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Subject: {ASSM} Reversion {Varkel} (M+m+b+g+f+F+) [16/21]
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Reversion

a Novel by Varkel
Summer, 2002



Chapter 16: New Lives, New Goals


"Here's the last chink," said Clara, passing me a sheet of paper.
It turned out to be a bill-of-sale for a Ford delivery van,
eight-cylinder, half-ton cargo, 148 cubic feet capacity, heater
but no radio, delivered in Stall 1641 at 201 Crenshaw Place,
repainted as owned by _Ace Deliveries, Inc_.

"Chink in what?" I asked.

"Our disconnect armor.  We can leave Chicago any time you're
ready, Tim."

I crossed my fingers to turn off my computer, which reminded me.
"Rosalind hasn't been told how to activate her computer yet.
Shouldn't we do that here?"

"It's not quite ready.  Retinal cells are slower to modify than
neurons.  As to that, it's true if she were fully aware, she
might better appreciate the importance of this.  Without the
knowledge I think she'll just look upon it as a great lark.  But,
Tim, I don't think we should hesitate.  Truman will soon be after
you about the Chinese threats, and Cleaver is likely to try
another kidnapping, probably of Alice."

I sniffed.  "He'd be lucky to survive it!"

"Which contains its own hazards.  The trouble with exercising
24th Century powers is that people learn we have them."

I nodded, regarding her with admiration.  "Clara, once again I'm
overcome by the monumental restraint you've imposed on yourself
all these years."

She sighed.  "Thank you, Tim.  It takes great care."

"Yes, it does."  I held up the bill-of-sale.  "Here's an example.
How'd you receive it, ah, Mrs. Everest?  Through the mail?  Not
at 245D Crenshaw Place, presumably.  You _are_ Mrs. Everest,
aren't you?"

She smiled.  "Among many other people.  Yes, it arrived in the
mail slot at 245D Crenshaw.  Mrs. Everest happens to rent an
apartment there."

"An apartment!  Whenever did you arrange that?"

She smiled slightly.  "Tim, I'm a lot more paranoid about
governments than you realize.  My own government enacted social
regulations that in effect took control of everyone's
reproductive organs."  She shrugged.  "If they hadn't gone so far
as to limit restoration of youthful health, I probably wouldn't
be here now."

"Then hooray for your repressive government!"

"It was a fascist state.  I learned that freedom might be
obtained only by planning ahead.  So when we moved here in 1947,
I disguised myself and rented that apartment because I knew the
FBI would find us sooner or later, and I wanted a conduit to the
outside that was beyond their ken."

I stared at her in growing astonishment and shook my head.
"Clara, you're always several steps ahead of me.  I'm amazed!
But ... how could you maintain contact with an apartment without
them finding out?  Do you have a confederate living there?"

Her eyes sparkled.  "Five four-legged ones and about 40,000
others with six legs each."

I thought about it.  "And your link to them is ..."

"Radio, using pseudorandom modulation spread in the UHF spectrum,
a technique that hasn't been invented yet.  The signal is strong
enough for complete reliability but looks like noise on a
spectrum analyzer, if the FBI should ever choose to use one.  In
the apartment I have a combination scanner and printer that
resembles a hot plate.  It transmits scans of received mail and
real-time views so that I can direct the capuchins ... to mail
the right letter in the right envelope, for example.  I rarely
have to go there, but when I do, the nanobiots can disguise me
completely."

She chuckled at my expression.  "The way it works is for me to
enter the restroom at a department store with a large shoulder
bag and exit looking 40 years older in different clothing.  I
reverse the process on the way home, using another store, of
course.  Typically I find the assigned FBI agent lounging near my
car when I finally return to it."

I shook my head in awe.  "And you've used your persona in this
apartment to buy a _van_, by mail?"

"Oh, that's nothing, Tim.  Last month I bought a house in
Cleveland by mail.  Pick up that viewer and you can see a picture
of it."

* * *

Clara's Packard had a large trunk, as we had occasion to note
once before.  Loading it up in the garage, we were safe from
observation, fortunately because the capuchins and the wasps in
hibernation just about exactly filled it.  Our menagerie had
grown in three years!  Otherwise we took only a single change of
clothing and a few toilet articles, all in two suitcases placed
in the rear floorboards.  I sat beside Clara with the two young
women in the back seat, as we backed out of the driveway on
Kellidrawn Avenue for the last time.  While talking flippantly
with the girls, I watched behind us.  As expected a nondescript
dark sedan pulled out of the line of parked cars.

201 Crenshaw Place turned out to be a three-story parking garage
serving the multistory apartment houses that surrounded it.
Clara nosed into it from a side street, waving a pass at the
guard.  He motioned her to advance.  She wove through several
twisty intersections among the parked cars, finally pulling to a
stop in Stall 1642 beside a Ford van that was longer and taller
than the Packard -- and claimed to be operated by _Ace Deliveries,
Inc_.

"Quickly now!" she ordered, jumping out of the Packard, unlocking
and opening the sliding doors on the side of the van,
thoughtfully parked heading outwards.  We had been drilled.  We
threw the suitcases into the van.  In the Packard trunk Rosalind
and I caught the furry elbows left protruding as handles for the
tangled monkeys.  20 overweight capuchins at an average of ten
pounds each is a strain, but we trotted the bundle into the van
just as Alice and Clara delivered the cloth bags of wasps.

With a lot of door slamming we took seats in the van.  Clara
handed me a workingman's cap with crown sagging over bill.  The
van with keys in the ignition started shortly after I stomped the
floor-mounted switch.  I doubt 15 seconds had passed since our
exit from the Packard.  The FBI car was probably still waiting
for the guard to approve an ID.  I noted nearby doors marked
_Stairs_.  Perhaps our trackers would assume that was how we had
left the scene.

"Take a right," advised Clara, ducking low in the seat beside me,
"and another right at the first intersection.  You can go
straight out onto the street."

"Do I have to show anything?"

"No.  The man I talked to said they don't check departures."

I turned out into the street as directed.  The dark sedan had not
appeared in either side mirror.  Behind me the girls were using
the cargo straps to restrain the large parallelepiped of monkeys.

"Take a left at the light," Clara advised.  "Then it's on to
Cleveland!"

 "What about your friends upstairs?"

"They'll continue as before.  All they have to do is reorient the
Yagi antenna concealed in the bedroom light fixture.  I mean to
keep my _pied-a-terre_ in Chicago."

Something troubled me about that.  "Didn't you say your radio
uses UHF?  That's line-of-sight.  Cleveland is 300 miles from
Chicago.  How can you expect a reliable signal?"

She chuckled.  "You'll accuse me of being ahead of you again.  It
so happens that a Mr. Upchurch has rented space for an
experimental antenna in the weather observatory at Fort Wayne.
His two Yagis are located 120 feet up a tower.  They're already
relaying bi-directionally in the UHF spectrum."

"I see.  Do we know this Mr. Upchurch?"

"He's sitting beside you.  If you should happen to put your hand
between his legs, though, you might be surprised."

"Hmm.  Mr. Upchurch seems to be missing a thing or three."

"Better keep your attention on the road."  She sighed.  "You
don't know how I hate to say that."

Alice, crouched behind my seat, called, "Pull in up there at that
furniture store and buy a couple of mattresses.  Then you can
investigate Mr. Upchurch while Rosalind gets us out of town."



