by James Hilton
I could see him becoming excited in a peculiar way, and I thought it bad for him. “It’s getting late,” I said. “Don’t you think we ought to start back?”
“Yes, yes, let’s go.”
I hated to do that, but above all things I wanted the wild look out of his eye. We hoisted our rucksacks and began to trudge down the trail, tiredness now in every limb and muscle, so that when we reached the car he slumped inside and slept all the way to Vista Grande, while I kept myself awake by thinking about him.
That evening his behavior had that raw edge that made me realize he was still in trouble. I don’t think my father noticed it, but for me there were danger signals in the way he fidgeted and talked. His face, too, carried a flush that wasn’t sunburn, and when afterwards he quite docilely submitted to having his temperature taken I found it was two degrees above normal. It was possible, I judged, that the nervous strain of our rock adventure had caused this, and I was not especially worried, though I began to wonder what we should do if some physical ailment required a doctor. There was my father’s doctor, who paid a semisocial call every few weeks, but it would be awkward to bring him onto the scene. However, in the morning Brad was sleeping hard and did not look worse, so I left instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed, and then made my own departure to see Mr. Chandos again.
During the night I had been wakeful for hours. I knew by now that I wanted to help Brad far beyond the casual desire I had had at first; I knew also that this intention was fixed, unless events or revelations should take some quite appalling turn. But most of all I knew I had a quest of my own, separate from anything Small might have, because it occurred to me at this stage that the killing of Framm might be what was really on Brad’s mind; or perhaps, I even thought, he had come to a point in his story beyond which he didn’t know definitely what had happened, since the final act might have taken place in one of those trancelike moods he had talked about. Amateur psychology, perhaps; but whatever had happened, or how, it seemed to me there was one simple step to be taken immediately. So that morning I called at the central library in Los Angeles and looked for Framm’s name in various reference books. I could find no recent information about him; the war years had left gaps in the biographies of enemies. But then it occurred to me to try a newspaper office; they would have files there, possibly, or some way of checking on whether a fairly well-known scientist was or was not still alive. I was lucky enough to find a man who had read my book and could think of a number of reasons (but not the real one) why I was interested in the matter; he was very obliging and assiduous, and in due course brought me the news that Hugo Framm was undoubtedly dead, because in one of the books he had consulted there was the phrase “after Hugo Framm was killed.”
I’m afraid my face showed shock, so that he added waggishly: “Not a pal of yours, by any chance?”
“I should say not. Did it happen to say how he was killed?”
“No, but perhaps I could find out. Is it urgent?”
“Not exactly urgent, but—well, I could call back in the afternoon or perhaps telephone if you think you’d have the information by then.”
“Sure, I might. Give me a ring…. How’s the picture coming along?”
Like most Los Angeles journalists he read the Reporter and Varietyand liked to feel that movie affairs were within a home-town gambit; and as I was anxious to undo the effect of the shocked look I gossiped a bit and told him I was just about to lunch with Mr. Chandos at the Brown Derby to discuss matters. He said he knew Mr. Chandos, who had once visited the office in search of background material for a newspaper story—a very fine producer, full of ideas; I was certainly fortunate in having him do my picture. (He too called it my picture.)
Half an hour later, still holding myself casual though with some effort, I found myself in a booth at the Brown Derby with Mr. Chandos, who had called me Jane as soon as we met at the studio and whom I was trying to think of as Paul without immediately being reminded of Pauli. He probably noticed my look of preoccupation, for he asked: “What’s on your mind?” in a way that wasn’t quite the conventional opening.
“Oh, things in general.”
“The war looks like being over pretty soon.”
“I know. And what then?”
“Ah, that’s the problem. And all the answers you get are gags—a plastic helicopter for every back yard—soldiers coming home to find everything just the same, including Mom’s mince pies … ever read the ads in the magazines?”
“I’ve even written some of them. But not any more.”
“You with your ad-writing and me with my B pictures. We’re a fair match…. What are you going to do next? Another book?”
“Probably—sometime. At present it’s in the air—like the two- million- dollar picture they won’t let you make. What would that be about, by the way?”
He laughed. “What wouldn’t it be about? I keep on getting new ideas. I got another one last night, while I was driving home. I live in the Valley—not far out of town, but there’s a mile or so of fairly dark road before you come to my house. Of course I know every inch of that road—even the holes in the pavement—but last night, as I was driving, I suddenly thought— What if I don’t come to my house? Suppose I just drive on, without thinking at first, and then of course the thought would soon come to me—What’s happened? Where are you? You must have passed your house … so I stare out of the window, expecting to recognize something, but I can’t—it’s just a road with trees and hedges—not a house in sight. So—quite a bit puzzled—I make the turn and drive back. Presently I must come to my house. But I still don’t. I drive four or five miles—and the road’s still just trees and hedges. Now this is beginning to be really queer. Four or five miles from my house in any direction would take me to other houses, shops, schools, and so on…. Well, there’s nothing to do but just go on driving. Maybe I’m on a road which, for some quite extraordinary reason, I never knew about before. But after ten miles a queer sort of tingling sensation gets into my spine—because there hasn’t been a side turning … and no car has either passed or overtaken me, and I know that within a score miles of Los Angeles such a thing simply isn’t possible! However, I still drive on and on—there must be something soon … but there isn’t—there’s nothing but the road—paved—white line in the middle—fairly straight and level—but it doesn’t go anywhere! And there isn’t a light, or a sign, or a mailbox, and in a few more miles I shall run out of gas!… So what do I do?”
