with a gambling problem. It contained a miniature infrared laser whose
needle-fine beam was at that moment trained on the windowpane of a house almost
a mile away. Soundwaves in the room caused the window glass of the distant house
to vibrate; the vibrations of the glass were impressed upon the reflected laser
light; and a demodulator system extracted the audio frequencies from the
returned signal and fed them to a loudspeaker which reproduced the original
sound. The device had all kinds of uses.
“It’s astonishing,” Zambendorf said. “Do you know, Joe, this world will never
cease to amaze me. There are silly people everywhere running around in circles
looking for miracles, and all the time they’re blind to the miracles right under
their noses.” He motioned with a hand. “I could never produce something like
that in a hundred years.”
Fellburg shrugged and tipped his chair back to rest a heel on the window sill.
“I was talking to Drew about this the other day. He had an idea that maybe the
moisture variations that cause skin resistance to change might alter the way the
beam’s reflected off a person. If they do, then maybe you could detect it with
this thing.”
Zambendorf looked at him for a few seconds. “What are you getting at—you mean it
could monitor skin resistance changes remotely?”
“I don’t know, but maybe . . . kinda like a remote-acting polygraph. It might be
possible to pick out the stress reaction of, say, one person in a group from
across the street or wherever. It could have all kinds of potential.”
Zambendorf was looking intrigued. “It certainly could . . . When do you think
you’ll know something definite?”
“Oh, give me, say, a couple of weeks to fool around with it some more. I oughta
be—”
The call tone from the comnet terminal across the room interrupted him.
Zambendorf sauntered across to take the call. It was Thelma, speaking from
downstairs. “I’ve got Caspar Lang from GSEC on the line. He wants to talk to
you,” she told him.
“Put him through, Thelma.” Zambendorf turned and sent Fellburg a satisfied grin.
“Do you think it’s what I think it is?” he asked.
Fellburg raised his eyebrows. “I’d guess so. Anyhow, we’ll soon find out.”
The flap inside NASO a few weeks previously had told Zambendorf and his team all
they wanted to know about why Gerold Massey was being sent to Mars and NASO’s
determination to send him. It was strange, therefore, that after the dust had
settled, Burton Ramelson should invite Massey to the banquet at his home in
Delaware. The only reason Zambendorf or any of the others could think of for
this was that GSEC had decided upon a last-ditch bid to buy Massey off although
it seemed as obvious as anything could be that any such attempt would be a waste
of time and effort. Zambendorf had guessed that, predictably and true to form,
the GSEC executives would plod unwaveringly along their predetermined course
nevertheless, and he had laid a bet with Otto Abaquaan that Lang would call
within two days of the banquet to inform Zambendorf of the meeting with Massey
that Zambendorf wasn’t supposed to know about already.
“Caspar, good evening,” Zambendorf greeted as the screen came to life. “What
time is it back East for goodness’ sake—don’t you people ever sleep? And what
can I do for you?”
“Hello, Karl,” Lang acknowledged. As always he remained serious and came
straight to the point. “Look, there’s been a further development concerning
Massey that you ought to know about.”
Zambendorf looked pained. “Oh dear, Caspar, sometimes I really do think you
don’t believe in me. Do you imagine that I don’t know already?”
Lang’s face twitched in momentary irritation. “Karl, please, this is business.
Let’s be serious about it.”
“But I’m being perfectly serious. You and your colleagues tried to buy Massey
off the mission with offers of plenty of funding for his research and all that
kind of thing, and he wasn’t interested. Is that about it, or did you have
something else to add?” The guesses were the kind that Zambendorf felt
comfortable with. For just an instant Lang seemed genuinely taken aback. “But my