with.”
“Hoffmann’s, East Eighty-third, after twelve-thirty,” Thelma con-finned. “Okay.
You’d better get moving.”
Ten minutes later, Zambendorf, his sky-blue silk cape flowing grandly over his
black velvet jacket, swept into the lobby with Drew West, Joe Fellburg, Osmond
Periera, and Baines Hendridge bringing up the rear. Clarissa Eidstadt, the
team’s publicity matron, her short black hair cut off in a fringe across her
forehead, her eyes framed by heavy-rimmed butterfly glasses, and her mouth
accentuated by lipstick that was too heavy and too red, was waiting. She
escorted Zambendorf over to Marion Kearson and the NEC crew while curious hotel
guests began to gather in the background. “Who’s the reporter?” Zambendorf
murmured. “The blonde in the pink coat?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know her name?”
“They didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask them,” Clarissa muttered from the corner
of her mouth.
Zambendorf nodded and smiled to himself. “Even better.”
And then a rapturous Marion Kearson was pushing a microphone close to
Zambendorf’s face. “Well, here in the New York Hilton after getting back from
South America only last night is Karl Zambendorf, who I’m sure needs no further
introduction. Welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
“And how was your tour?”
“Most enjoyable and extremely successful.”
“I’m glad to hear that. In fact I’d like to come back to that subject in a
moment. But first, before I do any more talking that might give things away, I
wonder if I could persuade you to accept a small challenge for the benefit of
the viewers.” Kearson smiled impishly for a second. “Now, I can certainly vouch
that we’ve never set eyes on one another before, and it might interest the
viewers to know that back at NBC this morning, we didn’t even know ourselves
which reporter was coming on this assignment until five of us drew lots less
than an hour ago.” She paused to allow that to register, and then said, “Now, I
wonder, Heir Zambendorf, what you can make of me, a complete stranger . . .
apart from that I’m blonde, medium in height, and have a few freckles.” She
smiled into the camera at the joke, then turned back toward Zambendorf and
waited curiously.
Zambendorf looked at her for a few seconds, then closed his eyes and appeared to
concentrate his powers. The people watching around the lobby fell quiet. An
expression of calm and serenity spread over his face, and he smiled faintly.
When he opened his eyes again, his features remained tranquil but his gaze was
piercing. “You are not from the city,” he said slowly, still searching her face
with his eyes. “I see water. Your home is across water, but not very far from
here … to the west. It must be across the river, probably in New Jersey.
Somewhere in the Newark area seems to suggest itself . . . with a name that
suggests a fruit or a color . . . lemon, maybe, or orange …”
Kearson’s eyes widened incredulously; the cameramen and engineers exchanged
glances that said they were impressed. “This—this is absolutely amazing!” she
stammered at the camera. “I swear this man and I have never met before this
moment.”
“There are two men very close to you,” Zambendorf went on. “One of them is
called William, William or Bill. He is the older of the two . . . your husband,
unless I am mistaken. You do have a husband?” Kearson nodded numbly. “Mmm,”
Zambendorf said knowingly. “I am beginning to see him a little more clearly
now—tallish, with brown hair . . . No, don’t say anything, please. Just continue
to concentrate, if you will, on the image of your husband. . . .”
2
“HMPH!” WALTER CONLON, DIRECTOR OF THE NORTH ATLANTIC 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