Code to Zero (13 page)

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 nineteen forty-one, 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 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.”

“I 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.

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 theater, 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 Ninth Street, heading south toward 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 rearview mirror. A police cruiser was on his tail, lights flashing. There were two cops in the front seat. One pointed toward the right-hand curb 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 driver’s 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 stomped 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 into neutral to prevent the car from 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 plowed 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.

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 Seventh 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 theater 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 was 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. “Nitromethane 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.

A tape programmer in the tub varies the speed of rotation of the upper stages between 450 rpm and 750 rpm, 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?”

“You called me Luke.”

“Everyone calls you Luke. You’re Dr. Claude Lucas, but I guess you 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 rocket?”

“Yeah. The
Explorer.
It’s the most important launch in the history of the American space program—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 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?

He thought of talking to Will about all that and decided it sounded too strange. Will might begin to think he was nuts. Instead he said, “I’m going to call Cape Canaveral.”

“Great idea.” Will picked up the phone on the desk and dialed zero. “Will McDermot here. Can I make a long-distance call on this phone? Thank you.” He handed the phone to Luke.

Luke got the number from information and dialed. “This is Dr. Lucas.” He felt inordinately pleased to be able to give his name: he would not have thought it could be so satisfying. “I’d like to speak to someone on the
Explorer
launch team.”

“They’re in hangars D and R,” said the male operator. “Please hold the line.”

A moment later a voice said: “Army security, Colonel Hide speaking.”

“This is Dr. Lucas—”

“Luke! At last! Where the hell are you?”

“I’m in Washington.”

“Well, what the bejesus are you doing? We’ve been going crazy! We got Army Security looking for you, the FBI, even the CIA!”

That explained the two agents searching in Union Station, Luke thought. “Listen, a strange thing has happened. I lost my memory. I’ve been wandering around town trying to figure out who I am. Finally I found some physicists who know me.”

“But that’s extraordinary. How did it happen, for Christ’s sake?”

“I was hoping you could tell me that, Colonel.”

“You always call me Bill.”

“Bill.”

“Okay, well, I’ll tell you what I know. Monday morning you took off, saying you had to go to Washington. You flew from Patrick.”

“Patrick?”

“Patrick Air Force Base, near Cape Canaveral. Marigold made the reservations—”

“Who’s Marigold?”

“Your secretary in Huntsville. She also booked your usual suite at the Carlton Hotel in Washington.”

There was a note of envy in the colonel’s voice, and Luke wondered briefly about that “usual suite,” but he had more important questions. “Did I tell anyone the purpose of the trip?”

“Marigold made an appointment for you to see General Sherwood at the Pentagon at ten
A
.
M
. yesterday—but you didn’t keep the appointment.”

“Did I give a reason for wanting to see the general?”

“Apparently not.”

“What’s his area of responsibility?”

“Army security—but he’s also a friend of your family’s, so the meeting could have been about anything.”

It must have been something highly important, Luke reflected, to take him away from Cape Canaveral just before his rocket was to take off. “Is the launch going ahead tonight?”

“No, we’ve got weather problems. It’s been postponed until tomorrow at ten-thirty
P
.
M
.”

Luke wondered what the hell he had been doing. “Do I have friends here in Washington?”

“Sure. One of them’s been calling me every hour. Bern Rothsten.” Hide read out a phone number.

Luke scribbled it on a scratch pad. “I’ll call him right away.”

“First you should talk to your wife.”

Luke froze. His breath was taken away. Wife, he thought. I have a wife. He wondered what she was like.

“You still there?” Hide said.

Luke started to breathe again. “Uh, Bill . . .”

“Yes?”

“What’s her name?”

“Elspeth,” he said. “Your wife’s name is Elspeth. I’ll transfer you to her phone. Hold the line.”

Luke had a nervous sensation in his stomach. This was dumb, he thought. She was his wife.

“Elspeth speaking. Luke, is that you?”

She had a warm, low voice, with precise diction and no particular accent. He imagined a tall, confident woman. He said, “Yes, this is Luke. I’ve lost my memory.”

“I’ve been so worried. Are you okay?”

He felt pathetically grateful for someone who cared how he was. “I guess I am now,” he said.

“What on earth happened?”

“I really don’t know. I woke up this morning in the men’s room at Union Station, and I spent the day trying to find out who I am.”

