Sputnik Caledonia

by Andrew Crumey

  It was an enormous cost, yet Robert wasn’t afraid of having to pay it. The men from the Ministry who spiked his tea had performed a delicate act of kindness.

  ‘We all have our patriotic part to play,’ Kaupff continued. ‘What matters is freedom of the people as a whole, not our own personal interests: that’s the cause I’ve believed in and fought for all my life, it was why the fascists threw me in prison. My father was a Nazi, you know. He wasn’t a bad man, he never beat me or my mother – but he was in there at the very start, strutting along the street in his brown shirt like an idiot. And I became a communist, determined to make sure that the speculators and bankers and arms dealers and factory owners who made fascism possible would never again be able to enrich themselves by perverting the minds of honest workers like my father. He wasn’t an evil man, Robert. When I was small he dandled me on his knee, sang lullabies to help me sleep, played games with me, taught me how to send a kite whirring into the air on a beautiful summer’s day I shall never forget. If I fell and hurt myself he would comfort me; if I did well at school he expressed pride and joy. You see, he was no brute. Nor did he lack culture, though he was rough-hewn and self-educated. It was from my father that I first learned lines of Goethe, before I was ever taught them at school. Was he an angry man, a disappointed man, spiteful or petulant? I wouldn’t say so. No, he lacked only one thing, Robert. He lacked imagination. And that is what all of them lacked, that single quality that could have made them stop the disaster. Have you ever read Goethe?’

  No doubt brainy Rosalind was an expert but Robert felt no embarrassment in admitting an ignorance he shared with nearly every one of his countrymen.

  ‘In the Installation, all this must change,’ said Kaupff. ‘I consider a certain amount of Goethe to be compulsory for every human being who aspires to have an imagination.’

  So she was an expert, then. Perhaps a few choice lines would be the way to impress her – but did he have to impress Kaupff too? ‘How is Goethe relevant to the mission?’ Robert asked. He could see the point of Rocket to the Stars, but not some dead German poet.

  Kaupff smiled. ‘When I was seven I learned to recite “Wandrers Nachtlied” – a pretty little poem about being in the countryside at twilight. Then when I was your age it became a different kind of poem for me, about being at one with nature and beauty. And when I was rotting in a labour camp it was about the indestructible value of German culture, which even the fascists couldn’t destroy. And now that I’m old, it’s a poem about the final rest that comes to us all. The same lines, Robert, the same words I learned when I was seven – the same primal material recurring in renewed form, because this is what life is. If we taught seven-year-olds only what is relevant to seven-year-olds then they could never grow. So if I should ask you to read some Goethe, then I hope you will understand it as a kind of mental insurance, like making you pack sandwiches and an umbrella before a long journey. You never know if you’ll need them, but you’ll appreciate them when you do.’

  Robert looked toward the window beyond Kaupff’s shoulder, and between the faded flower-patterned curtains that remained opened, he thought he could see the feeble twinkling of a star.

  ‘I lead a double life,’ said Kaupff.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My research has been along two paths: the development of weapons, and the theory of fundamental forces. The great problem we would all love to solve is the unification of general relativity with quantum field theory. Do you know anything about relativity?’

  If Kaupff thought Robert’s vivid imagination could be of any help in that department then he’d picked the wrong man.

  ‘You’ll be taught whatever you need to know,’ Kaupff assured him. ‘But you see, this problem of quantum gravity is every bit as hard as trying to reach a frozen star – people have been banging their heads at it for decades. Maybe we need to go around the problem instead of trying to blast through it. So I’ve followed a different approach from other physicists – and many of my ideas have come from reading works that have no obvious connection with the subject. Yes, even Goethe, who did a great deal of scientific research. Here, let me show you something.’ He got up and went past Robert towards a door at the other end of the room. Robert, turning to watch, saw through the opening what he took to be the old man’s bedroom, revealed – when Kaupff switched on the light and moved to a region beyond Robert’s view – to be a place filled just as completely with books as the rest of the flat. Kaupff came back a moment later, switching off the light and closing the door before bringing to the table a small contraption of rusted iron. ‘Now, Robert, take a look at this.’ Kaupff handed it to him; a device consisting of two metal balls on struts. By twirling it in his hand, Robert found he could make the balls rise outwards and upwards. ‘Have you ever seen one before?’

