My sole interest was science. My major passion was flight. I was dreaming of a voyage to the stars and their infinite mysteries. This dream was not common. Those fools thought it was madness. I realized that they were draining my brain for their own pointless purposes. And so finally I revolted. Withheld vital information. Over two or three years I sabotaged my own projects, deliberately causing failure after failure, feeling pain for the first time.
Such anguish to endure. The first and last time I felt it. The knowledge that I was destroying my own work to keep it safe for the future. And for all that, I did it. My contempt was my protection. I now knew that the cost of the research had filled them with panic. My great machines would not be built: they would rot while the weapons grew. The men in charge were men moved by mortal fears: they lacked vision and courage. I did not need such men. Such men were a menace. Only heroes or madmen, History’s undefiled dreamers, would be capable of backing my vision and making it real.
Thus I sabotaged the project. I said our hopes had been misguided. They stared at me from behind their long table and showed great relief. My apologies were accepted. A few murmured their regrets. Then my atomic propulsion project was aborted and the hangars closed down. World War 1 had already started. The Dark Ages had returned. They wanted aircraft of a functional nature, so I quietly resigned.
The worst years of my life. I was forty-five years old. My genius for technology kept me working, but frustration was choking me. Years of drifting around the country. Work here, working there. Hiding my genius and displaying mere competence, thus avoiding attention. How did I survive it? With contempt. With willpower. Democracy, that catchphrase of the West, became something to laugh at. Democracy was incompetence. The right to vote meant poor leadership. What was needed in the world, and what I wanted most desperately, was a government of heroes or madmen who sought the impossible. Such a government did not exist. The US government was run by cowards. Thus for years, with a pain that turned to rage, I kept my dreams to myself.
Years of lacerating anguish. The first and last time. Sustained by relentless curiosity and indomitable will. My contempt for their blindness. My refusal to accept defeat. Every scientific library in the country falling under my scrutiny. All that, plus the work. The demeaning jobs I did for money. My genius for engineering, electronics and aeronautics offered up in the disguise of mere competence as a means of survival. But I used even that. Used laboratories and workshops. Created small things here and there, the minor offshoots of my genius, and sold them to the moguls in suits for the freedom I needed.
Then I found a resting place. The facilities were exceptional. I stayed with an aircraft company in Texas as the head of their research lab. All those nights spent alone. The white sheets of the draftsmen. All the experiments I conducted in secret while designing their aircraft. (My head aches as I think of this. I find it difficult to recall. The prosthetics and artificial heart cannot help me forever.) Electrostatic repulsion. Photosensitive cell steerage. The reaction of streams of ions to furnish rocket propulsion, then a means of neutralizing the decrease of gravity and other such matters. I never cared about their aircraft. Already they were obsolete. Already I had moved beyond orthodox flight and was tackling the mysteries of the boundary layer. The boundary layer was everything. Conquer that and the dream was mine. Thus I worked and theorized, the laboratory, the wind tunnel, but the theories still remained in my papers and could not be tested.
My dream was of evolution. Man’s place in the universe. My dream was of Man as a mind that could transcend the body.
Yet how to achieve this? ‘Man ’ meant individual men. And such men, being imperfect creatures, were distracted by hungers. The hunger for love. For admiration and power. I then tried to understand what such hungers meant and found them all in myself.
The hunger for love. In my loneliness I felt it. Somewhere, sometime, a memory almost gone, I wasted nights trying to ease my own hungers in a more common flesh. What I found was soon lost. The vulva’s folds were a threat. The rigid shaft of my penis in a woman gave no more than a spasm. Yet such a spasm shapes the world. People live and die for such. And that spasm represents what most people want: admiration and power.
Learning this, I retreated. Love’s deceits showed the way. I understood in my moment of grace that their needs were illusions. I retreated and found myself. I took myself in my own hands. When my need, when my sex, became a threat I gave my semen release. Thus I understood men. They were feelings, not thought. Whereas Man, that outpouring of separate men, held the promise of greatness.
