Wearing a maroon robe, with a towel hanging loosely around his neck, and carrying his toilet articles in a plastic bag, Karl Zambendorf came out of the men's shower room in the Terran base on the outskirts of the Taloid city called Genoa and made his way along the corridor leading back to his cabin. The original base, built from prefabricated parts brought by the Orion, had been extended since then by the adaptation of materials from Titan itself. With its mesh floors, its utilitarian fittings, and the starkness of its metal walls barely relieved by ubiquitous cream-yellow and lime-green paint, it was cramped, sweaty, smelly, and stuffy; but to those who had been its occupants through the two months since the Orion's departure, its oasis of light, warmth, and companionship, in the minus-180°C cold of Titan's cloud-covered darkness 800 million miles from Earth, evoked feelings of fondness and security that only their visions of home itself could match.
Zambendorf's cabin was a standard two-man NASO affair with twin bunks, a small desk with chair and computer terminal, a hand basin and utility worktop, and a toilet through a narrow door at the rear. Otto Abaquaan, who shared it with Zambendorf, was elsewhere. Zambendorf replaced the towel and other things he was carrying and finished dressing.
He was in his early fifties, somewhat portly but with an erect bearing, his graying hair worn collar-length and flowing, bright eyes and hawklike features made all the more patriarchal by a pointed beard that he whitened for effect. austrian psychic picked for naso mission, the headline of one of the prominent East Coast dailies had blared before the mission's departure, while the host of New York's most popular Saturday night talk show had introduced him as "the man who reads minds, foretells the future, sees without the senses, and makes the impossible happen routinely. The walking enigma that scientists the world over are at a loss to explain."
The official reason given for including Zambendorf in the mission was that because he was a popular cult figure, his presence would help popularize space and hence advance GSEC's longer-term interests. The faithful naturally believed that the authorities had at last recognized Zambendorf's telepathic abilities as genuine, and he was being sent as Earth's principal ambassador.
In fact, Zambendorf himself hadn't been sure of the real reason until after the Orion's arrival at Titan. GSEC was interested in the fabulous industrial capacity spread over the moon's surface. If even a fraction of that potential could be organized and directed to profitable ends, Earthly competition would effectively cease to exist. And it hadn't taken GSEC long to find support in Washington and the capitals of Europe, where others were quick to note that a commercial monopoly of such dimensions would confer virtual world domination politically as well. But the success of their plan would depend to a large degree on creating favorable public opinion. Zambendorf was a world celebrity with high emotional appeal and hence could influence public opinion. So "owning" Zambendorf—an unlikely eventuality, given his personality and disposition, but that was the way corporate minds thought—and associating him with Titan in the public mind would create a powerful means for steering official policy regarding Titan in whatever direction GSEC might find it expedient to desire. But ironically, Zambendorf and his team had played the biggest part in causing that scheme to come undone.
While Zambendorf was buttoning his shirt, the door opened and Otto Abaquaan came in. He was an Armenian, handsomely lean and swarthy, medium in height, with a droopy mustache, thick eyebrows, and deep, brown liquid eyes that moved lazily but missed nothing.
The two men had met almost twenty years previously in West Germany, when Abaquaan had been working a stocks and bonds swindle. Overconfident after three months of easy pickings from wealthy dowagers, he had failed to check out Zambendorf thoroughly enough before selling him a portfolio of phony certificates. Only when Abaquaan's contact man was arrested and Abaquaan himself was forced to flee the country hours ahead of the police did he discover that Zambendorf had seen through the scam and paid in phony money. But Abaquaan had displayed a masterful style, and after administering the due comeuppance, Zambendorf had tracked him down again later to recruit him as a working partner.
Zambendorf had no word corresponding to "can't" in his vocabulary and was optimistic about everything; Abaquaan, by contrast, worried. Which was just as well, since somebody had to be realistic about the difficulties inherent in the schemes Zambendorf dreamed up in his enthusiasm and attend to all the details if the schemes were to be made workable. Their opposition of temperaments suited them to each other admirably, and Abaquaan had become the first of the strange mix of individuals who had gravitated into Zambendorf's orbit over the ensuing years.