  ‘I think I might have. I can’t remember where.’

  ‘It’s called a governor. I first saw one when I was a child – it was spinning around on a steam engine, and I thought it a lovely thing, like a miniature carousel. Then when I was older and knew a little physics, it meant something deeper. Just like a poem, in fact.’

  Robert spun it to and fro in his hand, and the only association it suggested to him was a pair of testicles and a very thin penis.

  ‘Nineteenth-century mathematicians tried to work out an equation for the way it moves but found they couldn’t, because it exhibits a kind of behaviour they’d never encountered before: a feedback loop. The rotation of the spindle affects the steam flow, which in turn affects the rotation. Goethe would have called that sort of mutual dependency organic; Engels would have said it’s dialectic. The other word we have nowadays is cybernetic. And that’s the approach I’ve been taking to quantum gravity: a cybernetic one. You see, Robert? Everything in the universe both determines and is determined by everything else. Everything is connected. To understand the part we must perceive the whole.’

  It still looked like a rusty cock and a pair of balls, but Robert was having fun playing with it.

  ‘I hope you realize now that our mission is both an intellectual and a moral one; both scientific and visionary. Only by approaching it from every possible angle can we hope to find a solution – which is why a simple young fellow like yourself can potentially have as much to offer as an army of professors. So don’t be surprised if you find yourself having to read poetry or take part in experiments or exercises that might seem strange, irrelevant, bizarre. Everything here has a purpose, Robert. I’ve even arranged for a prominent writer to join our research team in the hope of generating new ideas – he’ll be giving a lecture tomorrow.’

  Robert glanced at his watch – it was after ten o’clock and he had heard enough lecturing for tonight. Kaupff noticed his tiredness. ‘We should go and call for your car.’ Robert collected his book from the sofa while Kaupff put on a thick coat and scarf, apparently intending to wait with him in the night air. On the landing, Robert pointed to the second door beside Kaupff’s.

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘No one, it’s a spare apartment. Sometimes it’s used by visiting scientists who come to the Installation. Rosalind occasionally sleeps over if she’s been working late here.’ He led the way down the narrow flight of stairs to the brightly lit corridor below.

  ‘Will I sometimes be working here with you?’

  ‘We shall see,’ Kaupff said curtly, making Robert wonder if he was still the teacher’s pet Kaupff’s hospitality had made him feel, despite the professor’s denial. They walked swiftly past doors whose occupants were now nearly all marked ‘in’.

  ‘Shall I meet any of these people?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Too many questions, Coyle.’ They reached a more opulent corridor that led to the front lobby, where both walked more slowly in deference to the burgundy carpet and panelled walls. The butler was still at his desk. ‘A car, please, Jason.’

  ‘Certainly, Professor.’ Almost lizard-like with his unerringly precise movements, he lifted the
receiver of the large black telephone at his side, said ‘Car – main entrance,’ hung up, then announced with silky assurance to Robert, ‘About ten or fifteen minutes. Do please relax in the bar.’

  ‘If you’d like to give our guest his coat, he and I can both go outside to take the air,’ Kaupff told him.

  ‘Of course, Professor.’ The butler fetched Robert’s military greatcoat and handed it to him; Rocket to the Stars slid neatly into one pocket. Then he opened the glass-paned door for the two men, wishing Robert goodnight as the pupil followed his master through the outer doorway and into the dark gravel-covered courtyard.

  ‘Just look at the sky,’ said Kaupff. Above them, stars glowed in the clear, moonless night.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Robert murmured obediently. Cold too.

  ‘It’s why you’re here,’ Kaupff reminded him. ‘Do you know your constellations?’ Robert guessed this was something else the brainy ones were expected to be familiar with. ‘What do you think that star there must be?’

  Robert saw a brilliant light which would have been an aeroplane if it moved. ‘The Red Star, sir?’

