by Ken Follett
Luke followed a long, dark, dirty corridor that ran the length of the building. Seeing a stooped man in professorial tweeds coming the other way, Luke looked him in the eye, a smile ready to break out if the professor recognized him. But a nervous expression came over the man's face and he hurried by.
Undaunted, Luke walked on, giving the same look to everyone he passed who might possibly be a scientist; but no one showed any sign of recognition. Leaving the building, he saw tennis courts and a view of the Potomac River and, to the west across the sports field, a white dome.
He approached it with mounting anticipation. On the flat roof of a small two-storey house was a large revolving observatory, its dome having a sliding roof section. It was an expensive facility that indicated a serious astronomy department. Luke stepped inside the building.
The rooms were arranged around a massive central pillar that supported the enormous weight of the dome. Luke opened a door and saw an empty library. He tried another, and found an attractive woman about his own age sitting behind a typewriter. 'Good morning,' he said. Is the professor in?' '
You mean Father Heyden?'
'Uh yes.'
'And you are?'
'Um...' Luke had stupidly not foreseen that he would have to give a name. Now his hesitation caused the secretary to raise her eyebrows, distrustfully. 'He won't know me,' Luke said. 'That is ... he will know me, I hope, but not by name.'
Her suspicion grew. 'Still, you do have a name.'
'Luke. Professor Luke.'
'To which university are you attached, Professor Luke?'
'Urn ... New York.' -
'Any particular one of New York's many institutions of higher learning?'
Luke's heart sank. In his enthusiasm he had failed to plan for this encounter, and now he saw that he was making a mess of it When you were in a hole, it was best to stop digging, he thought. He turned off his friendly smile and spoke coldly. 'I didn't come here to be cross-examined,' he said. 'Just tell Father Heyden that Professor Luke, the rocketry physicist ,:has dropped by and would like a word with him, would you?'
'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' she said firmly.
Luke left the room, slamming the door. He was angry with himself more than with the secretary, who was only protecting her boss from being pestered by an apparent nutcase. He decided to look around, opening doors until either someone recognized him or he was thrown out. He went up the stairs to -the second floor. The building seemed to be deserted. He climbed a wooden stair with no handrail and entered the observatory. It, too, was empty. He stood admiring the large revolving telescope with its complex system of cogs and gears, a real masterpiece of engineering, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.
The secretary came up the stairs. He prepared himself for a row, but instead she spoke sympathetically. 'You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you,' she said.
Her kindness brought a lump to his throat 'It's very embarrassing,' he said. 'I've lost my memory. I know I'm in the rocketry field, and I was hoping to run into someone who might recognize me.'
'There's nobody here right now,' she said. 'Professor Larkley is giving a lecture on rocket fuels at the Smithsonian Institution, as part of International Geophysical Year, and all the faculty are there.'
Luke felt a surge of hope. Instead of one geophysicist he could meet a whole roomful. 'Where's the Smithsonian Institute?'
'It's downtown, right in the Mall, around 10th Street.'
He had driven around Washington enough today to know that that was not far away. 'What time is the lecture?'
'It started at three.'
Luke checked his watch. It was three-thirty. If he hurried, he could get there by four. 'The Smithsonian,' he repeated.
'Actually, it's in the Aircraft Building, around the back.'
'How many people will be at the lecture, do you know?'
'About a hundred and twenty.' Surely one of them would know him! 'Thank you!' he said, and he ran down the stairs and out of the building.
.
3.30 P. M.
Rotating the second-stage tub stabilizes the flight path by averaging the variations between the eleven individual small rocket motors in the cluster.
Billie was furious with Len Ross for trying to ingratiate himself with the people from the Sowerby Foundation. The post of Director of Research ought to go to the best scientist - not the most oleaginous. She was still annoyed that afternoon when the chief executive's secretary called and asked her to come to his office.
Charles Silverton was an accountant, but he understood the needs of scientists. The hospital was owned by a trust whose twin aims were to understand and alleviate mental illness. He saw his job as making sure that administrative and financial problems did not distract the medical people from their work. Billie liked him.
His office had been the dining room of the original Victorian mansion, and it still had the fireplace and the ceiling mouldings. He waved Billie to a chair and said: 'Did you speak to the people from the Sowerby Foundation this morning?'
'Yes. Len was showing them around, and I joined the party. Why?' .
He did not answer her question. 'Do you think you could have said anything to offend them?'
She frowned, mystified. 'I don't think so. We just talked about the new wing.'
'You know, I really wanted you to get the job of Director of Research.'
She was alarmed. 'I don't like your use of the past tense!'
He went on: 'Len Ross is a competent scientist, but you're exceptional. You've achieved more than him and you're ten years younger.'
'The Foundation is backing Len for the job?'
He hesitated, looking awkward. 'I'm afraid they're insisting on it, as a condition of their grant.'
'The hell they are!' Billie was stunned.
'Do you know anyone connected with the Foundation?'
Yes. One of my oldest friends is a trustee. His name is Anthony Carroll, he's godfather to my son.'
'Why is he on the board? What does he do for a living?'
'He works for the State Department, but his mother is very wealthy, and he's involved with several charities.'