Science represents the mind. It is what we must live by. It is logic and towers above the chaos of outmoded emotions. I learned this and lived by it. I stood above my crude desires. When my flesh seduced my mind from its work, I gave it instant release. A shaft of meat in the hand. The ejaculation of semen. It meant then, and to this day still means, the mere appeasement of hunger. And learning this, I was released. The call of science was in my soul. From then on I neither entered another being nor believe in men’s sanctity.
Inhuman? Perhaps. But then what does ‘human’ mean? Only fear and confusion and doubt and emotional turmoil. To be human is to err. More: to stagnate. Men are impulse encased in flesh and bone, and alone they are nothing. But Man is something different. Man is mind over matter. Man is imperfection crawling from the slime to evolve into Superman.
I met Goddard in Massachusetts. I remember returning there. I was fifty years old at the time, but felt younger than that.
How I envied Goddard! But envied and pitied him. Another genius humiliated by his countrymen and becoming eccentric. Envy. Admiration. Both share the same bed. And so I envied his achievements, respected them, analyzed them, and felt pity for the future he would have at the hands of his fellows.
It was 1929. I looked upon him as a child. A suspicious, secretive, brilliant child with more instinct than logic. And yet he was a genius. There were things I learnt from Goddard. Not much: just the odd, bizarre insight, some small things I had missed: peculiarities of steering systems, gyroscopic controls, various kinds of self-cooling combustion chambers – small things; all priceless. In return, he learned from me. We worked together for two years. My presence unannounced, Goddard sworn to keep me secret, we spent days in the deserts of New Mexico, unraveling mysteries. Goddard sent his rockets skyward. My soul soared aloft with them. It was 1931, a troubled year, and I knew that my time had come.
Tsiolkovski and Goddard. Both still alive then. One older, one much younger than me, both true pioneers. The basic principles of space-flight: the deaf Russian’s great achievement. Then the liquidfueled rocket of young Goddard, abused beyond mention. Both stood at the threshold. Both failed the same way. Both depended upon ‘honorable’ men and were thus chained by small minds. Their mistake was not repeated. I did not trust ‘honorable’ men. What I wanted were heroes or madmen – and the latter sufficed.
I never dwell on morality. Never did, never will. Morality is the crutch of the cripple, the mask of the weak. What of Wernher von Braun? What of Walter Dornberger? Such men were neither sinners nor saints: they were quite simply scientists. Can a scientist think of morals? Should he split peas in a pod? No, what the scientists must do is pursue his great calling. By himself, he has no means. He must depend on those with power. And in doing so, he must stand aloof from all concepts of right and wrong. I always believed that. I believe it to this day. And gazing out at the wilderness, at the world of snow and ice, I think of how, after working with Goddard, I accepted this bitter truth.
There were madmen back in power. They were obsessed and visionary. To me, they represented the possibility of limitless facilities. I never thought of right or wrong. I simply took my opportunity. I left Goddard and America behind me – and I never returned.
Chapter Nine
They drove out of Galveston as the evening fell about them, a fiery sun bathing the Gulf of Mexico in a red, incandescent light. The city soon fell behind them
, gave way to parched flatlands, old shacks and houses leaning on stilts, silhouetted in crimson haze. Stanford wiped sweat from his brow: the April winds outside were hot; he swore softly and glanced at Epstein, saw him framed by the sinking sun. Epstein looked extremely tired; he rubbed his eyes and coughed a lot. Stanford grinned at him and then watched the road that cut through the bleak countryside.
‘I had a call from a friend,’ he said. ‘He told me it happened this afternoon. He works in the Manned Spacecraft Center just outside Houston and he wants us to go there at the end of his working day. He said he would talk to us.’
Epstein smiled wearily. ‘You’re such an operator,’ he said. ‘I never imagined I’d get into the MSC, so you’ve just made my day.’
Stanford chuckled at that. ‘Well, you know me, professor. I had this sweet girl and this girl knows this guy and this guy wants what I get from the girl, so he’s very obliging.’
