stillness descended for a second as General Vantz cast a final eye over the

  information displays in front of him. He nodded and spoke into his console mike.

  "Fire for exit phase one."

  "Phase one fire sequence activated. Zero-zero at GPZ plus seven point-three

  seconds."

  Connel felt his seat nudge him gently in the back. The Orion was moving out of

  freefall; the journey that would shrink the globe on the screen to a pinpoint

  and replace it with another world had begun. From the gestures and grins being

  exchanged among the crew, everything seemed to be going well. Connel relaxed

  back in his seat and finished his coffee while a sequence of views went out

  showing Earth, scenes from around the Control Deck, and shots being picked up

  from the service vessels standing ten miles off in space. He checked the

  schedule to confirm the next item, which was timed to relieve tenseness after

  the launch by providing a contrast of subject and mood, then got up and moved

  down to a space over to one side, where Zambendorf was talking to a production

  assistant while he waited. With them were Dr. Periera, who Connel privately

  considered to be crazy, and Zambendorf's middle-aged, equally zany publicity

  matron, who had bullied Herman Thoring into allocating Zambendorf some valuable

  air-time at a moment when the world would be watching. In front of them, a

  couple of technicians were repositioning camera 2.

  "All set?" Connel inquired as he joined them. "There are some commercials

  starting just about now. We'll be going on immediately after."

  "Fine," Zambendorf said.

  Connel gestured at the sheet of paper in Zambendorf's hand. "Are those questions

  okay? Are there any you want me to miss?"

  "No, these are fine. Were they otherwise, I would have saved you the trouble of

  typing them by telling you beforehand." Connel wasn't sure whether Zambendorf's

  expression meant he was joking or not. Connel was skeptical toward claims of

  paranormal abilities, although he usually had a tough time defending his views

  with his friends. He grinned and then made a face, leaving Zambendorf free to

  interpret the response either way. "You are not convinced?" Zambendorf asked,

  watching him keenly and sounding surprised.

  Connel shrugged in an easygoing way. "Well ... I guess I can't help remembering

  that the Orion is driven by fusion power, not ESP power. I figure that has to

  say something."

  "True," Zambendorf agreed. "And the first ocean vessels were driven by wind

  power."

  "Twenty seconds," a technician advised. The others moved back while Connel and

  Zambendorf took up their positions; the camera light came on, and they were

  live.

  "Don Connel talking to you again, this time on my way to Mars. Well, before all

  the excitement of liftout, we talked to General Vantz and a couple of his

  officers, and to some of the scientists we have with us. Now I'd like to say

  hello to somebody else also with the mission, who's standing next to me right

  now—Hello, Karl Zambendorf."

  "Hello, Don."

  "Karl, this is a first-time experience for you too, I believe. Is that right?"

  "Well, in my material body, anyway . . . yes."

  "You're supposed to be able to make some uncanny predictions about future

  events. What about Mars? Do you have anything you'd like to say in advance about

  the mission, any major happenings in store for us on the Red Planet, big

  surprises, anything like that?"

  "Mars?"

  Connel looked surprised. "Well, yes—sure. Is there anything you'd like to

  predict about events following our arrival there?"

  "Mmm ... If you don't mind, Don, I'd prefer not to make any comment in response

  to that question ... for reasons which will become apparent in due course."

  "Hey, that sounds kind of sinister. What are you trying to tell us, Karl?"

  "Oh, nothing to be alarmed about. Let's just say that I would not wish to lay

  myself open to charges of indiscretion by the authorities. As I say, the reason

  will soon become clear. There really is no need for alarm—caution, maybe, but

  not alarm."

  "Now, I wonder what that could mean. I guess we'll just have to wait and see,

  huh? I hope all you people back there are taking notes of this. Karl, another

  thing I wanted to ask you concerns all the scientists and other specialists that

  we've got with us on the ship. Do they worry you at all?"

  "Certainly not. Why should they? Aren't we all scientists in some way or

  another?"

  "Well, maybe, but it is a fact that a lot of people from the more, shall we say,

  orthodox branches of science tend to express skepticism toward your particular

  branch of—of exploration. Being shut up in a spaceship with so many unbelievers

  doesn't bother you?"

