Thin Air

by George Simpson

  "The jet crashed. Steinaker's body was found in the wreckage, but there was no trace of Sinclair: he hadn't ejected. The pilot's seat was intact—the canopy hadn't been opened—so where was he?"

  "Gone zero?" said Hammond.

  Rinehart nodded. "Undoubtedly. And then he'd probably become deadlocked, unable to get back."

  Hammond whistled. Rinehart rose and shuffled to the window, peering through dirty glass at the gentle snowfall outside. "That's how we got our first public exposure," he said.

  "It made the newspapers?"

  "Sinclair was a well-known figure, a war hero. Naturally, the papers never got the true story, but it shook everybody up." Rinehart chuckled bitterly. "Even Traben."

  Hammond checked his tape, saw it was time to reload, and, while he broke out a new cassette, asked Rinehart to collect his thoughts about the 1953 experiment.

  Rinehart turned a blank gaze on him for a long time, then sighed. "Traben wasn't finished after that incident," he said, "just slowed down again. He realized it was time to come up with a genuine attempt at defeating those side effects if he ever hoped to get another experiment under way, so he went back to the lab for the next five years—like a good little scientist.

  "Frequency modulation, or FM as we know it, was not even in home use yet. It was still in the military and experimental stages. Traben got interested in that and saw it was possible to modulate the original frequency that was propagating the field. I doubt if this means anything to you, Commander, but it was a genius idea. Traben experimented on lab animals and inanimate objects with different modulations from different sources. Finally, he was making an effort to alleviate repercussions. And in a sense he took the same approach Kurtnauer had—fight the fears. The vibrations of the propagating field had been disturbing neural impulses in the brain, altering perceptions, heightening fears....Kurtnauer had used hypnosis to combat this. Traben planned to use a modular source to control the amount of electromagnetism reaching the brain. He could do nothing about the vibrations of the field—the men would still have to withstand that—but no longer would their fears be increased by mental disturbance. That was supposed to be the result."

  Rinehart left the window and ambled across the living room without saying a word for a long time. Hammond happened to look down between his legs and saw the Siamese curled up on his feet. He'd made a friend.

  "October of 1953. Ten years from the first experiment, twenty years from Kurtnauer's first meeting with Einstein," said Rinehart.

  He launched into it, describing in detail the same story Hammond had heard twice before, once from Harold Fletcher and again from Casimir Yablonski. It jibed remarkably. But Rinehart had more insight.

  The hand-holding procedure was another Traben contribution. He had found that body contact was terribly important during the acceleration phase to stabilize mental states. It gave the men something tangible to cling to, the knowledge that friends were there; and, although they were invisible, there was the illusion that they could help each other.

  Everything would have been all right if two unforeseen events hadn't taken place.

  'The frequency modulation had never been tried out on such a scale before and it brought about an effect purely by accident," said Rinehart.

  "You mean the movement from Philadelphia to Norfolk?" asked Hammond.

  "Yes," Rinehart said slowly. "The Sturman disappeared in the usual manner. From our point of view on the observer ship, nothing seemed different. Then she reappeared a few moments later, much sooner than expected. It wasn't until we got aboard and calmed down the men that we learned what had happened. Traben was utterly astonished. He had no explanation for it at first. How could an entire ship with a crew of nearly twenty men move from one place to another in the blink of an eye when none of the forces in use could have led to that? It meant outside influence."

  Hammond was puzzled. "Someone tampering with the field?"

  "Nothing deliberate. An accident—or coincidence, if you will. Traben was able to determine that the only thing about this experiment differing from all the others was the use of frequency modulatidn. Something outside the field must have affected that modulation, causing what Traben termed an 'instantaneous spatial transference.' We nicknamed it IST. Such a transference could occur only if the entire field were drawn to a receiving station at another location. In order to convert a mass to energy and move it through space/time, there must be a pin-down point at the other end, or the mass will just dispel itself in sudden disintegration."