* * *



Clara had bought what might be termed a mini-mansion in a suburb
not far from Cleveland's downtown.  It was a three-story brick
structure with the full basement I would need later, situated on
a large lot in a neighborhood of similar houses.  We arrived just
after dark on a Thursday night and parked the van sideways to the
garage doors so that we could unload it without exposure to
neighbors whose lights were visible in many directions through
the trees.

Clara and her computers had planned well.  In my workingman's cap
I drove the van to Johnson's Pre-Owned Cars -- whose name
surprised me because I had foolishly expected the Fifties to be
above such euphemisms -- where I performed a pre-arranged swap,
title-for-title, for a slightly used Oldsmobile.  Its odometer
recorded nearly a thousand miles more than the van's, not that
this meant anything particular in 1951.  Clara got ripped but we
could afford it.  At least the title looked genuine, although you
couldn't read the notary's name and signature, which is usually a
reliable indicator of unreliability.

It was well that we had stopped to buy a couple of mattresses.
They were our only beds for two nights.  But it was summer next
to Lake Erie.  The nights were just about right for four naked
bodies on bare mattresses, fanned by rotating teams of capuchins.
On occasion a lot of fanning was required.  On others we drifted
off to sleep while tiny sharp nails gently scratched our backs.

The girls discovered new tricks to play in the dark.  It seems
the 24th century had developed techniques for nanobiots to flavor
vaginal and rectal exudates.  They enjoyed having me declare by
taste which of them I was licking, then in logical progression
practiced deciding whom my dick had last visited.  The game
progressed with much shoving and giggling until finally I
demonstrated that nanobiots could also influence the taste of
seminal fluid.  Females, mine at least, turn out to be crazy
about foaming peanut butter.  That's what the computer
recommended but who'd've guessed it?

Friday I helped Clara install the lock on the menagerie closet,
after which we all sortied to buy furniture for delivery on
Saturday.

* * *

Arrival of so many furniture vans on Saturday morning could not
avoid notice.  A woman who lived next door came into our yard to
greet us.

"I'm Sarah Wertheimer," she said, extending her hand to me.

She was an overweight person in her late thirties or early
forties, neatly but casually dressed, a conventional housewife
whose sexual allure, if any, would be determined more by attitude
than anything else.  A thumb-sucking little boy hid behind her
long skirt.  Two other children, obviously belonging to the same
woman, dodged the unloaders and raced into the house, which was
evidently permitted in their minds so long as the furniture was
not yet in place.

I shook her hand gently.  "I'm Timothy and I'm pleased to meet
you.  We're the Whitmonds."  It was Clara's name in New Zealand,
now adopted by us all in Cleveland.  We had speculated that we
might never again use our legal names, except of course on papers
published by the PhD holders.  "That's one of my sisters
inspecting that couch."  I raised my voice.  "Rosalind, come meet
Mrs. Wertheimer, our new neighbor."

"My husband is at the golf course," the woman said after
exchanging greetings with Rosalind and Clara, who had appeared
providentially, "but I'm sure I can speak for him.  Come on over
for a cookout in our back yard this evening.  There'll be other
neighbors to meet."

And questions to answer, I did not say.  Clara thanked her and
agreed to attend, understanding the event to be a hastily
arranged welcoming affair.

"When the kids get in your hair, send them home," Sarah concluded
airily, turning away.

Clara sighed at me and shook her head.  "Meeting the neighbors!
Tim, I'm sorry I didn't properly anticipate this.  This is my
first approximation to a housewarming."

"You're doing all right," I retorted.  According to plan, she had
announced herself as another sister, presumably the eldest.
"Tell them the history we agreed.  I'll go with you and sniff out
the young unmarrieds around here, if any."

"But we hope to avoid entanglements!"

"Haven't I proved that I'm no tomcat?"

She grinned ruefully.  "Not quite.  All three of us can't seem to
wear you out."  She sighed.  "If you break too many hearts, it'll
cause talk we can't afford."

"I'm well aware of that, sweet one."

We had passed into the foyer.  A child yelled from the head of
the stairs, "Did you know you have secret rooms, mister?"

She was a scrawny, homely kid nearing puberty, almost man-high.
An equally unattractive boy perhaps a year younger, probably her
brother, stood beside her.

"That's where we keep the ghosts," I called up to them.

The boy's mouth and eyes opened widely.  He pulled on his
sister's shirt, wanting to hurry away.  She appeared to be as
startled, but only for a moment.

"You can't fool me," she announced in a voice of childish
cynicism.  "You haven't moved in yet."

I grinned at her.  "Ghosts come first.  They have to approve the
house, you know."

She grinned back, eyes alight.  "You mean they're _in_-specters?"

I chuckled.  "Must be.  They don't hang around outside."

"Then I'm getting _out_!" declared the boy, clattering down the
stairs.  If we entertain children we should carpet that
staircase.  He dashed past me but the girl held her place.  "You
didn't answer me."

"What do you mean, 'Secret rooms?'"

"Come on and I'll show you."

The women were busy placing furniture, which is not a job that a
man exempt from hauling wishes to perturb.  With a shrug I
climbed the stairs.  The girl scampered ahead of me down the
upstairs hall.  She looked better from the rear despite a dirty
yellow dress whose seat was black-smudged as if she had sat in a
coalbunker -- probably the exact case.  But tangled curls danced
behind her and her slim legs held the promise of future
shapeliness.  She stopped at the last door on the right and
waited for me.  Apparently my movements had achieved Clara's
"deliberation."

"What's your name," I asked her.

"Petty."

"Because you're someone's pet?"

Her lip curled.  "Because I'm a petunia."

"Really?"  I cocked an eyebrow at her.  "They named you that?"

"Petunia Alrose Wertheimer."

I assumed a contemplative expression.  "You think that's worse
than Timothy Jehosephat Whitmond?"

She shook her head and asked sympathetically, "Couldn't they have
used Joseph?"

Of course I hadn't assigned anything to the J until that moment.
I smiled at her.  "Just be glad you're not Icelandic.  Then your
name would be Petunia Wertheimersdottir."

She studied me.  "How do you know?"

"How do you know about Santa Claus?"

Apparently my response was a disappointment to her.  She heaved a
sigh.  "You want to know about your secret rooms or not?"

"Please."

She pulled open the door to a shallow walk-in coat closet, an odd
thing to find at the end of a hall of bedrooms.

"Look here," she said, pulling me by the arm into the closet
behind her.  "Is it too dark?  Feel this nail.  Do you feel it?"

"Yes."

"Then push it."

Something clicked and the side wall of the closet swung away,
exposing a large black space.  She reached into it.  Another
click turned on a light.  I found myself staring into a ...  By
god, into a secret room!

It was windowless, probably six by twelve feet, walled only by
studs except for what was probably the outer wall of the house.
Lathing and plaster for other rooms were visible between the
studs.  An old-fashioned rotary wall switch controlled the single
dangling light bulb.  A wooden box sat at one end of the room, an
open whisky bottle atop it.

"What's this room, Petty?  How'd you know about it?"

"Jerry and I played in here.  They moved away last year.  He said
the people who built it were rumrunners."

"What's in the box?"

"Nothing.  We pretended it was a bar."

"Your secret place, was it?"

"Not really.  Everybody knew about it."

"You said, 'Rooms.'"

"Yeah.  There's a smaller one in a bedroom closet."  She grinned
reminiscently.  "Jerry's little brother didn't know about that
one."  Her eyes flashed up at me.  "Jerry put an old crib
mattress in it."

"Did you pretend it was a magic carpet?"

"Huh!" she sneered.  "I thought you were a grown man."