  "Facts are not changed by the intensity of human beliefs or the number of people

  who hold them," Zambendorf replied. He was about to say some
thing more when the

  production assistant off-camera nodded to someone behind a door situated to one

  side, and beckoned. Moments later, Gerold Massey appeared. Zambendorf jerked his

  head round sharply and gave Connel a puzzled look. Massey and Zambendorf had so

  far tended to avoid a direct confrontation, confining their acknowledgment of

  each other's presence to stiff nods exchanged in passing or from a distance.

  Connel had set up the surprise on direct instructions from Patrick Whittaker at

  GCN headquarters. "Karl, people are always trying to spring things on you,

  aren't they," he said amiably. "I have taken the liberty of asking one of those

  skeptics to join us because I'm told he has a challenge that he'd like to put to

  you himself. I'm sure the viewers would all like to hear it too." Before

  Zambendorf could answer, the assistant ushered Massey forward, and Connel

  brought him on-camera with a gesture. "Folks, I'd like to introduce Gerry

  Massey. Now, Gerry is one of the psychologists with us here on the Orion, but in

  addition to that he's also a pretty good stage conjuror, I'm told. Is that

  right, Gerry?"

  "It is an area of interest of mine," Massey replied as he moved forward to join

  them.

  "And you're not a believer in the existence of forces or powers beyond those

  that are familiar to orthodox science," Connel said. "In particular, you claim

  you can reproduce any effect by ordinary stage magic, which Karl attributes to

  paranormal abilities. Is that so, Gerry?"

  Massey took a long breath. To say all the things he'd have liked to say would

  have taken hours. "That is correct. For a long time now I have been attempting

  to persuade Herr Zambendorf to agree to demonstrate his alleged powers under

  conditions which I am able to specify and control. That, after all, is no more

  than would be expected in any other branch of science. But he has persistently

  evaded giving a direct answer. My suggestion is quite simply that the voyage

  ahead of us, and the period we will be spending on Mars, offer an ideal

  opportunity and ample time for this to be settled once and for all. I have a

  schedule of some initial tests with me right now, but I'm open to further

  suggestions."

  Connel turned and looked at Zambendorf questioningly. Although he maintained his

  outward calm, inside Zambendorf was thinking frantically. He should have guessed

  Massey would do something like this, should have watched him more closely. The

  team had been too busy, with too little time. "Oh, we've heard this kind of

  thing before," he replied without hesitation. "Just because a stage magician can

  duplicate an effect, it doesn't prove at all that what's being imitated was

  achieved in the same way. After all, I'm sure Mr. Massey can produce a rabbit

  from a hat very convincingly, but he could hardly argue on that basis that all

  rabbits must therefore come from hats, could he?"

  "I never claimed it proved anything," Massey answered. "But if a simple

  explanation can account for the facts, then there's no need for a more

  complicated one, or indeed any logical justification for accepting one."

  "The simplest explanation for the planets and the stars would be that they

  revolve above the Earth," Zambendorf pointed out. "But nevertheless we all

  accept a more complicated one." With luck Massey would allow himself to be

  diverted into the realms of philosophical logic, totally confusing ninety

  percent of the viewers, who would then dismiss him as a hair-splitting academic

  waffler.

  "Yes—because it explains more facts," Massey replied. "But all that's irrelevant

  for now. You said that the presence of competent scientists is of no concern to

  you. Very well, then what I'm proposing will demonstrate the fact admirably. You

  said facts aren't altered by beliefs. I agree with you. So let's find out what

  the facts are."

  Clearly Massey was not about to be shaken off. Half the world was watching and

  waiting for Zambendorf's answer. If he committed himself, Massey would never let

  him off the hook. "Well, Karl," Connel said after a few seconds of dragging

  silence. "What do you say? Will you accept Gerry Massey's challenge?"

  Zambendorf looked around him desperately. Across the Orion's Control Deck, many

  of the officers and crew members were watching curiously. If those damn GSEC

  people had done their jobs, Massey wouldn't have been able to get near him. It

  was infuriating. Massey had folded his arms and was waiting impassively.

  Zambendorf hesitated. Then, as their eyes met, he saw the triumph already

  lighting up Massey's face. That did it.