  "My God," said Hammond, sitting up. "Is that what happened to Martin?"

  "One thing at a time," growled Rinehart. "That was the second unforeseen event. For the Sturman to make an instantaneous transfer to Norfolk required an unwitting party in that area using a powerful receiver operating on the same frequency modulation as the experiment in Philadelphia.

  "Traben checked with Norfolk officials and discovered they were operating a radio school out there, and, on the same day as our experiment, they had been conducting tests of their own equipment aboard a Navy lighter. And our men had seen it crossing the Sturman's path."

  Hammond was confused for a moment, then he remembered Yablonski's story, how he had shrunk back on the bed, reacting to something passing by. "That little boat just missed us!" he had said.

  "It's the very nature of FM to be drawn to the most powerful receiver, like homing in on a beam." Rinehart smiled and then cackled. "You realize this is the classic mode of scientific discovery—set out to prove one thing and find something completely different." He laughed harder. "Thomas Edison holding the light bulb up, to his ear and whispering, 'Hello? Hello?'"

  Hammond laughed too, until the-old man calmed down and said, "Instantaneous spatial transfer...you know what the lay term for that is, don't you? The science-fiction term? Teleportation. Traben stumbled on it, just like a goddamned prospector!"

  He sat down again and gave his body a rest. He closed his eyes and mused in a soft voice. "The reactions...Traben's friends in the Pentagon...embarrassed. Despite all his assurances, every experiment seemed to go foul...one way or another....Nobody seemed to appreciate this great discovery...They just looked at the record of the man responsible and saw failure after failure...." Rinehart's eyes popped open and he said with glee, "Invisibility became almost as big a laughingstock as my UFOs. The one time Traben came up with something viable, they scoffed. Of course, they were right, I suppose. The men..."

  Hammond didn't have to ask what he meant. Fletcher and Yablonski and the rest of the 1953 crew had suffered as much as the others—after the experiment.

  "The attempt to alleviate side effects was a bust," said Rinehart. "The modulation had no effect whatsoever on anybody's state of mind. Fortunately, the men had been prepared ahead of time, told what to expect before and after. So their fears were greatly reduced. But no one had told them they were going to vanish from Philadelphia and pop up in Norfolk....And no one warded them what would happen to Martin..."

  Hammond looked at him expectantly.

  "Fear...fear caused him to break contact with the others. He jumped off the bow, apparently during the moment of highest return acceleration. Vibrating at nearly the speed of light and making a sudden exit from the field, his mass was completely converted into energy and dispelled into space."

  Rinehart looked at the floor and said flatly, "He exploded. And every man on deck saw it happen. That's why later on so many of them went crazy and committed suicide. They were anticipating the same thing happening to them"

  Rinehart sighed with the weight of it. "In ten years of work, we never got rid of the aftereffects, because we couldn't treat the most important one of all: fear. These men suffered from fear because their very existence was so unstable."

  Rinehart went to the kitchen to heat up a can of soup. Hammond envied him his appetite but realized he was used to this story. Hammond looked down at the Siamese cat sleeping on his feet. He wanted desperately to stretch. He eased one foot o
ut first, then the other. He left the cat, in peace and rose on stiff limbs. He walked around the house a while, inspecting Rinehart's magazine collection, then he went into the kitchen.

  Rinehart resumed talking as if on cue. "Traben quite suddenly acquired a case of guilt fever. He became very outspoken, urging the Navy to halt all experimentation in this field. He spoke to Pentagon officials, the chiefs of staff, Department of Defense— He went on a one-man crusade to show the error of his ways—"

  "Quite a turnabout," said Hammond.

  "Yes, wasn't it? But he was still working on his own, in secret, trying to duplicate what had happened with Norfolk. His concern for the men was a front."

  "A front—are you sure?"

  "You had to know the man. He was at his peak, in his mid-thirties. He had ten years of experience behind him, learning how to be shrewd and devious. And he had acquired a powerful friend with money."

