Who's on First

by William F. Buckley

  He opened the kitchen door. “Well, Punky, our friend Julian here will take it all down, and do the best he can. I’ll see you tomorrow. I understand you plan to fly back tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah, and when they load ole Punky on that airplane, excuse the expression, they’re gonna need four men, ’cause ole Punky is gonna be stiff as an ironing board, you bet, another twelve hours in that fuckin’ tank.” From his position, feet on the coffee table, he waved at Rufus and gave him a broad smile. “That’s pretty good hootch, Rufus. Thank you, boy. You all come down to Cocoa Beach someday, and I’ll look after you.”

  Rufus waved his thanks, said good-bye, and left, still impassive.

  It was almost three in the morning. Punky’s capacity for hootch was Rabelaisian, but it appeared to affect him not at all. His capacity to formulate and describe, Blackford noticed with awe, could not be improved on by any textbook writer. In turn Punky was impressed by the ready grasp of the questions by the young man whose background, to be sure, was clearly scientific. Finally, Blackford’s notes complete, he gratefully accepted a proffered shot of the brandy, noting that this might be his last chance, the bottle being very nearly depleted. Punky was now reminiscing. “Wish I could take the credit for the breakthrough on the instrumentation, but if ever there was fuckin’ serendipity, that was it. That feller from MIT—Van de Graaff—got the idea for the unit—he and John Trump—and he didn’t have any reason to know that his unit’s electron beam effect on the transistor crystals—that’s what the Russian feller says is killin’ ’em at Tyura Tam trying to shore up—is like fuckin’ hormones. He teams up with a couple of electrical engineers and they form this company, see, High Voltage Engineering Corporation, Burlington, Mass., and begin cranking ’em out for commercial use. Goddamnedest concept. Do anything. Increase toughness of most plastics. Sterilize medical products that can’t stand heat. Extend life of shelf foods. Know what Morganstern—Kennard H.—said about the E-beam? ‘It’s like discovering fire all over again.’ Fuckin’ A. An outfit in Westbury, Long Island, Morganstern’s Radiation Dynamics, Inc., gets one of those units and Johanssen passes some transistor crystals through it, and bang! it’s like Popeye takin’ his stupid spinach. We got no troubles up at the top of our rocket, where the Commies got their troubles. Our problems are at the assend, the fuckin’ fuel, which they got licked, and the leads this feller’s given us are hot, and now we need just the answers to those questions you got down there, Julian, so be a real good boy and bring those back to me, and we’ll give you a satellite for Christmas. Deal?”

  “It’s a deal, Punky.” Blackford rose, and yawned, and tucked the notebook into his jacket pocket.

  “So long, kid.”

  “So long, grandpa.”

  Punky smiled, and looking over his toes, in a position almost exactly horizontal, his head just slightly elevated on the back of the couch, he raised his drinking hand in salutation.

  Blackford drove via the Porte Champerret, slipped fifty francs to the news vendor who was uncarting bales of newspapers, and took from him an issue of Le Monde. He reached Chantilly at daybreak, tapped out the code on the windowpane, and was admitted by the night sentry. He mumbled a good morning and headed for the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of milk, and sat at the kitchen table, allowing himself a look at the headlines, which featured divers news of Algerian terrorism and French cabinet crises. Senator Humphrey had given a speech saying that arms control wouldn’t work unless China was in on the deal, otherwise the Russians would use China as a loophole. He turned then to the classifieds and brought the lamp closer to see the fine print. He ran the table knife down the columns. It was there: “Dear Anna Krupskaya: Your terms are accepted. We shall expect the exchange before sunset.” Well, thought Blackford, just what Rufus expected. So what else is new?

  What else was new he saw only because of the inertial movement of his eyes. Three inches under the item marked for the attention of Anna Krupskaya was another: “Harry. I need to speak to you. Call LITtre 2535. Frieda.”

  He looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. Should he wait, consult Rufus? Impulsively he reached for the telephone and gave the number to the operator. A sleepy man’s voice answered.

  “Is Frieda there?”

  “Who wants to talk to her?”

  “Harry.”

  “What is Harry’s last name?”