"I've put that in doubt, have I?"  The principle apparent change
from teenage to manhood is muscularity and width of shoulders.
No one had presumed me a teenager in quite a while.

"Ghosts, Santa Claus and magic carpets!" she continued.  "Don't
you even know about sex?"

"Why don't you --" tell me, I started to say.  But the bible is
right about several things, one being that a man needs to put
aside childish playmates.  "-- show me how to pull this door
closed behind us."

Returning to the hall, she paused at another door to study me.
"It's in this bedroom."

"Okay.  Thanks, Petty.  I can find it."

Her eyes narrowed with purpose.  "Are you ticklish?"

"Eh?  No, not really."

"I am."  She raised her arms straight out from her sides.  "On
the ribs."

At that tender moment Alice's voice sounded, mounting the stairs.
"That goes in the first bedroom on the right.  Who's your friend,
Tim?  Is that a stickup in progress?"

"This is Petty, ah, Wert--" I began, but the girl growled and
darted up the hall, head down, dashing past Alice to descend the
stairs.

Alice leered.  "Did I interrupt something?"

Clara was right behind her.  She looked from the departing child
back to me and shook her head.  "Isn't she a little _too_
unmarried, Timmy?"

* * *

Clara and I attended the Wertheimer's barbecue, where we met
representatives of three other families.  Would you believe we
Whitmonds have moved to Cleveland from the District of Columbia,
post-war Washington having become just too-too noisy and crowded
with riff-raff, don't you know?  We seek the local peace and
quiet upon which so many of our friends had remarked.

They were too polite to ask us what we did in D.C. or what we
planned in Cleveland or what happened to our parents or how it is
that four adult siblings choose to live together in a big house --
which disappointed me because I was ready with a whole set of
equally impudent answers.  They did offer us cocktails, beef ribs
with potato salad and fried beans, invitations to church and the
country club, their full life histories and references for
several businesses that supply services and servants.  We thanked
them graciously, seemed to make copious notes and departed early.
The idea was to minimize the future gossip.  Who knows if it
worked?

* * *

"All rested up and ready to do business?"

Clara smiled around at us after the last took her seat at the
kitchen table.

"Who're you talking to?" asked Rosalind with a yawn.  "Tim's the
one who just flew in last night."

Alice sniffed at Clara.  "Since he slept with you, you should
already know the answer.  Surely you didn't wear out our
superstud!"

Rosalind chuckled and said thoughtfully, "We're like that, aren't
we? -- mares in the stallion's herd."

Alice cocked her head at me.  "That's an interesting point.  Such
a slight enhancement had so pronounced an effect on him.  I
wonder if at some point in human genetic history the males were
like bulls."

"They wish!" declared Rosalind.  "I spent some time on a farm.
Did you ever see a bull's equipment?"

"_Slight_ enhancement?" I gawked.

Clara chuckled and raised both hands.  "Please, children.  Let's
do business."

Alice sniffed again.  "Spoken like a woman who got enough last
night."

"Is there such a woman?" I asked aggrievedly, then frowned.
"Should we do this formally?  You all know I came home to report
progress.  In effect this is the first Fernworks board meeting.
Clara is chairman and demands that the board come to order."

Rosalind asked sweetly, "Don't you mean chair_woman_?"

Alice sniffed again and muttered something that sounded like
"bedwoman."

"_If_ there is no other _pressing_ business," I began with a
glare at my physicist-in-arms, "let me report first on
real-estate.  As you know, a general records search of the
continental U. S., both in space and time, revealed southern
Appalachia as the area of poorest radar coverage well into the
21st Century.  Your inquiries in that area were highly
productive, Rosalind.  I checked out that hill in North Carolina
and it's perfect.  The hills around it are taller in the
strategic directions.  They bar it from the view of scanners at
all the commercial airports around it.  My survey revealed the
air above it safe from routine surveillance for at least 500
feet.

"So I talked to the agent you met.  You impressed him, by the
way.  He wants to know when you'll come back to Asheville."

"Ugh!" was her response.

I grinned.  "You might need to butter him up again."

"He's too easy," she said with a sniff.

"Anyway I made the deal with him: the hill and the adjacent
valley, slightly over 4000 acres altogether, for $210,000, just
about $50 per acre."  I had to chuckle.  "He thinks he got the
best of me, of course.  The land, even in the valley, is too
rocky to farm."

"Why did you buy the valley too?" asked Clara.  "I thought you
wanted your factory to be as high as you could get it."

"I wanted height only to make sure no nearby structure could
interfere.  The reason for the valley is the fast little creek in
the bottom of it.  I'll use the top of the hill to build a dam
that can deliver nearly half a megawatt of electrical power."

"Oh, I see."  Her eyes sparkled.  "That will be even more
reliable than my solar cells all over the hill."

"And cause a lot less questions," I agreed.  "I found an
architectural firm in Charlotte that's accustomed to building
factories in the area.  Their people are working on a steel and
concrete design that can withstand the weight of earth put back
over it."

Their eyes widened.  Alice demanded, "Do what?  You're supposed
to build spaceships, Tim, not flower pots!"

"Give me a little credit, please.  I specified roof doors,
lightly camouflaged with grass, wide enough for a 150-foot ship."

Clara grinned.  "How did they like _that_ requirement?"

I grinned back.  "It's to let untrammeled sunlight in, don't you
know.  They think I represent either the government or a very
eccentric rich man with peculiar theories about ferns.  Despite
the Vanderbilt precedent, I think I'll let them go with the first
idea."

Clara pretended to huffiness.  "Oh?  Couldn't I be an eccentric
rich man with peculiar theories?"

I shook my head.  "No way can you be any kind of a _man_, you
sweetheart."

The girls chimed together, "Stick to business!"

Clara and I laughed.  I could see both girls' fingers moving.
Doubtlessly they were looking up Vanderbilt.  "Oh!" murmured
Alice.  "Biltmore Estate."

"On the other side of Asheville," I explained, "not a problem.  I
have to iron out a few more details with my architects before the
bulldozers arrive.  Fortunately Buncombe County does not require
building permits, but the sheriff or somebody official is certain
to ask the contractors what they're doing.  Here's where we have
to make a tough decision."

I looked around at their attentive faces.  "Do we tell the county
government that Fernworks is a private outfit, headquartered in
Cleveland?"

"Do _what_?" demanded Alice, glaring at me.

I chuckled but played it out.  "Tell me why not."

"You'd let a Southern sheriff of the Fifties, with his carefully
maintained good-old-boy ignorance and racial prejudices, pass on
everything we do on our hill?"

"Aside from the personal issues, what's your objection?"

"Suppose it turns out that a group of Blacks are the best sheet
metal workers.  Will you let a hillbilly sheriff keep them out?"

I shook my head.  "I didn't know you were so down on
Southerners."

"Oh, the South finally turned out all right," she answered
impatiently, "but it's not all right in 1951.  I'm surprised at
you, Tim! -- and disappointed.  Any means to the end, eh?"

I chuckled hollowly.  "Though your reasons are valid, my sweet
flaming liberal, they're insufficient, a drop in the bucket."

Her eyebrows rose.  "Insufficient!"

"Oh, yes."  I took a breath.  "If we admit to private ownership,
we'll be constantly harassed.  When the size of the operation is
appreciated, the county government, maybe the state government,
will _pass new regulations_ just for us, the effect of which
would be to hamstring our operations and bleed us unnecessarily.
We'll have to install whole departments of bureaucrats to deal
with the governments.  Compared to that, racial and cultural
prejudices are of little account, so far as Fernworks is
concerned.  And this is true anywhere we choose to locate."