'Does he have a grudge against you?'
For a moment, Billie slipped back in time. She had been angry with Anthony, after the catastrophe that led to Luke's leaving Harvard, and they never dated again. But she forgave him because of how he behaved toward Elspeth. Elspeth had gone into a decline, letting her academic work slide, and was in danger of failing to graduate. She walked around in a daze, a pale ghost with long red hair, getting thinner and missing classes. It was Anthony who rescued her. They became close, though the relationship was a friendship rather than a romance. They studied together, and she caught up enough to pass. Anthony won back Billie's respect, and they had been friends ever since.
Now she told Charles: 'I got kind of mad at him, back in 1941, but we made it up long ago.'
'Maybe someone on the board admires Len's work.'
Billie considered. 'Len's approach is different from mine. He's a Freudian, he looks for psychoanalytical explanations. If a patient suddenly loses the ability to read, he assumes they have some unconscious fear of literature, a fear that is being suppressed. I would always look for damage to the brain as the likeliest cause.'
'So there might be a keen Freudian on the board who is against you.'
T guess.' Billie sighed. 'Can they do this? It seems so unfair.'
'It's certainly unusual,' Charles said. 'Foundations normally make a point of not interfering with decisions requiring professional expertise. But there's no law against it'
'Well, I'm not going to take this lying down. What reason did they give?'
'I got an informal call from the chairman. He told me the board feels Len is better qualified.'
Billie shook her head. 'There has to be another explanation.'
'Why don't you ask your friend?'
'That's exactly what I'm going to do,' she said.
/> .
3.45 P. M.
A stroboscope was used to determine exactly where weights should be placed so that the spinning tub would be perfectly balanced - otherwise the inner cage would vibrate within the outer frame, causing the whole assembly to disintegrate.
Luke had looked at his street map of Washington before leaving the Georgetown University campus. 'The Institute was in a park called the Mall. He checked his watch as he drove along K Street He would be at the Smithsonian in about ten minutes. Assuming it took him another five to find the lecture theatre, he should arrive as the talk was ending. Then he would find out who he was.
It was almost eleven hours since he had awakened to this horror. Yet, because he could remember nothing from before five o'clock this morning, it seemed to have been going on all his life.
He turned right on 9th Street, heading south towards the Mall with high hopes. A few moments later, he heard a police siren blip once, and his heart skipped a beat He looked in his rear-view mirror. A police cruiser was on his tail, lights flashing. There were two cops o the front seat. One pointed toward the right-hand kerb and mouthed: 'Pull over.'
Luke was devastated. He had almost made it.
Could it be that he had committed some minor traffic violation, and they wanted to ticket him? Even if that were all, they would still ask for his driving license, and he had no kind of identification. Anyway, this was not about a minor traffic violation. He was driving a stolen car. He had calculated that the theft would go unreported until the owner got back from Philadelphia later tonight, but something had gone wrong. They intended to arrest him.
But they would have to catch him first He clicked into escape mode. Ahead of him on the one-way street was a long truck. Without further thought, he stamped on the gas pedal and pulled around the truck.
The cops switched on their siren and followed.
Luke pulled in front of the truck, going fast Acting on instinct now, he yanked the parking brake and spun the wheel hard to the right The Ford went into a long skid, turning as it did so. The truck swerved left to avoid it, forcing the patrol car all the way over to the left side of the street Luke shifted unto neutral to prevent the car stalling. It came to rest facing the wrong way. He put it into drive again and stepped on the gas, heading against the traffic on the one-way street Cars veered wildly left and right to avoid a head-on collision. Luke swung right to miss a city bus, then clipped a station wagon, but ploughed on amid a chorus of indignant horns. An old prewar Lincoln swung onto the sidewalk and hit a lamp post. A motorcyclist lost control and fell off his machine. Luke hoped he was not badly hurt He made it to the next crossing and swung right onto a broad avenue. He raced two blocks, running red lights, then looked in his mirror. There was no sign of the police car. '
He turned again, heading south now. He was lost, but he knew the Mall was to his south. Now that the patrol car was out of sight, he would have been safer to drive normally. However, it was four o'clock, and he was farther away from the Smithsonian than he had been five minutes ago. If he was late, the audience would have gone. He stepped on the gas again.
The southbound street he was on dead-ended, and he was forced to turn right. He tried to watch for street names as he sped along, swerving around slower vehicles. He was on D Street. After a minute he came to 7th and turned south.
His luck changed. All the lights were green. He hit seventy crossing Constitution Avenue, and he was in the park.
Across the lawn to his right, he saw a big dark-red building like a castle in a fairy tale. It was exactly where the map said the museum would be. He stopped the car and checked his watch. It was five past four. The audience would be leaving. He cursed and jumped out He ran across the grass. The secretary had told him the lecture was in the Aircraft Building around the back. Was this the front or the back? It looked like the front. To the side of the building was a path through a little garden. He followed it and came out on a wide two-way avenue. Still running, he found an elaborate iron gateway leading to the back entrance of the museum. To his right, beside a lawn, was what looked like an old aircraft hangar. He went inside.
