they were visible. It was a truth that astronauts and other venturers into space
had affirmed repeatedly for over half a century, but it had to be experienced to
be understood, Massey realized. Only two days earlier he had paid a final visit
to Walter Conlon in Washington, where on every side the world of human affairs
scurried and bustled about its urgent business and consumed the output from
thousands of lives. But already the whole of it had shrunk to a speck of no
particular significance, barely discernible against the background that had
remained essentially unchanged since before Washington had existed, and which
might persist for long after Washington was forgotten.
The sound of the door being opened interrupted Massey’s thoughts, and a moment
later Malcom Wade pushed his way in, holding two bags and a briefcase in his
hands and using a foot to shove a suitcase along on the floor. “Well, I guess I
must have found the right place,” he said as he closed the door with his back.
“Hi, Gerry. I gather the other two are already here.”
“Hello, Malcom. Yes—they’ve gone exploring. That top bunk’s yours. How was the
flight?”
Wade took off his topcoat and hung it in the closet space by the door. “Oh,
fine—apart from taking half a day longer than it was supposed to. We had to
divert to the European base in Guiana.” He sank down with a grateful sigh on the
bunk opposite Massey. He was a tall, thin-bodied man, with lank hair and pale
eyes that always seemed to be glinting with some inner fervor.
“I heard about it,” Massey said. “Hey, I think Graham’s got a bottle of
something stowed away over there. Could you use a drink while you’re getting
your breath back?”
“Mmm . . . later maybe, thanks all the same.”
“Okay. So who else was on the shuttle?”
“Let me see … Susan Coulter, the geologist, and that electronics guy from
Denver that we had breakfast with one morning at Charlotte . . . Dave Crookes.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Karl Zambendorf and his people were on it too.” Wade cocked an eyebrow at
Massey in a way that was partly expectant, partly curious.
“Oh.” Massey did his best to keep his voice neutral. He didn’t want to get into
a long debate just then. Although he hadn’t advertised his prime interest in the
mission, the question of Zambendorf’s being included had been a regular
conversation topic at the training center, and Massey had found himself obliged
on occasion to express his opinions. Wade described himself as a scientist and
was apparently an advisor of some kind to a number of government committees, but
he took Zambendorf quite seriously. Massey wondered exactly what he advised the
government on.
“I think I know why he’s here,” Wade said after a short silence. He paused to
wait for Massey to ask him why Zambendorf was there. Massey didn’t. Wade went on
anyway, “It’s well known that the Soviets have been conducting extensive
research into paranormal phenomena for years—and getting successful results
too.” Massey swallowed hard but said nothing. There were always anecdotes of
anecdotes about things that people were supposed to have done, but never
anything verifiable. Wade took a pipe from his jacket pocket and gestured with
the stem. “It’s been suspected for a while now that they’ve achieved some kind
of significant breakthrough, and a lot of experts have been saying that the main
Soviet center for that kind of work is their Mars Base at Solis Lacus—well away
from terrestrial interference, you see.” Wade paused and began packing tobacco
into his pipe from a pouch.
“Well, I guess you know how I feel about all that,” Massey said vaguely, while
wondering uncomfortably to himself if the conversation was an indication of what
to expect for the next fifty days.
“But it all fits,” Wade said. “I know you’re a bit of a skeptic and so on,
Massey, but I believe in being scientific about things, which means being
open-minded—in other words, willing to accept that there are things we can’t
explain. Whether we can explain it or not, we have to accept that Zambendorf is