“Everyone’s been looking for you. Where are you now?”

“At the Smithsonian, in the Aircraft Building.”

“Is someone taking care of you?”

Luke smiled at Will McDermot. “A fellow scientist has been helping me. And I have a number for Bern Rothsten. But I really don’t need taking care of. I’m fine, I just lost my memory.”

Will McDermot stood up, looking embarrassed, and whispered, “I’m going to give you some privacy. I’ll wait outside.”

Luke nodded gratefully.

Elspeth was saying, “So you don’t remember why you took off for Washington in such a hurry.”

“No. Obviously I didn’t tell you.”

“You said it was better for me not to know. But I was frantic. I called an old friend of ours in Washington, Anthony Carroll. He’s in the CIA.”

“Did he do anything?”

“He called you at the Carlton on Monday night, and you arranged to meet him for breakfast early on Tuesday morning—but you didn’t show up. He’s been looking for you all day. I’m going to call him now and tell him everything’s all right.”

“Obviously something happened to me between Monday evening and Tuesday morning.”

“You ought to see a doctor, get yourself checked out.”

“I feel fine. But there’s a lot I want to know. Do we have children?”

“No.”

Luke felt a sadness that seemed familiar, like the dull ache of an old injury.

Elspeth went on, “We’ve been trying for a baby ever since we got married, which is four years ago, but we haven’t succeeded.”

“Are my parents alive?”

“Your mom is. She lives in New York. Your pa died five years ago.”

Luke felt a sudden wave of grief that seemed to come from nowhere. He had lost his memories of his father and would never see him again. It seemed unbearably sad.

Elspeth went on. “You have two brothers and a sister, all younger. Your baby sister, Emily, is your favorite, she’s ten years younger than you, she lives in Baltimore.”

“Do you have phone numbers for them?”

“Of course. Hold on while I look them up.”

“I’d like to talk to them, I don’t know why.” He heard a muffled sob at the other end of the line. “Are you crying?”

Elspeth sniffed. “I’m okay.” He imagined her taking a handkerchief out of her handbag. “Suddenly I felt so sorry for you,” she said tearfully. “It must have been awful.”

“There were some bad moments.”

“Let me give you those numbers.” She read them out.

“Are we rich?” he said when he had written down the phone numbers.

“Your father was a very successful banker. He left you a lot of money. Why?”

“Bill Hide told me I’m staying in my ‘usual suite’ at the Carlton.”

“Before the war, your pa was an advisor to the Roosevelt administration, and he liked to take his family with him when he went to Washington. You always had a corner suite at the Carlton. I guess you’re keeping up the tradition.”

“So you and I don’t live on what the Army pays me.”

“No, though in Huntsville we try not to live very much better than your colleagues.”

“I could go on asking you questions all day. But what I really want is to find out how this happened to me. Would you fly up here tonight?”

There was a moment of silence. “My God, why?”

“To figure out this mystery with me. I could use some help—and companionship.”

“You should forget about it and come down here.”

That was unthinkable. “I can’t forget about this. I have to know what it’s all about. It’s too strange to ignore.”

“Luke, I can’t leave Cape Canaveral now. We’re about to launch the first American satellite, for heaven’s sake! I can’t let the team down at a moment like this.”

“I guess not.” He understood, but all the same he was hurt by her refusal. “Who’s Bern Rothsten?”

“He was at Harvard with you and Anthony Carroll. He’s a writer now.”

“Apparently he’s been trying to reach me. Maybe he knows what this is all about.”

“Call me later, won’t you? I’ll be at the Starlite Motel tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Take care of yourself, Luke, please,” she said earnestly.

“I will, I promise.” He hung up.

He sat in silence for a moment. He felt emotionally drained. Part of him wanted to go to his hotel and lie down. But he was too curious. He picked up the phone again and called the number Bern Rothsten had left. “This is Luke Lucas,” he said when the phone was answered.

Bern had a gravelly voice and the trace of a New York accent. “Luke, thank God! What the hell happened to you?”

“Everybody says that. The answer is that I don’t really know anything except that I’ve lost my memory.”

“You lost your memory?”

“Right.”

“Oh, shit. Do you know how this happened to you?”

“No. I was hoping you might have a clue.”

“I might.”

“Why have you been trying to reach me?”