  Kaupff sighed. ‘It’s Jupiter, dear boy. What we seem to have officially decided to call the Red Star is invisible – and in any case its present position is below the horizon, in roughly that direction.’ He pointed at a far-off piece of ground towards the main part of the Installation, whose lights glowed in the distance; almost as if he were indicating the Installation itself. The two of them kept pacing, and Robert began to notice they were walking away from the building and its bright windows, so that very soon they left the courtyard for a smooth path that took them through a copse of trees. The increased darkness, and Robert’s growing acclimatization to it, made the stars above them swell in number and brilliance.

  ‘Doesn’t it make you feel both small and magnificent?’ said Kaupff. ‘Here beneath the stars we are reminded that all nature is one. In tausend Formen magst du dich verstecken . . .’

  Robert ought to try that one on Rosalind, if only he could figure out how to say it, and what it meant. He could manage a little Russian, but didn’t suppose ‘Do you like opera?’ would have much use in a closed town with two pubs and a cinema.

  They walked through the trees and emerged onto the smooth expanse of a bowling green. ‘I often come here,’ Kaupff said, standing closely at Robert’s side. ‘I sometimes bring a telescope – as you can see, we’re far enough removed here from electric lights to get a superb view. Of course, telescopes aren’t the sort of thing you normally find in the Installation – they’re banned for security reasons. But an exception was made for me. And there’s something else I like about this place – can you guess what it is?’ Robert felt an arm across his back, a hand rising and coming to rest on his shoulder. Kaupff whispered in his ear. ‘No bugging devices. This is where we can share our deepest secrets.’

  Robert moved away. ‘My car will be here soon …’

  ‘We’ll see its headlights coming up the hill,’ said Kaupff. ‘It won’t go back down without you. Enjoy the stars and the fresh air. Can you see the Milky Way?’ Robert looked upwards and Kaupff embraced him once more. ‘There it is,’ he said, tracing with his free arm a faintly glowing band, brightest where it dipped towards the northern horizon. ‘A hundred million suns at a single glance – can anything be more wondrous?’

  Robert was unnerved. Kaupff’s comment about bugging devices was a hint of danger: their electronic presence beneath the soil, or in the neighbouring trees, would have been reassuring. It was as if Kaupff were deliberately showing him the one place in the Installation where they could not be overheard – the sort of place in which a spy might choose to linger.

  He heard a crackle among the trees – it sounded like twigs breaking beneath a shoe. More probably a fox, but Robert could feel the short hairs on the back of his neck rise and tingle. Even a fox was threatening now; a nocturnal beast in search of prey, in its dark element while Robert strained to see anything but distant lights.

  ‘I learned these constellations as a child,’ Kaupff said dreamily. ‘The poetry of the sky – the beacons we steer by. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I heard something. An animal, I think.’

  ‘Only a child fears darkness, Robert. You’re not a child.’

  ‘I’m sure I can see my car.’

  ‘Is it the night that scares you?’ Kaupff drew closer to him, breathing warm vapour across his face, speaking with sudden and surprising passion. ‘Or is it me? Do you think I’m a mad old fool with my talk of poetry and stars?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you see that we must have courage and daring – even if it means daring to be mad? And you worry about an animal! We’re confronted by the infinite, Robert, and all you notice is a scurrying rat.’ Excited clouds of the old man’s breath were urging themselves against Robert’s cheek, almost like the prelude to a kiss. Robert was confused and embarrassed, and when the crackling of twigs became a heavy breaking of wood beneath a dark figure emerging from the trees, he leapt away with a start.

  ‘Good evening, comrades. I hope I didn’t frighten you, though it’s very late for you both to be wandering around the grounds like this.’ It was Commissioner Davis, who, while hiding himself among the trees so as to eavesdrop on the conversation, had kept his pipe strategically unlit.

  ‘I’ve been telling Volunteer Coyle about astronomy,’ said Kaupff, hardly less unnerved than Robert had been.

  ‘I know,’ said Davis. ‘It was an interesting disquisition, which I hope you shall share with all of us in a seminar. It seems a pity to waste such entertaining ideas in a place where no one can hear.’