He looked around. All kinds of aircraft were suspended from the ceiling: old biplanes, a wartime jet, and even the sphere of a hot-air balloon. At floor level were glass cases of aircraft insignia, flight clothing, aerial cameras, and photographs. Luke spoke to a uniformed guard, I'm here for the lecture on rocket fuels.'
'You're too late,' the man said, looking at his watch. 'It's ten past four, the lecture's over.'
'Where was it held? I might still catch the speaker.'
'I think he's gone.'
Luke stared hard at him and spoke slowly. 'Just answer the fucking question. Where?'
The man looked scared. 'Far end of the hall,' he said hastily.
Luke hurried the length of the building. At the end, a lecture theatre had been improvised, with a lectern, blackboard, and rows of chairs. Most of the audience had left, and attendants were already stacking the metal seats at the side of the room. But a small knot of eight or nine men remained in a corner, deep in discussion, surrounding a white-haired man who might have been the lecturer.
Luke's spirits fell. A few minutes ago, more than a hundred scientists in his field had been here. Now there were just a handful, and it was quite possible that none of them knew him. .
The white-haired man glanced up at him, then looked back at the others. It was impossible to know whether he had recognized Luke or not He was speaking, and carried on without a pause. 'Nitro-methane is almost impossible to-handle. You can't ignore safety factors.'
'You can build safety into your procedures, if the fuel is good enough,' said a young man in a tweed suit.
The argument was a familiar one to Luke. A bewildering variety of rocket fuels had been tested, many of them more powerful than the standard combination of alcohol and liquid oxygen, but they, all had drawbacks.
A man with a southern accent said: 'What about unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine? I hear they're testing that at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena.' .
Luke suddenly said: 'It works, but it's deadly poison.'
They all turned to him. The white-haired man frowned, looking slightly annoyed, resenting the interruption from a stranger.
Then the young man in the tweed suit looked shocked and said: 'My God, what are you doing in Washington, Luke?'
Luke felt so happy he could have wept.
*
PART 3
4.15 P. M.
A tape programmer in the tub varies the speed of rotation of the upper stages between 450 r.p.m. and 750 r.p.m., to avoid resonance vibrations that could cause the missile to break up in space.
Luke found he could not speak. The emotion of relief was so strong it seemed to constrict his throat All day he had forced himself to be calm and rational, but now he was close to breaking down.
The other scientists resumed their conversation, oblivious to his distress, except for the young man in the tweed suit, who looked concerned and said: 'Hey, are you okay?' .
Luke nodded. After a moment, he managed to say: 'Could we talk?'
'Sure, sure. There's a little office behind the Wright Brothers display. Professor Larkley used it earlier.' They headed for a door to one side. 'I organized this lecture, by the way.' He led Luke into a small, spartan room with a couple of chairs, a desk and a phone. They sat down. 'What's going on?' said the man.
'I've lost my memory.'
'My God!'
'Autobiographical amnesia. I still remember my science, that's how I found my way to you guys, but I don't know anything about myself.' -
Looking shocked, the young man said: 'Do you know who I am?'
Luke shook his head. 'Heck, I'm not even sure of my own name.'
'Whew.' The man looked bewildered. 'I never came across anything like this in real life.'
'I need you to tell me what you know about me.'
'I guess you do. Uh ... where shall I start?'
'Everyone calls you Luke. You're Dr Claude Lucas, but I guess7you never liked 'Claude. I'm Will McDermot'
Luke closed his eyes, overwhelmed by relief and gratitude. He knew his name. 'Thank you, Will.'
'I don't know anything about your family. I've only met you a couple of times, at scientific conferences.'
'Do you know where I live?'
'Huntsville, Alabama, I guess. You work for the Army Ballistic Missile Agency. They're based at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. You're a civilian, though, not an army officer. Your boss is Wernher von Braun.'
'I can't tell you how good it is to know this stuff!'
'I was surprised to see you because your team is about to launch a rocket that will put an American satellite in space for the first time. They're all down in Cape Canaveral, and word is it could be tonight.' '
'I read about it in the paper this morning - my God, did I work on that''
'Yeah. The Explorer. It's the most important launch in the history of the American space programme -especially since the success of the Russian Sputnik and the failure of the Navy's Vanguard.'
Luke was exhilarated. Only hours ago he had imagined himself a drunken bum. Now it turned out he was a scientist at the peak of his career. 'But I ought to be there for the launch!'
'Exactly ... so do you have any idea why you're not?'
Luke shook his head. 'I woke up this morning in the men's room at Union Station. No idea how I got there.'
Will gave him a man-to-man grin. 'Sounds like you went to a great party last night!'
'Let me ask you seriously - is that the kind of thing I do? Get so drunk I pass out?'
'I don't know you well enough to answer that' Will frowned. 'I'd be surprised, though. You know us scientists. Our idea of a party is to sit around drinking coffee and talking about our work.'
That sounded right to Luke. 'Getting drunk just doesn't seem interesting enough.' But he had no other explanation of how he had gotten into this scrape. Who was Pete? Why had people been following him? And who were the two men searching for him at Union Station?
