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explain. Whether we can explain it or not, we have to accept that
Zambendorf is gifted with some abnormal abilities." He eyed Massey for a
moment as if the rest should have been too obvious to require spelling out.
"Well, I think Zambendorf is part of a classified Western research program to
match the Soviets in harnessing paranormal phenomena ... or maybe even to
counter the Soviets. That could be why they're sending Zambendorf to
Mars." Massey stared at him glassy-eyed, but before he could say anything,
Wade added triumphantly, "And that would explain why the military is here to
secure the project from possible interference from the Soviets at
Solis Lacus. Have you heard about that yet?"
Massey nodded. "We were told they're coming with us to do some training under
extraterrestrial conditions . . . that the Pentagon bought some places on the
ship at the last moment or something."
Wade shook his head. "Cover story. Do you know how many there are of them?
There were three shuttle-loads disembarking when I came aboard U.S. Special
Forces, a British commando unit, French paratroopers. That's not a few seats
bought at the last minute. That was scheduled a long time ago . . .
And they're docked at the stem, which means they're unloading heavy
equipment." He produced a lighter and watched Massey over his pipe while he
puffed it into life. "In fact it wouldn't surprise me if the idea was to
provoke a confrontation with the Soviets at Lacus in order to take their base
out. Maybe our people are onto things that you and I haven't even dreamed
about."
Massey slumped back and looked away numbly. Surely nobody at the Pentagon or
wherever was taking the nonsense about the Soviets that seriously . . .
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But then again, large sectors of the government and private bureaucracies were
dominated by political and economic ideologists incapable of distinguishing
sound scientific reasoning from pseudo-scientific twaddle, yet commanding
authority out of all proportion to their competence. If they listened to kooks
like Wade, they could end up believing anything. Surely the insane rivalry
that had paralyzed meaningful progress over much of
Earth for generations wasn't about to be exported to another world over
something as ridiculous as the "paranormal."
Massey stared again at the blue-green image of Earth with its stirred curdling
of clouds. Somehow the human race had to get it into its collective head that
it couldn't rely on magical forces or omnipotent guardians to protect it from
its own stupidity. Man would have to trust in his own intelligence, reason,
and ability to look after himself. The decision was in his own hands. If he
chose to eradicate himself, the rest of Earth's biosphere far more resilient
than popular mythology acknowledged would hardly notice the difference, and
then not for very long. And as for the rest of the cosmos, stretching away for
billions of light-years behind Earth's rim, the event of man's extinction
would be no more newsworthy than the demise of a community of microbes caused
by the drying up of a puddle somewhere in Outer Mongolia.
9
"AH, LET ME SEE NOW . . . WHEN I WAS A BOY OF ABOUT SIXTEEN, it must have
been. 'Pat,' me father says to himself. 'With them Americans walking around on
the Moon itself and flying them hotels up in the sky, that's the place you
should be for your sons to grow up in.' So we ups and moves the whole family
to Brooklyn where me uncle Seamus and all was already living, and that's where
the rest of them still are today." Sgt. Michael O'Flynn of the
NASO Surface Vehicle Maintenance Unit reversed his feet, which were propped up
on the littered metal desk in his cubbyhole at the rear of a cavernous cargo
bay, and raised his paper cup for another sip of the brandy that
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Zambendorf had produced from a hip flask. He had a solid, stocky body that
seemed as broad as it was long beneath the stained NASO fatigues, and his face
was fiery pink and beefy, with clear blue eyes half-hidden beneath wiry,
unruly eyebrows, and a shock of rebellious hair in which yellow and red
struggled for dominance, each managing to get the better of the other in
different places. O'Flynn spoke through pearly white teeth clamped around a
wooden toothpick, in a husky whisper that had retained more than a hint of its
original brogue for what must have been thirty or so years.
"What part of Ireland did you move from?" Zambendorf inquired from his cramped
perch on a metal seat that folded out from the wall between a tool rack and an
equipment cabinet more comfortable than it looked since his weight near the
ship's axis was barely sufficient to keep him in place.
"County Cork, in the south, not far from a little place called Glanmire."
Zambendorf rubbed his beard and looked thoughtful for a few seconds. "That
would be roughly over in the direction of Watergrasshill, wouldn't it, if I
remember rightly?" he said.
O'Flynn looked surprised. "You know it?"
"I was there a few years ago. We toured all around that area for a few days
. . . and up to Limerick, back down around Killamey and the lakes."
Zambendorf laughed as the memories flooded back. "We had a wonderful time."
"Well I'll be damned," O'Flynn said. "And you like the place, eh?"
"The villages are as pretty and as friendly as any you'll find in Austria,
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