  "Who?"

  "Ever heard the name Francis P. Bloch?"

  "Maybe." Hammond's brain raced.

  "Industrialist. Founded a small company in the early 1950s that has since grown to immense influence—Research Technology Industries."

  Hammond recalled the company from articles in the Navy Times. They were a big private contractor for Naval weapons and electronic guidance systems.

  "Bloch and Traben were very close even before RTI was formed," said Rinehart. "When Project Thin Air was finally closed down in 1955, Traben was appointed to RTI's Board of Directors and made head of Research and Development."

  "Are you suggesting that Traben took his work on Thin Air over to RTI?"

  "Isn't that obvious?" Rinehart smiled. "Ifs the only thing the man had worked on since 1942."

  Rinehart brought his soup to the living room and Hammond made him repeat his last statements for the tape, then he asked, "You're saying that Bloch and RTI were capable of taking risks that the government had already written off?"

  "You find that so hard to believe?" Rinehart asked almost casually.

  Hammond regarded him with suspicion, realizing it was possible the old man's bitterness was making him fantasize plots and invent ulterior motives. What grounds had he presented to back up his accusations against Traben that couldn't be interpreted by a Board of Inquiry as plain old sour grapes?

  "If you suspected he was acting purely in his own interest, why didn't you say something at the time?"

  Rinehart waved a hand at his houseful of UFO literature and said, "Who would have listened to me? I told you before—I had literally cut my own throat in Washington."

  "So? You had nothing to lose by exposing Traben." His calm eyes locked onto Rinehart's. The old man seemed to tremble, then threw up his arms in. exasperation.

  "All right!" he said. "They worked on me! Do you understand that? They tried to pull that brainwashing crap on me; they were brainwashing everyone by then—even those who didn't need fear control got it—but on me it didn't take! And I let them think it did. To this day, they still believe that on Project Thin Air, my mind is a blank!"

  Hammond did his best not to appear shocked, but he felt a cold knife digging into his chest. "Were you afraid of Traben?" he asked.

  "Of course I was! I spent a decade with him. I may not have had proof, but I had cause enough for suspicion!"

  "You let them work on you—willingly?"

  Rinehart sighed. "I wanted to get out, kiss off Washington for the rest of my life. And if they felt they had to insure my silence, I was prepared to give them anything, as long as I got peace of mind."

  Hammond tapped his fingers together and watched the old man squirm. "I think you know, Mr. Rinehart, that the alternative was your life."

  Rinehart shook his head in denial, but Hammond leaned forward and spoke with cold disdain.

  "And you knew it was the same for every man who ever participated in that project. As long as their mouths could be kept shut, they were allowed to live. It would have drawn too much attention to just bump everybody off in one shot, wouldn't it? But gradually, over the years...You knew, didn't you? And you let them get away with it?"

  Rinehart jumped up and snarled, "I could be making it all up, you know! Just a crazy old man! Ranting and raving, whether it's about this—or this—!" He slammed a hand down on a stack of UFO periodicals. Then he stalked across the room and leaned against the other window, his back to Hammond.

  The interview was over. Rinehart put another log on the fire. Hammond got up, gathering his tapes and recorder and sending the Siamese in a mad dash for cover. The log burst into flame and Rinehart quickly poked it to the back of the grate, cursing and pulling the screen into place. He turned and scowled at Hammond.

  "What will you do?"

  "Think about it," said Hammond. Rinehart shrugged and Hammond asked, "How much money would you say the government might have invested in Thin Air—all told?"

  "About a hundred million dollars," said Rinehart.

  The figure jolted Hammond. If it had been that costly, and Traben had continued his work under the auspices of RTI, he would have required enormous funding, with costs spiraling to match the inflation rate over the years....But RTI would have been under close scrutiny because of its substantial Federal contracts. Since 1955, how could they have spent millions of dollars on Thin Air and managed to conceal that from the world? The project had failed too many times before; it was unlikely they would have thrown good money after bad. And RTI was a business; they would not be playing Mayo Clinic to Fletcher and Yablonski unless there was still a need for secrecy.