  Zambendorf turned away for a moment, braced his shoulders and breathed heavily a

  few times, and then looked up to the ceiling as if summoning strength from

  above. When he turned back again, his face seemed to have darkened with anger,

  and his eyes burned with patriarchal indignation. Connel looked suddenly

  apprehensive. Even Massey seemed taken by surprise. "At a time like this? ... At

  such a moment of historic events about to unfold? . . . You would have me play

  games? What childishness is this?" Zambendorf thundered. Dramatic, sure, but it

  was an all-or-nothing situation. "We, the human race, are about to go forth and

  meet the destiny for which fate has been shaping us for millions of years, and

  instead of rising to fulfillment, your minds are distracted by trivia." Connel

  and Massey looked at each other nonplussed. Zambendorf whirled round upon Massey

  and pointed a finger accusingly. "I challenge you! Do you see any hint of where

  this journey will lead us, or what it will reveal? Indeed, do you see anything

  at .all? Or are you like the rest of the blind who believe only in the part of

  the universe that lies within groping distance of their fingers?"

  A bluff to throw him on the defensive, Massey decided. He had to hold the

  initiative. "Theatricals," he retorted. "Just theatricals. You're not saying

  anything. Are you supposed to be predicting something? If so, what? Let's have

  something specific for once, now—not after the event and with hindsight, after

  we arrive at Mars."

  "Mars?" Zambendorf sounded pitying. "You believe we're going to Mars? You live

  your life in blindness. It is no wonder you cannot believe."

  "Of course we're going to Mars," Massey said impatiently.

  "Pah, fool!" Zambendorf exploded.

  Suddenly Massey was less certain of himself. He could feel the situation

  starting to slip. It was all wrong. Zambendorf couldn't be turning it around.

  Massey had had all the aces, surely. Connel was gaping incredulously. "What are

  you saying, Karl," he demanded. "Are you saying we're not going to Mars? So

  where do you think we are going? . . . Why? . . . What are you telling us?" Most

  of the viewers had already forgotten Massey had ever issued a challenge. They

  wanted to know if Zambendorf had seen something.

  Zambendorf was back in his natural element—the showman in control of the show.

  He extended his arms wide and appealed upward toward the roof. Beside him,

  Massey and Connel seemed to fade away on a hundred million screens. He brought

  his fists down to the sides of his head, held the pose for several seconds, and

/>   then looked at Connel with a strange, distant light in his eyes. "I have not the

  names that astronomers use, but I see us traveling over a great distance to a

  place that is not Mars . . . much farther from Earth than Mars."

  "Where?" Connel gasped. "What's it like?"

  "A child of the haloed giant who shepherds a flock of seventeen," Zambendorf

  pronounced in ringing tones. "I know not where I am ... but it is cold and dark

  below the unbroken clouds of red and brown that float upon air that is not air.

  There are mountains made of ice, and vast wildernesses. And . . ." His voice

  trailed away. His jaw dropped, and his eyes opened wider.

  "What?" Connel whispered, awed.

  "Living beings! . . . They are not human, but neither are they from any part of

  Earth. They have minds! I am feeling out to them even now, and . . ."

  "Get him off," General Vantz snapped on the far side of the Control Deck.

  "Kill it! Get him off." the Communications Director ordered. An engineer nipped

  a switch on his console. Voices were jabbering excitedly on every side.

  "I don't care! Tell them anything," Herman Thoring yelled over an auxiliary

  channel to the Production Director in the GCN studio back in New York. "Say

  we've got a technical hitch. No, I don't know what it's about either, but we've

  got all hell loose up here."

  Back in Globe II, Vernon Price was staring dumbstruck at the cabin wallscreen,

  which had just switched back to a view of Earth. "Well?" Malcom Wade challenged

  smugly as he puffed his pipe on the bunk opposite. "So he's a fake, is he? How

  do you explain that, then, eh?"

  In his home in a Washington suburb, Walter Conlon pounded the table by his chair

  furiously with a fist. "He can't get away with it! He can't! Massey had him, for

  chrissakes—he had him cold!"

  "Warren Taylor is on the line for you," his wife, Martha, said.

  Conlon got up and stamped over to the comnet terminal across the room. The face

  of the NASO, North American Division Director was purple with anger. "What

  happened?" he demanded. "I thought you were supposed to have an expert up there

  who could handle that turkey."

  In the study of his mansion in Delaware, Burton Ramelson was staring at a screen

  showing the stunned face of Gregory Buhl, who had just been put through from

  GSEC's head office. "My God!" Ramelson exclaimed incredulously. "Do you think we