“You turn on the car radio,” I said.
“By God, I never thought of that!” He grew suddenly excited. “Yes, I turn it on…. But what do I get?… Why, just nothing … all round the dial. Everything’s dead. Maybe it’s an air-raid warning—the Hundred and Nineteenth Interceptor Command has ordered all stations off the air….”
“Or else,” I said, “you do get something. You get the same thing from every station.”
“But what, Jane? Tell me what?”
“Gabriel Heatter reading the Hundred and Nineteenth Psalm…. ‘Teach me, O Lord, the way of thy statutes; and I shall keep it unto the end. Give me understanding, and I shall keep thy law; yea, I shall observe it with my whole heart. Make me to go in the path of thy commandments; for therein do I delight. Incline my heart unto thy testimonies, and not to covetousness. Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; and quicken thou me in thy way….’”
I don’t know quite how or why, but as I spoke the words, which I remembered from having learned them at school, the thing that had begun as a gag became somehow serious, so that my own voice trembled and I saw tears come into Paul’s eyes. He reached for my hand across the table and presently muttered: “Well, I guess there’s not much for either of us to say after that….”
We were silent for quite a while and the hubbub of the restaurant rose around us into a roar; the place was filling up; flash bulbs were popping at personalities; the cartooned faces of famous patrons stared down from the four walls.
I
said at length: “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine sometime. He reminds me a bit of you.”
“Sure. I’d be glad to.”
“He’s not in your line, though. A scientist.”
“That’s all right. I’ve nothing against scientists. Bring him along the next time.”
“I don’t know that I can. He’s ill at present. He was in the Air Force and crashed…. But I’d like you to meet him sometime.”
“Sure.”
The waiter appeared, carrying a telephone which he plugged in to a near- by socket. “For you, Mr. Chandos….”
He took it, listened a moment, then said: “No, it’s for you, Jane.”
“For me? But it can’t be. Nobody knows I’m here.”
“Probably someone saw you coming in and thought of a good way to bother you—they do that, you know, in this town…. Shall I handle it for you? If it’s autographs or interviews I’ll stall….” He spoke back into the instrument: “Yes?… No, Miss Waring isn’t here, but I’ll take a message—what is it?… Yes … yes … What?… Say that name again…. Spell it…. Spell the other name too…. Well, I don’t know what it’s all about, but I’ll tell her when I see her…. Okay…. G’by….”
Thus it came about that Paul Chandos gave me the details about Hugo Framm’s death, and though he was obviously curious, he was tactful enough not to ask a single question. I liked him more than ever for that.
* * * * *
I got back to Vista Grande during the late afternoon and found Brad sitting by the pool. He looked tired, which wasn’t remarkable after our previous day’s exploit; and there was still the look in his eyes which I didn’t like. I thought I had best get to the point quickly. “Brad,” I said. “I found out what happened to Hugo Framm. He was killed in a British air raid on Peenemünde in 1944.”
He didn’t look surprised. He said: “I knew that. At least we were told so at Oak….” He stopped. “Oakland…. I was there when I heard about it. Peenemünde’s the place on the Baltic where the Germans had their experimental station for V-2S. That wasn’t much in his line. God, what fools they were, not to give him a free hand. Drop all the theoretical stuff—that was the cry at the beginning. Then afterwards it was too late to catch up. He probably fought them as long as he could, but I guess he didn’t win. He made too many enemies.”
“And you didn’t kill him.”
“No, I left that for the R.A.F. I told him a lie instead, which certainly killed him in one sense if it sent him to Peenemünde. But perhaps it didn’t—so much could have happened in the interval. But I do know Peenemünde wasn’t where he should have been. It was some other place—in Norway—where they were making heavy water.”
“Heavy water?”
He nodded. “That was his idea all along if they’d given him a free hand.” He added, changing the subject with marked abruptness: “By the way, Newby called this afternoon.”
“What did he want?”
“To look me over. To see how I was getting on. To hear if I’d had any more dreams. Perhaps to see you if you’d been in. I told him I still dreamed of being a skywriter but I’d changed the word I wanted to write. I spelled it out for him. It was a German word that Framm used a lot—not a nice word at all. Newby didn’t know that, but when he gets back he’s going to ask someone who understands German and that’ll fix him for a while. I think of the darnedest ways to keep that man interested, don’t I?”
“You shouldn’t,” I said. “It isn’t worth wasting time on.”
“What else should I waste time on while I’m waiting?”
“Waiting for what?”
“Something we’re all waiting for.”
“Something good, I hope.”
He shrugged.