  ‘Unless he tries,’ Kaupff added, regaining his composure. For a moment, all three men were swept by pale light: the swinging beams of the car that had rounded the bend at the foot of the hill and was beginning its ascent towards the Lodge. ‘We need to get you home, Robert,’ said Kaupff. ‘Let’s go to your car.’

  ‘Why the hurry?’ Davis interrupted. ‘As you said yourself, Professor, it won’t leave without him.’ Then he turned to Robert and asked him, ‘Has anything improper happened during your visit here tonight?’

  Kaupff was outraged. ‘I beg your pardon!’

  ‘Quiet, please. I have asked Volunteer Coyle a formal question in accordance with my duties and responsibilities under the Judicial Code, and I shall make an official note of his response, which will be kept on record. Well, Volunteer?’

  Robert spoke softly. ‘I am not aware of any impropriety.’

  ‘Not aware?’

  Robert coughed nervously. ‘Nothing improper has happened. And if I may say so, sir, I see no reason why any such allegation should be made.’

  ‘I make no allegation,’ said Davis. ‘I observe, I take note, I record. You could say I’m a scientist of the human condition. And I’m sorry if I have caused any misunderstanding, any offence or embarrassment, but I’m sure you can both see why two men lurking on a bowling green at night, in a place of the very highest security which has been breached in the recent past by enemy agents, might attract official attention.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Kaupff. ‘Now please let us send Coyle home to bed. And the next time I bring my telescope here I shall be sure to invite you along as chaperone, Commissioner.’

  ‘It would be most educational,’ Davis replied, leading the way back to the courtyard. The car was waiting at the Lodge’s doorway, engine chugging, its headlamps dazzling as they approached, so that Kaupff and Robert had to shield their eyes in order to see the commissioner’s silhouetted figure when he came to a halt. ‘I have an idea,’ he said, turning to face his blinking companions. ‘Let’s convene here tomorrow night – you can give us a tour of the heavens, Professor Kaupff. I should very much like to find out what you’re able to see with that instrument of yours.’

  ‘I shall be delighted to show you,’ Kaupff said calmly. ‘Let us hope for another clear sky like tonight’s.’

  Davis we
nt to the car and pulled open the front passenger door; Robert followed, going towards the rear, then realized that the open door was meant for him. ‘Goodnight, Volunteer,’ Davis said when Robert climbed in. ‘You will be collected from your quarters at eight a.m. Sleep well.’ The driver was the same man who had brought him earlier; and during the whole journey back, neither he nor Robert said a word.

  4

  The Franks’ house was dark. Robert left the car as quietly as he could and walked up the path, hearing the vehicle drive away along the empty street. Even as he stood at the door and reached inside his pocket for the key Mr Frank had given him, he could still hear the car in the distance – perhaps the only moving vehicle in the whole of the Installation.

  He pushed the brass key into the lock, gave it a twist, and found it wouldn’t budge. He should have waited for that lesson from Mr Frank after all. He tried again, turning the key this way and that, unsure which direction was correct, but finding either impossible. The key was defective, or the lock had been set in some unshiftable way, or else – most likely of all – it would only respond to the deft and expert fiddling of Mr Frank, or of someone schooled by him in the household’s manifold idiosyncrasies. There was frost on the ground at Robert’s feet; his ungloved hands were numb with cold. If he were to stay outdoors on a night like this he would quite possibly be dead by morning.

  He did what most people will do in moments of utter hopelessness. He kept trying, silently twisting and forcing the immovable key, as if the weight of need and desperation would be enough to undo the mechanical laws of nature and of locks; as if willpower alone would persuade the key to change its shape, change its mind, and let him into the house. The thought of calling out and waking the Franks – and the whole street – or of lobbing pebbles at upstairs windows was more outrageous to him than the idea that he might soon be on the verge of hypothermia. At least he would die politely, expiring in a frost-crusted heap on the pavement while the Franks’ precious sleep went uninterrupted. So he fiddled and fussed, he pushed and pulled, making no sound and achieving nothing except a worsening of the pain in his fingers. Then the door opened.