‘You’re a bastard,’ Epstein said.
‘I have a mom and a pa.’
‘You really should settle down, Stanford. You’re too old for that nonsense.’
Stanford chuckled again. ‘I can’t make decisions,’ he said. ‘You told me that a couple of weeks back and I think you were right. I’m an irresponsible sonofabitch. I can’t resist my hard-ons. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have been a proper scientist instead of troubleshooting for your institute. But we all have our place in life.’
Epstein almost laughed, but instead a cough emerged, making him cover his mouth with a handkerchief and spit the phlegm out. When he had finished, he cursed softly, shook his head from side to side, then glanced out the window of the speeding car, his gaze slightly unfocused.
‘You should see a doctor,’ Stanford said.
‘I’m too busy, my friend.’
‘You’ve had that cough a long time.’
‘I’ve been alive a long time.’
‘You’re not so old.’
‘I grow younger every day.’ Epstein studied the bloody sunset in the west, the starkly shadowed flatlands. ‘Where on earth are we going?’
‘Someone’s ranch,’ Stanford said. ‘About halfway between here and Houston. It’s supposed to be just off this road. We should be there real soon.’
‘What sort of rancher?’
‘A struggling one-man band. A few crops and a hundred head of cattle. Now he’s left with only the crops.’
Epstein nodded sympathetically, closed his eyes and put his head back, sinking gratefully into his seat, yearning for sleep. The sun had almost gone, the crimson sky turning to darkness, a ragged ribbon of mountains on the horizon, suffused in an ochre haze. The wind was growing stronger, howling around the speeding car, clouds of dust racing across the flatlands and whipping the cactus trees.
‘What did you find out about Irving Jacobs?’
‘I thought you were sleeping,’ Stanford said.
‘No,’ Epstein said, ‘I’m just resting. Now what about Irving?’
‘Not a thing,’ Stanford said. ‘The loss of his papers is still a mystery – and that doesn’t help much.’
‘The police?’
‘No papers. They found nothing in Irving’s car. Apparently the only thing that Irving took with him was that fucking pistol.’
‘We checked the terrain,’ Epstein said. ‘That area was definitely radioactive. I think something came down over Irving’s car and made that great circle of scorched earth.’
‘That was one hell of a scorch mark.’
‘Yes, it was huge. But assuming that something descended from the sky, that would explain the lack of tire tracks.’
‘A UFO.’
‘Precisely.’
‘It’s too incredible,’ Stanford said. ‘I just can’t bring myself to accept that. I try, but I can’t.’
‘There were UFOs all over the area. They were all tracked on radar. Three of them – one large and two small – and they were tracked near that area.’
‘I checked on Mary’s info. A lot of what she said was true. Dr Jessup committed suicide, Rene Hardy committed suicide, McDonald drove himself into the desert and shot himself in the head – exactly like Irving. She was also right about Chuck Wakely. He’d been stirring things up a bit. He was shot dead in his room in Miami a couple of weeks back.’
‘I think there’s a connection.’
‘I think you may be right.’
‘And the Philadelphia Experiment?’
‘All the doors are closed tight. The Navy categorically denies that it ever existed… it’s just one of those rumors.’
‘Maybe,’ Epstein said. ‘And then again, maybe not. It’s a known fact that the Navy’s been working for years to develop a form of magnetic cloud that can temporarily render physical objects, including ships, invisible. It’s also widely rumored, though not yet proven, that NASA has been engaged in research into the possibilities of antigravity. Who knows what they’ve accomplished? They keep quiet about a lot of their achievements. But as both of us know, their denials don’t mean a damned thing.’
The sun sank behind the mountains, the blood-red dusk dissolving, the sky starry, the wind howling around the car as it headed toward Houston. Epstein exercised his stiff neck, his hands folded, primly in his lap; he was trying to avoid thinking of Mary or the relentless passage of time. He wasn’t really growing younger. In fact, his age weighed upon him. He glanced out of the speeding car, saw the swirling of clouds of sand, the deepening night stretched out all around them, hybrid with mystery.
