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 comer 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