I said: “It may be very trite and old-fashioned of me, but what I’m waiting for is the end of the war—victory and peace—all that.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Don’t you think we’ll get them?”
“We’ll get victory.”
“But not peace?”
“Depends. We shall see.”
“I wish I knew what you think we shall see.”
He said glumly: “Maybe a bad word written in the sky.”
I sat down next to him; he was in swimming trunks and had been in the pool, because the towel near him was damp. His body (which I had never seen so near nude before) was slim and muscular, though he could well have taken on a few more pounds. The desert air had browned him, the mountain air was now adding a clear gloss. He looked fine, except for his eyes, which offered a minority report on his general recovery.
I asked what the lie was he had told Framm.
He replied: “Call it twice two are five.”
“If you say things like that I shall bring out a mathematics textbook and ask you to give me lessons.”
That made him laugh. I didn’t like the laugh either. And I didn’t like the thought that Newby had been around. I suddenly felt a deep urgency in what was beginning to dominate me—I must find out what was on his mind quickly … before it was too late. The idea of no time to be wasted came to me unarguably, yet with frightening sureness.
He began to talk about the work he and Framm had been busy on in Berlin until the outbreak of the war. It was concerned with the mathematics of nuclear structure; the construction of a field theory to account for certain phenomena already noted experimentally; but also, if the theory were correct, to point the way to phenomena that had not yet been observed, because adequate experimental technique lagged behind. The theoretical work had been in progress for months, with Framm giving it all the time he could spare, and Brad with him as an equal, except that he saved Framm’s time by doing all the laborious computations. There was nothing remarkable in the apparent slowness of the procedure, but to some of the high-up Nazis it was hard to explain or defend. They lacked sympathy with anything so unproductive; visionary stuff was not truly Germanic; Hitler was planning for a short war, and a single new weapon in the blueprint stage was worth a whole territory of long-range speculation.
Then events moved fast on all sides. The Danzig crisis boiled up into the actual imminence of war, which meant that the intrigues of Framm’s rivals to have his department reorganized under a more “practical” head rose to an equal climax. And also … something stirred inside the private world of experiment and visionary analysis, so that Hugo Framm and his assistant began to discuss, like conspirators, the chance that they were on the edge of something big— something that would not only widen the scope of theoretical knowledge, but could in due course affect the practical character of life on earth. As scientists they were intensely skeptical of all such dreaming, yet as humans they could not forbear to tiptoe a few paces into the unguessable, just far enough to send them back to work with rueful anxiety. For the thing was not even yet at a beginning—it was only at the beginning of a beginning. In those talks with Brad, Framm revealed the curious division of his soul. Part of him, perhaps the deeper part, was the pure researcher, impatient of other people’s impatience, willing to devote years to an inch’s extension of the mind’s territory, willing even for that inch itself to be unknown to all save the few initiates. Never had Brad heard him trounce more scathingly the “practical” scientists who had grown to high favor with the regime by setting teams of underling scientists to work on some immediate problem of industry. Engineers, he sneered. “One of these days you and I will write all we have discovered on the back of an old envelope and send it to them. In a few years they will begin to learn what it is all about. Then after a few more years Siemens will be interested in the patent rights. And meanwhile you and I will still be fighting those who would close down this laboratory and turn it into a gymnasium for teaching storm troopers how to crack skulls.”
That repeated “you and I” gave Brad a feeling that was not a qualm, but a nudge of reminder inside himself. “So we must continue our work,” Framm went on. “One of these days the world will wake up to what we have done.”<
br />
Brad did not care for this sort of magniloquence. “The world won’t do anything of the sort,” he said. “A few scientists in other countries will read about it in the technical journals and you’ll probably be asked to deliver some lectures.”
“You are forgetting there will be no communication with foreign scientists during the war.”
“Oh, they’ll manage to exchange ideas through Sweden or Switzerland somehow or other.”
“Not this time.” Framm was emphatic. “There is already the rule of secrecy in operation.”
“But surely that doesn’t apply to mathematics.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t, but perhaps also it should and must.”
“If it did, then don’t forget I’m foreign myself.”
Framm put on the roguish smile that was the sign of an approaching display of charm, but which Brad had learned to recognize as less charming in what it often concealed or preluded.
“Perhaps we shall have to make a German citizen of you then…. Or perhaps since you are American it does not matter. Americans have no ambition to conquer.”
“What’s that got to do with it? Why should they? Why should anybody?”
“I think I must prepare a number of answers to your question, Bradley. But the argument should be at Berchtesgaden, not here. It would be interesting to demonstrate that by a proper application of quantum mathematics Germany can become the first master of the world.”
“That sort of thing ought to appeal—at Berchtesgaden,” Brad said dryly.
“Ah, but only if it could be done in six months. That man is obsessed with Blitzkrieg. You have no idea how impossible it is to talk to him of serious matters. Planck could not. Haushofer could not. Anything that he cannot understand is no use, and he can understand so little. He has pushed his luck too far. Bradley, there are times when the second-rate mind is criminal. And there are things that history will not forgive unless they are done once only to achieve world conquest. The end can only justify the means if the end is large enough.”