‘What do you know about the CIA?’
‘Odds and ends,’ Stanford said.
‘UFO investigations?’
‘They’ve been involved,’ Stanford said. ‘No one really knows how long or how much, but they have been involved.’
‘It is possible to check it out?’
‘It wouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘No,’ Epstein said. ‘I mean, check it out in details. I want to know the whole history, from the end of the Second World War to the present day. I want to know when it started. I want to know why. I want to know if their concern was just for national security or if they’re really concerned with something even bigger. I don’t want the usual rumors, the speculations and conspiracy theories; I want the facts straight from the horse’s mouth: the complete, detailed picture.’
‘Why?’ Stanford asked.
‘Because I think the answer’s there. Because too many of those people have come to bad ends after having a lot of trouble with the Establishment, scientific or military. Why was Jessup called to Washington? Why did Ruppelt revise his book? Why did Irving and Dr McDonald both go down the same way? McDonald was harassed and humiliated. Irving had to endure the same. Mary claims that Irving thought he was being followed – and that might well be true. Others have made similar claims. Many retired prematurely or disappeared. So there’s little doubt that investigating UFOs can lead to serious trouble. Does the government know something? Is the CIA involved? If the UFOs exist, and if they’re of extraterrestrial origin, that would certainly put the wind up the government, might frighten the hell out of them. I think the UFOs exist. I also think they’re of extraterrestrial origin. It’s possible that the government thinks the same – or even has firm evidence. That would explain the harassment. It would explain their denials. They might be scared of people getting too close and revealing the truth.’
Stanford shook his head in disagreement. ‘You’re getting carried away,’ he said. ‘You’ve been at this game too many years and it’s all getting through to you. Of course the CIA is interested; they’re involved in national security. They’re interested in the UFOs because they don’t know what they are and because any unidentified flying object could be dangerous. It doesn’t matter what UFOs are; what matters is what they do. And what they do is cause panic and confusion, distracting pilots and tying up communications every time there’s a sighting. In short, they’re a fucking nuisance. They cost time and a lot of money. If we could identify them
positively as atmospheric phenomena, the pilots would no longer be distracted and the phones would stop ringing… Thus the CIA’s interest.’
‘But the CIA has denied that it’s interested.’
‘God, you’re stubborn,’ said Stanford.
Grinning, he rolled his eyes, turned the car off to the right, left the main road in favor of a narrow track that cut obliquely through flat wasteland. The track was rough, filled with potholes, making the car bounce and groan, its headlights almost useless in the dust clouds that swept howling across them. Stanford cursed and slowed down, trying to see through the murk, the moon and stars being blotted out by what seemed like a growing storm.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘that’s some wind out.’
Epstein coughed and rubbed his eyes, feeling almost suffocated, aggravated by the howling of the wind and the dense, swirling dust clouds. They were in the middle of nowhere, the storm raging in a void; he caught a glimpse of barbed wire, a gnarled tree, the black hump of a distant hill. The dust seemed to be alive, racing at them and around them, smacking the car and then exploding obliquely and spraying back down upon them. This night had no boundaries, stretching as far as the eye could see, featuring nothing but the billowing clouds of dust and the odd cactus tree.
‘There they are,’ Stanford said.
Epstein squinted into the storm, saw some lights far ahead, rather dull and suspended in space, the dust racing across them. He blinked and looked again, saw the lights coming closer, separating, gliding away from one another until they formed a long line. Epstein strained to see better. The lights were now a lot brighter. The car shuddered and then rolled down an incline and the lights changed again. They were actually raised up on trucks. The trucks surrounded a broad field. The lights were like the lamps of a football stadium, beaming down on the ground below. The whole scene was very strange. Epstein saw the circle of lights, the dust racing across the field, indistinct figures wandering to and fro, some bent over, gesticulating to each other. The sand blew across them, clumps of sagebrush rolled and danced, and the arc lamps formed an immense globe of light surrounded by black night.
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 13
