The dog lunged forward but stopped as if it had hit an invisible wall. It whined softly and reached out a tentative tongue to lick George's hand. George tousled the dog's head as he might a young boy's. The two other dogs—some sort of mastiff and a big black dog Max couldn't identify—crowded around George, each seeking their turn under his fingers.
"Come meet our new friends, Max. They won't bite."
"Not you maybe,” said Max. The black dog left George and stuck his nose in Max's crotch. His scrotum tightened. The dog rubbed its bare teeth along Max's thigh and pushed its big head against Max's limp hand. Max wiggled his fingers and the dog licked them, its large bushy tail wagging so hard that the breeze cooled the sweat on his face.
"Play time's over,” said George. “We have to go see a man about these dogs."
Max tried not to look back at the three dogs trotting behind them. He found their sudden silence more terrifying than their growls. He expected the spell to break, to feel their teeth sink into the flesh of his legs and back. George ignored the animals and Max wondered again at his companion's oddness.
The house needed a fresh coat of paint but otherwise appeared well kept. The porch had been recently swept and clean white curtains fluttered in the open windows. Beyond the house stood a half dozen buildings in various states of repair. The barn looked ready to fall over but two large sheds beyond it looked new, their metal sides gleaming in the mid-morning sun.
The front door of the house opened and a small thin woman stepped onto the porch. She was frowning and carried a large cleaver in her left hand. She spoke rapidly in Spanish and George replied. Max caught the name Goddard.
The woman spoke again, this time in accented English.
"Doctor Goddard is working. He doesn't like visitors."
"Really? He should put up signs or something. Or get some vicious dogs,” said George.
The woman noticed the dogs then, sitting in a semi-circle around George's legs. She frowned and crossed herself and disappeared into the house.
Her voice, strident and fearful, shouted in Spanish. A few minutes later a man, carrying a shotgun, appeared on the porch, the woman hovering behind him.
"Es un diablo, Professor,” she said. Max understood that much and he glanced at George who smiled beatifically and absently scratched the shepherd's head.
Goddard snorted and pointed the gun at George's chest. He was a slim man, below average height. The fringe of white hair that circled his almost-bald head stood in sharp contrast to his round unlined face, turned a pale brown by exposure to the sun. Blue eyes glared from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Max took him for between fifty and sixty.
"I take it you boys don't read,” said Goddard with a distinct New England twang in his voice.
"We read just fine, Doctor,” said George. “I thought A Method for Reaching Extreme Altitudes was fascinating, if inaccessible to the popular audience.
Goddard grunted and lowered the gun, though his finger didn't stray far from the trigger. “To any audience, as near as I can tell.” He tilted his head to one side. “You boys from the Guggenheim coming to see if your money's well spent?"
George shook his head. “But we are eager to learn of your progress. Have you found an alternative to gasoline yet?"
"You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” said Goddard. “You know lots about me but I don't know a thing about you, except you got a way with dogs."
He glared at the coterie of guard dogs. They hung their heads but didn't move out of George's reach.
"Why don't you put away that gun and ask us in so we can get better acquainted?"
Goddard shrugged and led the way into the cool dim interior of the house. The parlour was sparsely furnished—a wing back chair with springs showing out the bottom, a maple rocker, and an ornate, if timeworn, settee guarded by a low pine table. Goddard perched in the chair and gestured Max and George to sit. George settled in one corner of the couch and Max uneasily in the other.
The woman appeared with a sweating pitcher of ice water and three glasses. She hovered at the edge of the room until Goddard dismissed her with a wave.
"Sorry, I can't offer you anything more ... refined. We don't entertain much."
"Adam's ale is fine by me,” Max spoke for the first time.
They sipped their water in silence. Finally, Goddard cleared his throat. “Maybe we should start."
George smiled and spread his hands. “I have a proposition for you, Professor Goddard."
"I'm all ears."
"Your work hasn't received the attention it deserves. I'd like to change that."
"What makes you think I want that?"
"You're a man of science. Science lives on the free exchange of information."
"Information wants to be free. Yeah, I've heard that. My information wants to get paid."
"If money is what you're interested in..."
"If money was what I was interested in, I'd have picked another line of work. There's not a lot of money to be made shooting hunks of metal into the air."
"Then why do you do it?” asked Max.
Goddard glared at him as if he had asked the stupidest question ever.
"It's what I do. Ever hear of a man called Tsiolkovsky? No, I suppose not. He wrote a book called Dreams of Earth and Sky. I read it when I was about your age. Turned my world upside down. He proposed a way to fly through space. Ever since, I've spent my life trying to put his proposal into practice. It's not easy to explain the whys and the wherefores. It's sort of like being in love."
George laughed again. “And how's the love affair going?"
Goddard grimaced. “I can think of several people who would love to know the answer to that question and none of them have my best interests at heart."
"There's a lesson here, Max. Men may compete in business or in love but there's no competition like the rivalry between two professors searching after knowledge."
