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. “It’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?”