  Blackford recognized the voice of Erno Toth.

  “Harry Browne.”

  “When did Harry last see Frieda?”

  “At the same time I last saw you, Erno.”

  “All right, Harry. She is very anxious to see you. Her—you have a pencil?”

  “Yes.”

  “At home—she leaves for the office at eight-fifteen—she is at DUPont 1131. At the office it is TROcadero 3535.”

  “Thanks. Good luck, Erno.”

  “Good luck, Harry.”

  22

  Anthony woke Blackford at nine, as instructed to do by the note appended to Le Monde, left outside Anthony’s room.

  “Long night, Black?”

  “Yup,” he yawned, accepting gratefully the coffee. “Did you remember to give Viktor and Tamara some peanut-butter sandwiches so they wouldn’t go to bed hungry?”

  “Not a bad performance, that dinner, you have to admit. I bet not all kidnappers feed their guests the way we do.”

  “That’s right. Which reminds me, Anthony, Rufus gave strict orders that you’re not to rape Tamara. Sorry about that. But you know, salus publica, suprema lex?”

  “Look after your own salus, Oakes; Alouette isn’t likely to.”

  “Anthony, shall we cut the crap?”

  “After you, Blackford.”

  Blackford smiled. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “Rufus called. He didn’t know whether you had gotten the paper before leaving Paris. I told him your note was datelined 6:15 A.M. I’ve talked to Vadim, he’s talked to Viktor, and there’s no problem. He’ll spend as long as you need with you, but assumes he can answer any questions he has the answers to in two or three hours. He doesn’t, for some reason, carry blueprints with him.”

  “I was with a character last night. An expert. Maybe the expert. I know now exactly what our guys want, and how to ask for it. Here’s a question: Do we want Tamara there? I’d think not, though she’d help with the English. I suppose Vadim can get through to us what Viktor has to say. Let’s put it up to Vadim. Go talk to him while I get showered. Tell him for what it’s worth, my vote is to keep her away. It makes it easier for him.”

  Outdoors the atmosphere was charged with electricity, snorts of thunder alternating with shafts of brilliant yellow light. The mood in the drawing room was one of high expectation. Blackford began by handing them the volume devoted to French farmhouses, and indicating the particular farmhouse whose features they should commit to memory. It had been decided that Tamara would devote herself to that assignment while, in the study, Blackford and the two Russians went at the scientific questions. Anthony would quiz Tamara and stand by the telephone. Suddenly Blackford remembered Frieda, excused himself, and dialed the Trocadero number from the upstairs telephone.

  He identified himself and she was quickly satisfied it was he.

  “I am glad to hear from you, Frieda. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. But I should see you. I have important information.”

  “Frieda, I’d love to see you, but I’m out of town, calling from long distance. I don’t know my schedule exactly, but I could probably make it tonight. Is that okay?”

  “Yes. When will you know?”

  Blackford thought. “I’ll call you as early as I can. But I’ll call you no matter what before four o’clock. Tell me this: Is anybody following you?”

  “Not that I know of. I have been very careful.”

  “Okay, see you later.”

  It occurred to Blackford that the day was going to be long. Well, a good idea to get started with Viktor.

  It was noon when the
meeting broke up. Blackford had found it a remarkable experience. Notwithstanding the language barrier, the extraordinary fluency of Kapitsa’s scientific mind made possible a kind of trans-literal communication. He felt as if he had listened to a lecture by Isaac Newton. Vadim too grasped both the problems and the answers. Blackford went to a typewriter and in forty-five minutes came back with a text which Vadim translated into Russian to an acquiescent Kapitsa, who nodded almost continuously, reaffirming the accuracy of this transcript of his explanations. By one o’clock they were hungry, and fatigued by the concentrated session. At lunch Tamara exercised herself by describing the narrative of their detention, exhibiting to Viktor the illustrations of the rooms they had occupied. Anthony showed them a map of Paris and indicated the gate where the “van” would stop, its door opened, the Kapitsas released. “There are always taxis in the neighborhood. Your job is merely to take a taxi to the hotel. I would suggest you go to your hotel room and call Viksne from there. He will no doubt be full of instructions as well as questions. We have no way of knowing what he has told the members of the delegation. You can safely assume he hasn’t told them the truth. Probably said you were sick. He may want to fancy you up with some scars—a lingering cough, or something.”