Alice stared at me.  "Then why are we arguing?"

I grinned.  "Because I touched your liberal nerve."

She grimaced.  "But what's the alternative?"

I took a breath.  "The federal government."

Her brow knitted in thought.  "How?"

"I don't mean in fact.  Fernworks becomes a _project_ name --
well, a little more than that; Fernworks will issue paychecks.
We'll tell the Buncombe County sheriff that we represent the
federal government, that Fernworks is a secret operation along
the lines of Oak Ridge, over in Tennessee.  That should take care
of the local governments.

"Rosalind, I want you to open a hole-in-the-wall office in D. C.
and hire a couple of women to staff it.  They'll receive mail and
answer the telephone as 'Fernworks, Main Switchboard.'  You'll
train them to be the first line interface, but they'll have
enough of a PBX to relay calls to one of us.  Of course we'll all
choose aliases to disclose to them and to outsiders.  I have mine
already: John Maple.  What do you think?"

Their eyes grew thoughtful.  I continued, "Clara, you should have
some of your holding companies open a few accounts as Fernworks.
I don't have to tell you to employ maximum obfuscation."

"As always."  She grinned.  "Mr. Upchurch shall ride again."

With fingers on the tabletop I called up my notes.  "That seems
to be most of my report.  Alice, how's it coming with the trained
capuchins?"

"They've made 24 dicks.  Two of them will store energy."

Rosalind blinked.  "_Dicks_?"

Alice sniffed.  "Tim's field generators.  _He_ wanted to call
them _Margeries_."

"I did not!" I declared huffily.  "The _Margery Effect_ is
obtained by combining them."

Rosalind shrugged.  "If you say so.  Is there an official name?
I take it they enable your vic."

"My what?  Are you trying to get my goat too?"

"Your goat, Tim?" she asked innocently.

"They enable Virtual Inertia Detachment," I declared, rather
fiercely, "and the proper name is field gen--  No.  By god, you're
right!  They do need a name that better reflects how they work."

Alice grinned.  "Dicks."

"Why is that?" asked Rosalind.  "Do they spew?"

Alice opened her mouth but I was first.  "She calls them that
because they're the same size my cock used to be, in case you can
bring yourself to remember."

"Oh, I remember!"  Her eyes twinkled.

"Don't tell me you preferred it!" I roared.

Clara murmured reproachfully, "Children ..."

I took a calming breath.  "For now they're VID field generators,
able to charge matter.  I'll think up a catchy name later, but --"

"Dicks," Alice insisted.

"_But_ the important thing," I continued, "is that we need 10,000
of them per spaceship.  I hope, Alice, it's the _last two_ that
work!"

"Yes."  She smiled.  "I think Alazar has about got the hang of
it."

"Can he teach others?"

"That remains to be seen."

Clara inserted, "I believe he can."

I said, "He's got two years to build 20,000 of them -- that work."

Rosalind's expression showed puzzlement.  "Why are you having
monkeys build them?  Aren't they the most critical parts?"

"Exactly.  Without them everything in Fernworks will make no
sense.  They shall be the most closely held secret of all.
Fortunately it's easy to test whether they work -- although on
such a repetitive assembly line semi-intelligent monkeys may turn
out to be the most reliable workers."

"Speaking of workers," said Rosalind, "how soon do you expect to
begin hiring?"

"Well, you should install those two women in Washington
immediately.  I propose next to begin with a purchasing office
whose initial function will be finding sources for our materials,
but we won't need them for another six months or so.  After that
will come the production designers, and somewhere in there we
must hire a technical director.  I've been looking at the
archives.  Walter Dornberger was the general in charge of
Peenemunde, where Wernher Von Braun developed the V2 rocket.  All
his top men are in this country now, mostly idle at the moment
down in Huntsville.  The army is holding them in limbo without
documentation.  They have got to be feeling most disaffected, not
knowing whether they're heroes or jailbirds.  Dornberger himself
has become a consultant for a helicopter company.  I plan to
cultivate him."

The women regarded me speculatively.  I said, "Believers in space
flight are not that common in the Fifties.  Dornberger and his
crowd certainly are.  The Gestapo arrested Von Braun because he
was foolish enough to claim he was developing spaceships, not
weapons of war."

Alice said thoughtfully, "Our director will be a key man.  Good
luck, Tim."

"Thank you.  Okay, that's about all --"

"One moment, please."  Clara raised a hand.  "I've got something
more that should interest all of you."

She turned around, took three viewers out of a cabinet and laid
them before us.  "This is the report from a meeting that occurred
last week in the Chicago office of the FBI.  I may not have told
you, but I've kept it supplied with insects by bird relays out of
the Crenshaw apartment.  Mostly what I learn is of no interest to
us, but this time ...  Well, you'll see."

We took up the earpieces and viewers.  I turned mine to the
morning sunlight in a window and saw the same room where we had
been "debriefed" after the near-kidnapping.  It was lit by
daylight through the windows.  People were entering.  Big Avery,
still sporting a buzz-cut and a red necktie, took his seat at the
opposite head of the table, followed by several others on either
side.  Raimer sat on Avery's right.  I recognized two or three of
our erstwhile protectors.  Behind me I heard Alice squeal, "Ooo,
there's Davy!"

The stenographer, Vi, entered last, closing the door behind her.
She swung past the others and sat just below my vantage point.
She had gained considerable weight.  I wondered if Raimer still
enjoyed her squat on the job.

"What's the word on Stoker?" asked Avery of a man on his left.

"It's just a flesh wound," was the answer.  "They're only keeping
him to make sure he has no infection."

"Good.  All right, everybody's here.  Vi, record the time.  And
Operation U.G.H. has restarted with a bang!"

A few murmurs passed around the table.  Avery took a deep breath
and continued.  "Please note for the record that yesterday Agent
Stoker was wounded and two civilians killed in a shootout at the
Edgeworth residence, which has been uninhabited now for almost a
year.  And you'd better include some background.  Refer to the
report on the condition of the house as noted one week after all
four of our subjects disappeared together at the Crenshaw parking
garage.  Note also that no complaint appeared last month when the
garage sold their Packard at auction to recover the cost of
parking and storage."

"Dead or kidnapped," said someone to Avery's right.

"Probably not dead."  He shuffled some papers in front of him.
"The real-estate taxes on the house, along with monthly utility
bills, are being paid by illegibly signed money-orders drawn on
banks all over the country.  In the first two weeks we posted
fruitless missing-persons notices in Chicago-area post offices.
The director would not permit a national posting, and the local
ones were withdrawn when we discovered that our geniuses'
relatives were receiving letters.  Some of them.  To date the
Kimball lad's parents have received three and the Cannell girl's
mother five.  We have unlimited samples of the handwriting of
those two from their recent school attendance.  Our experts
declare these letters to be genuine."  He chuckled grimly.  "The
letters are singularly unhelpful in locating our subjects,
consisting mainly of assurances of good health and interest in
life.  They were post-marked in the strangest cities, one in
Honolulu, I believe."

Someone asked, "Have we interviewed the parents?"

"Yes.  They profess ignorance of the children's whereabouts.  The
girl's mother, from her attitude, would be the most helpful if
she knew."