Goddard snorted. “You don't know the half of it. Ever since the war, you can't turn around without someone trying to steal your ideas. It's not like the old days."
"Then let me tell you how it's going,” said George. “In 1926 you got the first liquid fuel rocket off the ground, using gasoline and liquid oxygen. Three years later you sent a barometer and a camera up a mile. For the last four years, you've been here in the desert, and what have you accomplished? Not more than twice that height."
"Who the hell are you?” Goddard's face turned red under the tan. He glanced at the gun on the table. Max thought of how far they were from anywhere and how no one knew they were there except Lou. And Lou could be bought. Cheap.
"Friends,” said George.
Goddard shook his head. He ran a hand across his eyes and then looked up at the ceiling. “I doubt it."
"It's hard to get much done without money,” said George. “I can help. Robert, I work for an organization that's interested in seeing your dreams come true. Call us the Jules Verne Society if you like."
Max leaned forward. He knew who Jules Verne was. One of his roommates in New York had a collection of his books—before he'd had to sell them for ten cents each to buy groceries. Strange stories about underwater ships and flights to the moon. Max thought them ungodly, but liked them anyway.
"We believe the future depends on man going into space, reaching the moon and beyond. It's my job, my calling, to see man fulfill that destiny."
"And how do you do that?” Goddard looked at George through narrowed eyes.
"We provide funding to those we think can help us reach those goals, and we make sure information gets moved to where it will do the most good."
Goddard snorted again. “Anyone who wants to know what I'm doing only has to go to the patent office."
George spread his hands. “We need to know where you're going, not where you've been.” George sighed and stood up. “I'm not asking much. I'm authorized to offer you ten thousand dollars."
Max gasped and Goddard's eyes widened. A man could live three years
on that kind of money, five if he was frugal.
Goddard's mouth had set in a stubborn line. Max had seen that expression before. It was common back home, even commoner in New England. Goddard wasn't going to budge. It wouldn't matter what George said or how much money he laid on the pine table.
"All I want is a copy of your most recent notes,” said George. “I need to know what you've accomplished."
"Who says I've accomplished anything?” Goddard flushed and turned away, like a schoolboy caught in a lie. He continued in a softer voice. “Ten grand would finance my work for a year. But what good does that do me if someone else publishes first?"
"I can assure you my client has no interest in publishing. He's as secretive as you are."
"And what's this client's name?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. And even if I were, you wouldn't recognize it."
"Like hell,” said Goddard. “I know every rocketeer in America and England. Or Germany for that matter. What's his name?"
"What difference does it make? You all live on the same planet. You all have the same destiny."
"You must think I'm some kind of idiot savant. Playing with rockets while the world spins by. But I read the papers. I think about what I read. I can see the way the world is heading, and I want no part of the future you've got planned."
"You have no idea of my plans,” said George. “The future is greater than you imagine. Greater than you deserve.” He rose and stood over Goddard. He seemed bigger than before. Ominous and terrible. God-like; the thought sprang unbidden to Max's mind. It both terrified and thrilled him.
"Get out,” said Goddard, his voice stained with fear.
George shrugged and smiled, becoming human again. “My offer stands. I'll call again tomorrow to see if you'll accept it."
Goddard picked up the shotgun and stood up. “If I see you on this property again, I won't hesitate to shoot."
* * * *
Max and George sat in the late afternoon sun on a hillock not far from Goddard's ranch. Max tried to question George but the older man simply held up his hand, pointed to the distance and said, “Wait."
The sun balanced on the horizon. It would soon turn dark.
A flare in the distance rose slowly from the flat scrubland. It picked up speed, a too-bright spot sitting on a plume of white smoke. Then Max felt it. A rumble in his belly that spread into his chest and then down his legs into the ground. Moments later, a roar, like a dozen locomotives all passing at once.
The light was moving fast now, faster than Max could follow. Up, up into the darkening sky, growing smaller as it rose but brighter too. It was like looking into the gates of hell.
The flare died. Sunlight glinted on metal, and then silence. The white plume of smoke drifted eastward. George pointed and Max let his gaze follow the extended arm. A billowing white sail had appeared in the sky. Beneath it, suspended by a dozen ropes, hung a silver sliver of metal.
"That's what we came for,” said George.
"Do you think he'll sell it to you?"
"No,” said George.
"Ten thousand is a lot of money."
"There are some things, Max, that money won't buy. Goddard's stubborn and he's paranoid. It must be something in the air around here."
"So what are we going to do?"
"We're going to steal it."
"Steal? You didn't say anything about stealing!"
"Did I make a fair offer?"
"Yes, but..."
"Is it my fault the man is unreasonable?"
"No, but—"
"But what, Max?"
"Stealing is wrong."
"Let's not call it that then. Information wants to be free. We're its liberators."
"That's red talk."
"Fine. I wanted you to be part of this. I need you to be part of this. I've got other work to do."
"I'm not sure, George."