  Tamara said, though not without an evident sense of strain, “We’ll handle Viksne. Remember: Viktor is very important to Viksne. He will be anxious to believe the whole business had only the Algerian angle.”

  Blackford and Tamara, the weather having settled to a balmy sunshine, strolled down to the lake, while Vadim and Viktor talked fervently, on the tacit assumption that they would never talk again.

  Blackford hoped the conversation would be casual. But she came right to the point. “Julian, Viktor has not told me so, but I expect he has made an arrangement with you. I have been very compliant in this situation, and I honor Viktor’s commitment. You put it to me very forcefully at the restaurant, and I have no answer to what you say: He is the man to define his own happiness, and establish his own priorities. But one day he may need help. I have no way of knowing whether you have people in Russia who might be in a position to help him. But I must have a contact point. With you or with Vadim. If I need to cry out for help, I must know in which direction to cry out.”

  Blackford made a snap decision.

  “Do you have anyone on the outside now with whom you communicate?”

  “I have never met her, but I exchange greetings and occasional photographs with Viktor’s older sister. She married a Swedish diplomat during the war, and got out. Though she and Viktor haven’t seen each other since 1941, they are very close and correspond frequently.”

  “Give me her name and address. I will arrange it so that she can get in touch with me wherever I am, within a few hours. You should know that it would be dangerous to attempt to get messages out through her, and therefore you shouldn’t use the channel except in the case of emergencies.”

  “No. You give me an address in America. I will use it, through Sweden, if necessary. I hope never to use the channel.” She paused, and looked up at him—they were sitting casually on the grass, watching, inattentively, the swans go listlessly by. “I didn’t mean to make that sound unfriendly. In other circumstances, I would like to be your … friend.” She paused and looked down. “Even that isn’t well said. I am your friend. I admire what you are doing, and how you do it. I mean, in better circumstances I would hope to see you, and”—suddenly the self-assured astrophysicist seemed bashful—“Viktor I am sure would also like to be your friend.”

  Blackford leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. He pulled out her pocket notebook and scribbled. “Here’s the address and pseudonym of Vadim. I move about a lot, but he stays pretty well in … that address. He wouldn’t give it out, for Viktor’s sake. But I now have it. Vadim will know how to act. He is better situated than I am to deal with the higher authorities.”

  “I’ll memorize it and won’t forget it.”

  At three-fifteen the telephone rang. Trust spoke with Rufus, who then asked for Blackford. Handing the receiver over, Trust whispered: “It’s all set.”

  “Good afternoon, Rufus. And how many pounds of chestnuts would you like delivered this evening?”

  For a man who missed nothing, Rufus was also expert at ignoring such sallies. “Your morning’s notes. I’ll want them. Let us meet again at Mme. Rondpoint’s at six.”

  “Okay. Rufus, is there any reason you know of why I can’t make a dinner date?”

  “Do you believe what you have to explain to our friend of last night will take you more than an hour or two?”

  “No. I’m ready for him.”

  “Very well. In that case you should be free for dinner. Good-bye.”

  Blackford telephoned Frieda. “Shall we have dinner?”

  “That would be especially nice.”

  “You say where. And remember, I’m still hot.”

  “You are what?” He explained. She gave him an address. “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  23

  Blackford rose and stretched his arms after ninety minutes of intensive interrogation by Punky, Rufus listening in, adding here and there a comment or two, the adroitness of which persuaded Blackford that somewhere, sometime (concerning Rufus’s background no one was presumed to know anything, let alone encouraged to prod), Rufus had acquired the training that equipped him to follow esoteric scientific talk. Punky was all over Blackford, tearing apart his notes, talking himself through formulae explicit and adumbrated, asking questions which Blackford did, or did not, have the answers to, snorting approval, neighing disgust, expressing himself variously in obsequious wonder at, or in high Texan contempt for, Soviet science. On one aspect Punky was reduced to sheer awe: the Soviet mastery of the primary lift-mechanical aspect of the missile. “Tell ya, boy, those fuckers, they’re gonna come ’roun’ one of these days—I’m not talkin’ about the year 2000, either—an’ they gonna say: ‘Boys, y’all wanna fight? Jus’ give us, oh—Berlin for sure—Cairo; the sheeky-boys an’ all that oil—jus’ for starters. You want somethin’? Waal, mebbe if y’all behave, you get to keep Key West.’ Yup, rate they’re goin’ that’s what we’ll be hearin’, you bet you’ ass, Rufus.”