Avery cleared his throat.  "We are constantly monitoring the
relevant periodicals for published papers but so far without
results except for the three doctorial theses.  Of those Alice
Edgeworth's comments about the statistics of galaxies seems to be
stirring up the most controversy.  Several other papers have been
published, both affirming and disputing her claims about galactic
populations, whatever that means.  The common thread of all seems
to be, 'How could she have known?'  Many people want to talk to
our geniuses.

"You all know about the director's recent memo.  The president is
putting a lot of pressure on him to produce at least the boy.
They --"

"He's no boy!" declared someone on the left.  The head and torso
were behind another guy who had propped his elbows on the table,
but I recognized the voice.  It was my old friend, Smith!

"Is it possible to settle that?" asked Avery, looking around at
Raimer.  "The last photograph we have of Kimball, taken in his
cap and gown, certainly resembles a 15-year-old in my view!"

Raimer shook his head.  "Smith claims he saw Kimball naked, and
the kid had as much beef as an Atlas ad.  Apparently no one else
studied him close-up after his graduation, but Campbell reports a
stocky figure, estimated at 170 pounds, considerably taller than
the Cannell woman, who is five-seven.  Campbell first thought a
strange man was living in the Edgeworth house.  Also it was
Campbell who observed Kimball's visit to the Cleaver yacht.
Kimball led the Cannell woman back off the dock like a man, not a
boy."

Avery's eyes narrowed further down the table.  "Davy, I noticed
that line in your report.  What exactly did it mean?"

"I was watching through binoculars from the parking lot," replied
Campbell.  "Kimball -- if that was Kimball, and it did resemble
his face -- pulled that girl by the arm right up the dock and out
to the street.  She might've been hanging back, but he had an
expression that brooked no nonsense.  He hailed a taxi and they
returned to the Edgeworth house.  As you know, after that
incident Dr. Cannell was included in our protective
surveillance."

"You reported that Kimball was transported to the yacht in
Cleaver's limousine yet departed in a taxi -- implying a
disagreement with Cleaver."

"Yes, it did.  I recommended we follow-up by interviewing
Cleaver."

"I decided against it," Avery admitted, "which in retrospect may
have been a mistake.  Davy, you followed the kids to Cleaver's
party, where the Secret Service interfered.  How would you
describe Kimball then?"

"Five-seven and 130 pounds.  He was just about exactly the same
height as Ros-- ah, Dr. Cannell."

"That was toward the end of June, and yet only two months later,
Davy, you claim he's six feet and 170 pounds.  Did you ever hear
of anyone changing that much in two months?"

"No, sir."

Smith spoke up in a voice of conviction.  "But he was the same
wise-ass Timmy, the same kid that got away from me in 1948."

Raimer leaned forward.  His eyes twinkled.  "Did you leave
something out of your 1950 report, Smitty?"

The blocker had leaned back in his chair.  I clearly saw Smith
blush.  He didn't answer otherwise and Raimer didn't press.
Apparently Truman had not ordered him fired after all.

"Which brings us up to the present," said Avery, "with nothing,
not the slightest clue to locate our four unnatural geniuses,
except that we may possibly have a new lead.  Raimer, did you get
a verbal report from Stoker?"

"Yes, sir."  The field supervisor took a notepad from his breast
pocket.  "Last night at 9:10 p.m. he observed a 1950 Plymouth
sedan pull into the Edgeworth driveway.  He immediately radioed
in a report.  The car sat there with the lights off for ten
minutes.  Three men got out, took something from the trunk and
proceeded to the front door, where one of them knelt down.
Stoker conjectured he was picking the lock.  Stoker again radioed
us.  Reached at home, Raimer ordered out the backup squad.  Then
the three men opened the door and entered the house.  Stoker
reported that and left his car to follow them.

"While he waited outside for backup, the house lights came on.
Maybe the intruders were surprised that power had been
maintained; anyway they immediately turned the lights off.
Thereafter he saw only the dim glow of flashlights behind the
curtains.

"The backup squad arrived at 9:38 and four agents entered the
house."

Raimer fell silent.  Avery waited, then asked, "Any details on
the shooting?"

"We have all that in Minorra's report."

"I've read the report.  Anything about it from Stoker?"

Raimer shrugged.  "He chased the one that crashed through the
side window, but the man shot him in the hip.  Fortunately the
bullet passed just above the joint.  Stoker returned fire but
complained of blurred vision.  He thinks the man vaulted the
backyard fence and escaped."

Avery shuffled through his papers again.  "Vi, note that we have
identified the two intruders who were shot dead.  Pass this to
her, Smitty.  It's their rap sheet.  One of them was a trained
locksmith who has picked his last lock.

"Though professional enough, these guys were ordinary hoods.  The
locksmith had a notebook.  We're running out all the phone
numbers.  One of them is a lawyer who won't talk to us.  The
question of course is who hired our intruders and what were they
after?  Oddly enough, they seem to have been on a _fact-finding_
mission.  The last entry in the notebook was to the effect that
the house was fully furnished with clothing in the closets."

He straightened up and said seriously, "Raimer, we'll maintain
surveillance on that house."  He chuckled wryly.  "And tell your
guys to look out for the contractor who repairs that window sash.
By order of the director, _we're_ the ones hiring him."

His gaze swept the room.  "Keep your eyes peeled, gentlemen.  The
director is under a lot of pressure to produce those kids."

Somebody asked, "Couldn't the Russians have taken them, sir?"

The big man sighed.  "I have to admit, it's possible.  The
Soviets are certainly capable of paying their bills and making
them produce innocuous letters of reassurance.  But I'll tell you
this much: I don't think so.  The lawyer who won't talk to us,
whose number was in the locksmith's notebook, has recently
indulged in several calls to the Soviet consulate here.  He has
also represented several mobsters in recent years.  We're making
application for warrants as we speak.  We'll get that guy in here
and sweat him in a day or two.  Then we'll see if the Soviets
ordered this intrusion.

"Until then it's back to work."

They all rose and filed out of the room.  I lowered my viewer and
looked at Clara.  "Do you have a later report?"

"No," she answered.

Alice complained, "Our house has been burglarized!"

Clara grinned.  "But you heard Avery.  The FBI will fix it."

Rosalind looked worried.  "They think the Russians are after you
-- us -- again?"

I shrugged.  "Who else could it be?"

Her eyes glowed.  "How about Harrison Cleaver?"

* * *

I recognized him as soon as he entered the waiting room from the
runway:  tall, blond sideburns peeking out from under the gray
fedora, wearing a green necktie with white handkerchief tips in
the breast pocket of his suit coat, as ordered.  More than that,
he was identical to the snapshot Dornberger had furnished.

His instructions had been to take the seat closest to the column
marked _N-20_.  I watched him hesitate, studying the seating
pattern, and sympathized with his problem.  Three open seats were
equally spaced from the column.  He took the one that ended a
row, having the advantage of the least neighbors, and sat with
his long legs crossed and his hands in his lap, slowly looking
around the moderately crowded hall.

I made no attempt either to dodge or fix his eye when it
approached me.  Presumably he had been told to expect my necktie
of red and black stripes.  My attention had turned to the other
arriving passengers.  Did any of them seem to study my man?  Did
any linger in the waiting room?  Yes.  A suited man actually
walked out into the concourse, turned around, returned and
_leaned against_ Column N-20!  But he spent his time staring down
the concourse.  Would the FBI be guilty of such ostentatious
surveillance?

If so he was the only one.  In the Fifties few domestic flights
were crowded.  All the other passengers either hurried away
without looking back or cheerfully, sometimes passionately,
embraced waiting greeters before likewise turning away -- which
was what finally happened to my leaner.  A large woman swept down
on him from the anonymous crowd on the concourse and fell into
his arms.  Shortly they moved away.