"In every man's life, Max, there is one chance to make a difference. A branch in the road. One leads to greatness, the other to nothing. Everyone has to choose."
"I know,” said Max. “I know.” He paused. “But what if I choose wrong?"
"Choosing is not about certainty, it's about faith. I could tell you everything. My whole history, what's happening here, the future I want, need to happen. But I don't have time. Besides, it would still come down to you. Your choice to believe me or not, to act or not. Look into your heart and do what you think is right."
George put his hand on Max's shoulder and again Max felt that compelling heat on his skin. He could not meet George's eyes, afraid of the flame that might be burning there.
George spoke softly. “I offered Goddard ten thousand dollars. I'll make you the same offer. Help me tonight and deliver the goods to New York City and the money is yours."
"Stealing is wrong. There are some things money won't buy."
George stepped away and looked up at the first stars in the night sky.
"Standing in the way of progress is wrong, Max."
"Progress towards what, George? Where are you trying to lead us?"
"Push more than lead. Sometimes, I think I push too hard. I'm not sure if you're ready for tomorrow. If only I could know the future, it wouldn't be so hard to get there...” George's voice faded away, as if he regretted saying too much. Then he laughed, and put his hand on Max's shoulder. “Goddard is selfish. He wants to keep this to himself. Until he's ready to benefit from it. There are other people who can use this information. I—We cannot remain trapped on this planet. It's for the greater good."
"You make a powerful argument,” said Max.
"Well?"
"But so does evil, George. Stealing. It's one of the Ten Commandments."
"So is honour your mother and your father. Didn't you tell me your family might lose their farm? What couldn't you do with ten thousand dollars?"
Max looked away. He tried not to think of the things George had said but the hounds were loose and they couldn't help baying at the moon. He'd been taught that there were rules you could follow. But where were the rules now? It was all breaking apart. Blowing away like topsoil and hope. Nothing made sense anymore.
"It's for a good cause?” he asked.
"Absolutely.” George smiled and held out his hand.
After a long moment, Max shook it.
* * * *
The dogs were waiting for them when they got to the fence, shadowy figures in a shadowy landscape. George reached through the barbed wire and touched each dog in turn. They sat motionless, waiting. Once again, George spread the wire and ushered Max through. On the other side, George knelt down and put his face next to the largest dog's. The other two leaned in as if listening but if George spoke, he did so too low for Max to hear.
The shepherd leapt up and ran toward the ranch house. The mastiff whined and looked at George. Then it too ran off, along the fence to the road. The black dog sat patiently until George motioned them forward. Then it followed them like a shadow.
In sight of the ranch house, George signalled a halt. He crouched down, Max on one side, the black dog on the other. Lights spilled from the front windows of the house and from the open door of one of the sheds. Several figures moved in the space between the buildings.
"Working late tonight,” said George. “Don't like that much.” He indicated a low patch of brush and the three of them moved behind it.
George rummaged in his knapsack and pulled out something dark and blunt.
"You may want this,” he said, handing Max a revolver.
"I'm not going to shoot nobody,” said Max.
"You shouldn't have to. Just wave it around until you get their attention.” George pulled a second gun from the sack. “If there's any shooting to be done, I'll do it."
Max took the revolver. It was cold and surprisingly heavy in his hand. “You didn't say anything about guns."
"I didn't expect to need them. I still don't. Wait until they settle down and then slip in the side door and get what we want. That'
s still the plan."
"There's something you're not telling me."
George tossed his pistol from one hand to the other. He looked through the brush at the lights still blazing in the distance.
"They shouldn't be running around like this. Something has them stirred up."
"Maybe it was our visit."
"Maybe."
"But you think it's something else. What?"
George looked at Max and away again.
"I've got a competitor."
"What kind of competitor?"
"An old friend. Almost a brother. Both sailors far from the sea. Sailors without a ship.” George looked up at the night sky.
"Like Crusoe?"
"Let's just say, we have similar objectives but different methods. He might not approve of this business. If he's reached Goddard ... Well, it might explain why a peace-loving man like Goddard greets guests with a shotgun in his hand."
George flipped open the chamber of the gun and checked the ammunition.
"Are you from the future, George?"
"What?"
"Are you a time traveler? Like in Mr. Wells’ book?"
"Time travel is possible. But only in one direction. And only one second at a time. I'm not from the future; I'm trying to get there. Only the future—one particular future—can take me, take us, where we need to go."
"And where is that?"
"A lot farther than the future."
"But where?"
George smiled and looked up into the night sky. “I think you know."
"And your ... brother is trying to stop you."
"We don't disagree on the destination, just the path."
"Then why do we have to do this?"
"Because it's not arbitrary. The means justify the ends. How we get someplace makes a difference in how that place is when we get there."
"The way a town looks different when you walk into it than when you drive."
"That's it. You got it."
"But it's still the same town."
"Are you sure about that?” George snapped the gun shut again and shoved it in his pocket. He leaned against the black dog and shut his eyes.
Challenging Destiny #24: August 2007 Page 16