  Rufus came as near to impatience as he ever did. “Come on, Punky. They’ve got a launch-lead on us, and they fooled us about the direction they were headed. But if I understood you, you’ve now got the answer to what’s been holding us back, and in six months or so you can go with it. You forget, they don’t have an answer to the instrumentation problem: We do. We’ve got the scientists, we’re developing the know-how, and if we weigh in on the technological war on a crash basis, they’ll be worrying about holding on to the Ukraine in ten years, not about taking on Berlin.”

  “Atta boy, Rufus,” said Blackford, standing now, and leaning against the book-lined wall of the study. “Rufus,” Blackford addressed Punky in solemn accents, “is the illegitimate son of Knute Rockne. Now it isn’t widely known that Knute Rockne had any illegitimate sons. M-G-M wouldn’t permit it. But M-G-M just wasn’t watching that night, and Rufus came into this world to cheer on the Big Team, for the Big Fight, eh Rufus?”

  Rufus’s smile was strained, but then it always was, and for the tenth time since knowing him, Blackford felt ashamed at teasing someone whose comprehensive skills mattered so greatly. It appeared now assured that the United States would launch the first satellite. And the contrivance of that was: the work of Rufus. He felt a child’s obligation to retreat, though he knew it would be clumsy. “Punky, you’re going back to Florida with a lot of information you didn’t have. What’s done with it is up to you and up to the people who control the purse strings. Lecture them, not Rufus. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, kid, y’all did a real good job; now if you could figger a way ah could git my ass back to Florida without ridin’ that Sherman tank …” His eyes went back to his notes. “Ah think it’s time for a drink”—he looked at his
watch. “7:35. Ah tol’ ’em at the base ah’d be there ’roun’ nine, they could warm up the fucker, maybe see if they could fit in an extra propeller, fucker travels 290 fuckin’ miles per hour, might as well go back on a sailboat.”

  Rufus was prepared, and from the kitchen brought a bottle of scotch, ice, and soda. Punky grabbed the bottle nonchalantly, never taking his eyes off his notebook, and, with his pencil, began a free-sketch drawing. Blackford motioned to Rufus. In the kitchen Blackford said:

  “I have an engagement for dinner tonight with Frieda. She’s the girl I told you about who saved me at the necktie party the other day. I don’t know what she has in mind, but figured you ought to know about it.”

  Rufus looked vaguely concerned. He paused, sat down on the kitchen chair. “Let’s think out loud. This is Friday. On Wednesday you were supposed to be executed. The executioner, a double agent, disappears. He doesn’t report back to his boss. His boss is almost certainly Bolgin himself, or Bolgin’s Hungarian operative, who has been spending time in Paris. In any case, Bolgin must have known about the operation, and approved it. What does he do when he doesn’t hear again from—was it Joseph Nady?”

  “That’s how it sounded.”

  “He wants to find out what happened, so he might well go after one of the two other members of the Hungarian execution squad. We don’t know whether he knew who they were. Let’s assume—always safer, Blackford—that he did. So he finds the girl, Frieda. He’s looking for you. He lets her dig you up—oh yes, Blackford, I noticed the ad in Le Monde. It certainly isn’t clear how he would turn her into a sitting ambush for you. So let’s suppose the worst—always a good idea, Black. Oh. I said that already. Let’s assume the worst: He gets hold of her, and comes up with some argument she swallows, about how you can be useful to her and other freedom fighters struggling to get out. A tall order, but Bolgin doesn’t mind complicated problems. The point of it is: Don’t meet her at her rendezvous. Unsafe.”