Everyone off the plane had departed except my quarry.  I stood
up, throwing my newspaper aside, and advanced towards him.  He
looked up, looked away.  Nearing him, I jerked my chin in a
slight, follow-me gesture, and proceeded on out into the
concourse without looking back.  I walked slowly to the exit
stairs, paused to let a party of women precede me and saw him
following a hundred feet back.

On the street I waited at the curb.  In the parking lot across
the street Rosalind started up the car.  Shortly it rolled to a
stop just beyond the lane of waiting taxis.  I turned around.  My
man stood just behind me, apparently looking for a taxi.

"_Folgen Sie mir_," I muttered, darting between the parked cars.
I pulled open the back door of the rental and held it for him to
clamber inside, closing it behind him before taking my own seat
beside Rosalind in the front.  She immediately put the car in
motion.

I grinned at him over the seat back.  "_Wie gut koennen Sie
Englisch_?"

He answered in a clipped, British voice, though without a
responding grin, "About as well as you know _Deutsch_."

"Then let's negotiate in English so I can hear where you need
improvement."

"Very well, sir."

For this meeting my nanobiots had erected a lush, Hitler-style
cookie duster on my upper lip, also blond, and embedded wrinkles
in the erstwhile smooth skin at the corners of my eyes.  I looked
the way Hitler had wished he did when he was 40.  My guest, said
to be 29 years old this year, would have no problem calling me
_sir_.

"First, let's make sure we are who we think we are.  My name is
John Maple and yours is?"

He blinked, then answered, "Karl-Heinz Studer."

"I am pleased to meet you, Karl.  Our driver is Ann."

"Hi, Karl," intoned Rosalind, turning her head momentarily to
flash him a smile.  "I hope you stick around long enough to learn
our real names."

"The name is Karl-Heinz.  How do you --" he began a formal
response but froze up, blinking again.

I chuckled indulgently.  "Now, Ann.  Is he so pretty as that?"

She giggled.  "I meant what I said."

29 or not, Mr. Studer was young enough to blush slightly.  But he
smiled for the first time and said fervently, "I hope so too."

"Good," I agreed.  "Secondly is the matter of expectations.  What
did Dornberger tell you?"

He thought a minute, obviously marshalling his response.  "Many
things.  We had a long talk.  Did he truly come to Huntsville
only to find me?"

I grinned.  "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Because of Wernher's comments.  He wondered why the general
bothered."

"So what did the general say to _you_?"

"He said he knew I was ambitious, but that Wernher Von Braun
would garner all the credit from the American government's space
efforts."  He took a deep breath.  "He said that I should find
another, more impatient sponsor for my ambitions, where I might
make a real difference and be fully appreciated."

"Interesting.  Was that enough to put you on the plane from
Huntsville?"

He grinned.  "The trip had the sound of fun.  The special
necktie, slipping off from the other Germans through the bar's
restroom, the hundred mile taxi ride to Birmingham, the waiting
ticket at the airport in the name Peter Walther, and now our ride
with a lovely _Fraulein_.  Are you with the CIA, perhaps?"

"No.  I ask you to believe that I have no connection whatsoever
with the American government or any other government.  These
precautions to shake off your tails are as much --"

"_Tails_?"

"Surely you're aware that you guys on Von Braun's team have been
under close FBI surveillance ever since you arrived in America."

"Tails!" he repeated with a chuckle before again becoming solemn.
"They hardly try to conceal it.  Just to make sure you
understand, sir: I have no papers."

He said that glumly, as if he were admitting to being broke in a
whorehouse.

I laughed.  "Neither have I, at least not any that a government
issued.  Don't worry about papers.  We can furnish everything you
need.  I suspect you also have little in the way of personal
effects.  Is that true?"

He shrugged.  "Nothing I couldn't abandon."

"Excellent.  It won't pay you to return to Huntsville now,
whether we come to an agreement or not."

He sighed.  "I assumed as much, but the general was confident
that _you_ shall be first in space."

"Yes, I shall be.  Or perhaps the three of us.  How would you
like personally to go to the moon?"

His face tightened.  "I would ... _die_ ... to see the earth from
orbit."

I studied his earnest mien.  Beside me Rosalind snorted.  "Men:
always ready to die for some abstraction!"

"It's not exactly an abstraction," I protested.  "Do you know of
some better reason to pack it in?"

"Sure!  Protecting your women."

"She has a point," I admitted, grinning at the young man in the
back seat.  He looked away rather than disagree.  I recalled that
Europeans, who've never been short of women, place a lower value
on them.

The car pulled into a parking space behind a large hotel.
"Karl-Heinz, come with us up to the room.  I have something to
show you before we go to lunch."

I had already registered, of course, so we went directly to the
room, actually a small suite with bedroom separate from its
lounge, containing a table that seated four.  Rosalind went to
the telephone and ordered peach schnaps, which according to
Dornberger was Karl's favorite.  The young man himself
disappeared into the bathroom.  I stood at the window.  The
fourth floor was just about even with the tops of the surrounding
trees.

The room service waiter was quick.  Karl-Heinz had hardly
returned from the bathroom, indeed looking refreshed, before the
drinks arrived.  We sat around the table and sipped them
appreciatively.

"How's the schnaps?" I asked.

He smiled at me.  "Thank you.  Very nice.  The general told you,
did he?"

"Yes.  He has a high regard for you."

"And I for him."

"I'll tell you what he said about you in a moment.  First I'd
like to show you this."

I stood to lift the leather bag onto the table, having practiced
to avoid revealing the strain, and with both hands removed the
painfully constructed demonstrator, a cube eight inches on the
side, to a position on the table before the young man.  The
damned table creaked, and well it should!  This small cube of
carefully fitted sheet metal weighed 120 pounds.

Karl regarded it with interest: a cube of satiny natural aluminum
with wooden handles secured by strongly bolted iron brackets.  He
grinned at me.  "I gather it's heavier than one first assumes."

"Yes, it is.  Heft it and guess its weight."

"Heft?  Ah, you mean lift it."

I had forgotten that _Heft_ is _handle_ in German.

He took a handle in each hand, but his first effort didn't budge
the cube.  "_Mein Gott_!" he exclaimed, eyes popping.  Bracing
himself, he managed at last to raise the thing a few inches
before letting it fall back with a thud.  "How can it be so
heavy?  It must weigh 50 kilograms."

"More than that."

"Is it solid metal?"

"No, only half of it, which is lead."

"Lead?"

"_Elementares Blei_," I explained.

"Ah, so!"

"Watch this."  I took a small screwdriver from my pocket and
thrust its blade into a hole drilled next to a handle bracket,
producing a single click.

"Now lift it again," I instructed, leaning back with arms
crossed.

With a shrug his hands went again to the handles.  Taking strong
grips, he strained upwards powerfully, putting his back into it.
Consequently he leapt upward from his chair and with a
combination gasp and groan fell face-forward across the table.
Expecting some such result, I caught the cube as it flew out of
his hands.

He craned his neck, looking up dumbfounded at me holding the cube
easily aloft.  "_Mein Gott im Himmel_!" he begged.  But he
remained unnerved only a second before pushing back to his seat.
"Excuse me, Mr. Maple.  I ...  But that is impossible!"

I lowered the feather-light cube to the table before him and said
with a smile, "Heft it again, more gingerly, if you please."