  Unless Thin Air was still alive.

  It was too confusing. He would have to sort it out when he got home. From the perspective of distance and sanity.

  Rinehart was shuffling to the door. Hammond watched the stooped figure and wondered how so much detailed memory could still be at this man's fingertips. Maybe the bitterness kept it alive. Certainly that and the UFOs were all he had to think about.

  Hammond paused to look back at the collection of UFO literature. Rinehart noticed and said, "Still think I'm nuts, Commander?"

  "Just eccentric."

  "Everything is relative. Ask yourself: can you say for certain that flying saucers don't exist? No. Because they're no more fantastic than Project Thin Air, and that did exist."

  With a smile of satisfaction, Rinehart opened the door and Hammond shook hands with him, then trudged outside." It was cold and the snowfall had made the yard slushy. He heard the door close and glanced back at the old house. He squished up to his car and stashed the Uher and the tapes in the back seat.

  It was only as he opened the driver's side that he caught a glimpse of the battered pickup truck sitting up the road under a cottonwood.

  14

  The truck meant nothing to Hammond. His attention was drawn to the white-carpeted hills and the heavy clouds that covered them. The snow might return in force at any moment.

  With a sigh, he walked around to the trunk, opened it, and strung a set of chains out behind the rear tires. Ten minutes later, with the car warmed, his flight jacket zipped tight, and his knees soaked through, Hammond drove cautiously out of Rinehart's yard.

  His taillights reflected off the fogged windshield of the pickup truck. It was an old Ford half-ton with faded blue paint spattered with mud.

  Inside the cab, two men sat quietly watching Hammond's car creep off into the descending dark. The driver picked up a rag and wiped the inside of the windshield, whistling an aimless tune.

  "Are we going to sit' here all night?" his companion asked.

  The whistling stopped.

  "We should have taken both of them...in the house."

  The driver handed him the rag and in the darkness flashed him a hostile glare. "Bullshit," he said. "Get your corner—I can't reach it." Without waiting for an answer, he turned the ignition key. The motor roared to life. He switched on the parking lights, eased out from under the cottonwood, and drove slowly past Rinehart's house.

  It started to snow again.
Hammond kept the staff car in low gear. Even with the chains on, the winding road was slippery. He drove by instinct, with a light touch to keep the rear wheels from breaking loose. Little snow flurries danced in his headlights. Stands of cottonwood, their trunks and branches sheathed in sparkling white, shimmered briefly as the car passed by. Below the road, down by the stream, the ground was heavily drifted. Hammond remembered some of the large rocks he had seen on the way up; most of them were now blanketed with snow.

  The pickup truck growled down the road in low gear. Equipped with snow tires, it had more traction than Hammond's car. The driver held his acceleration steady and charged through the dusk.

  Hunched over to keep his head from hitting the top of the cab, he peered through the windshield to follow the tracks of Hammond's car, visible even in the dim reflection from his parking lights.

  His companion stubbed out a cigarette in the ashtray, reached under the seat and grabbed an M-16 rifle. He held it loosely across his chest, the barrel up.

  "What do we do if he makes it to the main road?" he asked.

  The driver kept his eyes straight ahead and worked the wheel. "Let me worry about that, Doc. You just take care of your end."

  "I still think we should have—"

  "Don't start that again," the driver snarled. "If you hadn't screwed things up, we wouldn't be here in the first place. I figure we'll catch him on the last stretch, just before we hit the highway. It's straight there, so I can see if there's any other traffic coming. If it's all clear, he's yours. If not, there's still plenty of time before he gets back to Kirtland."

  The driver increased his speed slightly. The heavy snow tires obliterated Hammond's track, leaving behind a distinctive herringbone pattern of their own.