Abaquaan propped himself on the chair by the narrow writing desk. "I was talking to one of the troops who were over in Padua," he said. "It's beginning to sound as if Arthur's guys are right—there's some kind of a fundamentalist revival movement being fanned up over there. The old days were better and all that kind of stuff. There could be more trouble brewing if it catches on."
"Padua," situated on the far side of an ice and rock desert from Genoa, where the Terran base was situated, had been the scene of the failed intervention attempt by the mission's politicians. "Arthur" was the Terrans' name for the Taloid leader of Genoa. He had evicted the old feudal-style regime and formed a liberal breakaway state before the arrival of the Orion, and his followers were the most receptive of all the Taloid nations when it came to comprehending and absorbing the new Terran sciences.
Zambendorf began combing his hair and beard in the mirror above the washbasin. "Oh, something like it was bound to happen sooner or later," he said airily. "In physics rapid changes in anything invariably give rise to forces that oppose the changes. Social laws are no different. History is full of examples of reactions against change that some people found too sweeping. But it's all evolution, Otto. You can't stop it."
Abaquaan was a pragmatist. Philosophical observations on the nature of evolution were not among the habits that had characterized his life. "Five dollars to a dime says that Henry's behind it," he said. "I never believed that he'd just go away. And he won't have any problem getting backing out there."
The Terrans had given the Taloids somewhat arbitrary names. "Henry" was the deposed king of Padua, who had gone into exile along with most of the former nobility and high clergy after Zambendorf had accidentally created a new cult of brotherhood and nonviolence that had toppled the official religion.
Zambendorf turned from the mirror and took a red woolen cardigan from a hook on the back of the door. "Oh, I have no doubt that reason will prevail in the end," he assured Abaquaan. "You know, Otto, I used to be cynical about the ways of things, too. But it is true that the mellowness of advancing years reveals the world in a more agreeable light. Or maybe it's the new perspective that one acquires of the universe, contemplating Earth from this distance. You really ought to try making the effort to adjust to it. I feel revitalized: able to face the future with complete, unswerving confidence."
Abaquaan had been hearing something like this about once a week for nearly twenty years. It still filled him with the same forebodings. He turned his eyes briefly toward the ceiling. "Confidence, Karl, is what you feel when you don't understand the situation."
Zambendorf heard something like that about a dozen times a week. He picked up his watch from the shelf where he had left it when he had gone to take his shower and checked it as he slipped it back on his wrist. "Anyway, it's about time," he said "Is Drew ready in the mess?"
Abaquaan had returned from checking the situation in the general personnel messroom. "He's there," he confirmed, nodding. "You're all ready to go."
Demonstrations of Zambendorf's powers had become a welcome feature of life at Genoa Base. The scientists were particularly intrigued, and one or two of them were wavering on the verge of becoming believers. This evening a spectacular event had been scheduled to put Zambendorf to the test yet again.
Zambendorf cocked an inquiring eye. "How was the mood out there?" The flippancy of a few moments ago was gone from his voice. "In the circumstances, do you think this might not be the best time for it? We could kill the transmission and set it up again later." He was referring to the news about Amy Rhodes, which had been announced only earlier that day. Hers was the first fatality the mission had suffered. Although nobody had been under any delusions about the risks inherent in an operation involving so much that was previously untried, nevertheless it had come as a shock to all of them when the inevitable eventually happened. It was as if the charmed phase, in which the mission had been protected against the odds, was over and now anything could happen.
But Abaquaan shook his head. "That wasn't the feel I got, Karl. Calling off the show would only make the atmosphere heavier. What they need right now is a distraction. I think you should go ahead."
It was what Zambendorf had hoped. But part of the charisma he had with his team lay in letting them know that he trusted their judgment. He nodded and checked himself in the mirror before moving toward the door. "Then let's see how we do. I do hope that Gerry Massey gets his end of it right."