He did, gently using both hands, announcing, "Not more than 100
grams, perhaps not even ten."  He shook his head as if recovering
from a shock, as no doubt he was.  "It causes me to doubt my own
senses."

"Your senses are reliable, I assure you."

"Then what did you do with the _Blei_?"  He ducked to peer under
the table.  "Is this some trick?"

"No trick, and the lead is still there, every gram of it."

"Still there?"  He stared at me, eyes brightening with an idea.
"Can you reduce its weight so far that it floats up into the
air?"

"No.  In fact I have not reduced its weight at all."

His eyes glazed in calculation.  I could almost follow his
thoughts.  "How would you describe what has happened to it?"

"I greatly reduced its inertia.  At this moment that cube, alone
on Earth, encloses a volume to which Newton's laws of motion do
not instantaneously apply."

He licked his lips.  "Then ..."

"Then I can lift a hundred-ton spaceship to the moon by expelling
a few thousand liters of water."

He stared, forgetting to breathe.  Rosalind laughed, rising to
her feet, and slipped a hand under his arm as if he might need
support.  "Come on, let's go to lunch, Karl-Heinz.  May I call
you simply Karl?  Tim --  I mean, John -- will tell you how it
works afterwards.  He won't tell you at lunch because rubbing
knees with me will distract you too much."

* * *

"Virtual Inertia Detachment," I explained over lunch despite
Rosalind's knees, "depends on a principle that I call 'Charged
Matter.'  The VID field turns all the atomic constructs within it
into a kind of battery.  You can store nearly limitless amounts
of energy in the nuclear spin rate.  I say 'nearly limitless'
though the math, which I'll show you when we return to the room,
suggests that the capacity is actually infinite."

"A battery," Karl repeated.  "Can you get the energy back out?"

"Yes, as electricity, for example.  More importantly, by rotating
the field 90 degrees with respect to its orientation during
capture, you can use the stored energy to counter inertial
effects.  Doing this bleeds off energy proportional to the
inertial reduction."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  "Meaning you have to _charge_
your mass before you can detach its inertia."

"Exactly.  And the charge is used up in proportion to the
accelerations imposed.  At some point, if you wish to continue to
accelerate with detached inertia, you must restore the charge.
Do you recognize the significance?"

"I think so.  Otherwise you would have invented a
perpetual-motion machine."

I nodded.  "A loophole in the Second Law of Thermodynamics still
eludes me."

"But ... my god!  This will cause a revolution in physics.  The
inventor will surely win the Nobel.  Was that you?"

"Partly.  Charged matter was not my discovery.  The effect of
field rotation, that is, VID, is my contribution."

His eyes were aglow.  "Both ideas must be terribly new.  Where
are they published?"

I purposefully made my face solemn.  "That aren't, Karl.  And
they won't be for a long time."

His eyes widened.  "Wh-why not?"

I waved a hand.  "You see how the world is.  You have direct
experience in what happens when you confer huge new powers upon a
government.  Can you imagine how the United States and the Soviet
Union would use VID?"

He blinked.  "Surely they would open space to mankind!"

I nodded slowly.  "Perhaps they would.  But charged matter can
hold an atomic bomb's energy in a coin.  Letting governments have
that secret is not worth the risk.  And as to opening space,
Karl, _I_ shall do that -- with your help."

He sat silent, obviously in deep thought, slowly chewing his last
bite of meat.  Almost imperceptibly Rosalind shook her head at
me.  Had her knees failed of the desired effect?

"I'm an engineer," he said at last.  "I know how to build
liquid-fueled rockets.  I can evaluate new designs.  How might I
be useful to you?"

"Your liquid-fuel experience is not that important," I admitted,
"though I want you to improve upon my spaceship design,
especially in regard to endurance and reliability.  Where you can
be of greatest use is in managing the details of spaceship
construction and testing.  Your engineering training in the
properties and limits of materials would be essential for that.
How about _Technical Director_ for a title, the same as Von
Braun's at Peenemunde?"

His eyes lit.  "Oh, I would like that."

In 1952, the portions were smaller in restaurants.  We even had
room for dessert, strengthened with more peach schnaps.  At one
point Karl laughed.  "I trust my absolute amazement at your
demonstration upstairs was gratifying."

I smiled indulgently.  "You did react well, I thought.  Declaring
impossible what your own senses had reported was amusing but
understandable, given the present belief in inertia as a fixed
property of mass."

Rosalind sniffed.  "But I outdid you."

"How so?"

She grinned hugely.  "When Tim -- ah, John first showed it to me,
I told him he was drunk."

* * *

Upstairs we again took seats around the table.  Karl spent a few
minutes playing with my cube, using the screwdriver to restore
and rotate the VID field, marveling again at the incredibly
differing heft.

When he put it reluctantly aside, I said, "I have formed a
private company, Karl, called Fernworks" -- I pronounced it
_fayrn_works -- "to be headquartered at a site about 20 miles
northwest of Asheville, North Carolina."

"_Fern_?" he asked.  I could see he was thinking of the German
word.

"Yes.  _Far_, _distant_.  But we'll pronounce it _furn_works from
now on."

"Is fern an English word?"

"Yes.  _Die Farnpflanze_.  In this case, a bit of botanical
misdirection."

Rosalind grinned.  "We'll put flowers in the front windows."

He smiled at her in return.  Perhaps the knee contact had not
been wasted.  But he asked me, "Why North Carolina?"

"Asheville is in the mountains, the Appalachians.  They are small
hills compared to the Rockies or the Alps, but land is cheap,
rail transport is available and most importantly, radar coverage
is poor."

"Radar!"

"We don't want to upset the new American air defense system,
especially on our return flights."

"Surely radar is not completely absent there!"

"No, of course not.  But the scanners are distant and probes
attenuated."  I grinned.  "As you will see when we get deeper
into detail, I have found a way to attenuate them even further.
Our ship will be _stealthed_."

"It will be what?"

I waved my hand.  "Hold that question for now.  I've bought a
hill and the adjacent valley not far from the village of Baylor.
As we speak the upper half of the hill is being moved into the
valley.  A half-million square foot factory -- that is, almost
50,000 square meters -- will be constructed on the hill and
covered with a retractable roof.  The excavated hilltop is
damming up a stream in that valley for a hydroelectric generator
that will give us all the power we need."

He blinked.  "How can you possibly conceal such a project from
the government?"

"Well, in fact, I can't, not entirely.  It's too big.  The
sheriff of that county believes Fernworks is a classified
government project on the federal level.  I have a girl working
as a secretary in a Washington office who accepts mail and says
the right things on the telephone when the sheriff calls.
Misdirection is the key to dealing with governments.  Fortunately
they tend to be slow off the mark."

I delved again into the leather bag and produced a notepad and
some pencils.  After moving my chair around beside Karl, I wrote
on the notepad,

	a = f / Dm

"Newton's Second Law with a kicker.  _D_ is the inertial
detachment coefficient.  It depends on the charge and the field
displacement.  In principle it can be made as near to zero as you
wish.  In that cube I have achieved 0.0017.  For the spaceship
we'll do far better."

Rosalind sighed and got to her feet.  "Now he'll explain the
dependencies of the detachment coefficient and fill up several
sheets of paper with boring equations.  That's my cue to go
shopping.  Before that, let me mention a few things.  This suite
is yours for the next two days if you decide against us, for as
long as you need it otherwise, although you'll probably want to
move to our temporary lodgings in Baylor.  Your salary is ten
thousand U. S. dollars per year, payable in any currency and to
any bank.  Your full maintenance is expensed to Fernworks.  John
has already outlined your major responsibilities.  You have until
tomorrow night to decide, yea or nay.  Now, gentlemen, if you'll
excuse me, I noticed the most darling little hat in a millinery
near the airport."

Of course we stood up.  From the door she smiled at us.  "I'll be
back in two hours."

As the door closed, Karl blinked at me, his mouth having fallen
slightly open.

I chuckled.  "You seem surprised."

"I thought she was only your driver!"

"And flunkey?  But she is, except she is not only that.
Sometimes I serve her in the same way."

"For whom would I be working: you or her?"

"That's an interesting question.  Let's talk about that."  We
took our seats and I continued, "At present Fernworks has four
principals, two of whom you haven't met.  It's true that I have
supplied key technical ideas for it, but I am not the source of
the money.  You'll meet her later, if you join with us.  As to
whom you work for ...  Karl, I hope you'll so accept and adhere
to our objectives that they become yours also, in which case
you'll be working for the same ends as the rest of us -- working
for yourself."

He nodded rather impatiently.  "That sounds very fine.  But
suppose I tender a proposal with which you disagree?"

"It depends on the proposal.  At first until we learn each
other's personalities, I would expect you to defer to my
decisions.  But in a year's time I hope we'll know each other
well enough that such disagreements don't happen.  We'll know
before raising an issue how the others will react."

He blinked.  "You mean that Fernworks is run by a committee?"

I let my eyes twinkle.  "Except I get my way most of the time."

He chuckled.  "I can probably live with that.  What does Ann do?"

"In addition to driving and goforing?  In fact she is --"

"Gophering?"

I grinned.  "Go for: go and fetch, act as a flunkey.  But she is
also the chief accountant for Fernworks, that is, the Chief
Financial Officer.  She can tell you how many million dollars we
have disbursed in the past year.  It's starting to mount up."

He blinked again.  I began to understand it as his gesture of
assimilation.  He asked, "How is Fernworks financed?"

"That's very simple.  One of the other principals is supplying
all the money.  I assure you the funding is entirely private and
the money is clean."

I took a deep breath.  "Karl, Fernworks has had a _most_ unusual
genesis, involving ideas and circumstances beyond anyone's
experience.  I don't care to divulge all that without a
commitment from you.  But once you've taken the job, the whole
story will be disclosed."

He blinked several times.

"If fact you will become our fifth principal."

He spread his hands.  "I have no papers and no money."

"You need neither.  What you need is the intelligence and
technical training to grasp the math I'm about to reveal.  We'll
soon find out about that.  You must also have the organizational
ability to direct a large enterprise.  Dornberger assured me of
that.  You must be willing to sever your ties to current society
and devote the next several years of your life to Fernworks, as
you will find we have done.  But in a few years you'll go with us
into space, Karl.  We'll colonize the moon and the asteroids,
well ahead of the rest of humanity.  That's our true reward."

He stared at me and took a deep breath of his own.  "I don't
suppose we'll be using slave labor."

"Your key engineers will be paid more than you, excepting the
value of your personal maintenance.  We'll have none of the Nazi
amorality, Karl."

"Good.  Did the general tell you the Gestapo arrested me along
with Von Braun?"

"No.  Did you also claim to be building space ships instead of
weapons?"

He grunted.  "_I'm_ the one who said that!  They only arrested
Von Braun because he was my boss and refused to fire me."

His expression was indignant.  I studied him with interest.  "Did
they keep you as long as your boss?"

"No.  Peenemunde ground to a standstill.  They let me out first
to restart testing."

"You were fortunate that Hitler still had rational moments.
Well, for now let's obey our financial officer.  Here is the
equation for the _D_ dependencies."

* * *

Rosalind and I were comfortable lovers.  I had learned she liked
it _tight_: bodies squeezed together by arms and legs, tongues
intertwined, maximum pressure on the clit.  When we traveled
together, as we did to recruit Karl, we slept together every
night and exhibited other habits of old marrieds, including her
head on my shoulder afterwards for a discussion of the day's
events.

She remarked on it with an air of exasperation.  "Christ, Tim,
according to my mother, pillow-talk was always her habit
afterwards too."

"Oh?  She talked about it, did she?"

"Yes, she did.  She liked it the same way I do.  I wish you could
meet her.  I know we agreed to stay away from relatives, but this
is ridiculous!  I've practically been married to all you
reverters now for nearly two years and I've never taken you home
to mother."

"Alice and I have stayed away from our parents too, you know.
And you do write to your mother."

"Yes, but I can't tell her anything important."

"Once we're out of reach, you can tell her anything you like."

She sighed.  "I know.  I'm just impatient.  I'll be good."

"You _are_ good!"

She sniffed.  "I think you mean that somewhat differently, but
I'll second it.  So are you."

With a chuckle I squeezed her closer.  "Let's get serious a
moment.  What's your take on Karl."

"He's certainly enthusiastic about your invention.  When I
returned this afternoon, his face was flushed.  I thought he was
high on schnaps but found out it was opportunity that turned him
on.  He's already planning a mission to Mars."

"Yes, he's taken the hook and dived deep.  But tell me this.  You
were complaining the other day that you hadn't been unfaithful to
me with a man in over a year.  Have you --"

"Not complaining, just amazed to realize it!"

"Have you corrected that problem?"

The city skylight seeping around the edges of drapes was enough
to see her glittering eyes and the amusement on her face.  "You
ask that so indifferently!"

"Well, I'm not indifferent.  The more glue we can spread on him
the better."

"Glue!" she repeated with a sniff.  "Is that a Twenty-first
Century term for 'vaginal lubricant?'"

I chuckled.  "That's a pretty good glue in any era.  Hmm.  I
noticed your head-shake at dinner.  Is something the matter with
Karl?"

"I know you're impressed, Tim."  She grinned slowly.  "At first I
thought he might be queer."

"You did what?"

"As an engineer, he surely didn't react like the boys at
Roosevelt Poly!"

"Of course not.  He's European-educated, not American."

"That's supposed to make a difference?"

"Now, Ros, consider your European history.  You know that women
there, as of 1952, occupy a lower rung of the social ladder.
Look at it from his point of view.  I told him you were
Fernworks' CFO.  You should've seen his chin drop.  If he was
rather cool to you, probably the thought of taking direction from
you wilted his dick."

She laughed with genuine humor.

"Did I say something funny?"

She turned on the headboard light and passed me a viewer from the
night table.  "Take a look at this."

I raised the binoculars and turned them to the light.  I saw
Rosalind lounging on the couch of the suite's sitting room,
primly clad in the afternoon's striped green dress, modestly
exposing long, shapely calves and rounded arms.  Karl stood
fidgeting near the window, alternatively looking out and stealing
glances at her.  At every opportunity she met his eyes.

"I know what John's up to," she said.  "As usual he's killing two
birds with one stone."

Karl looked around, a bit wide-eyed.  "He's what?"

She chuckled.  "Don't you have that expression in German?  I mean
on this trip he's recruiting you as well as ordering materials.
He'll not return until suppertime."  She smiled slightly and
added, "You said you were once married?"

"Briefly.  My wife was killed in an air raid."

"Oh ... I'm sorry."

He shrugged.  "In fact we were already separated less than a year
after the wedding.  There were, as you say, 'irreconcilable
differences.'"

Rosalind noted sympathetically, "Some very religious girls are
shocked by marriage."

He barked a laugh.  "No, no.  It was not about sex.  She was
quite robust in that regard.  It was politics.  She was a fervent
Nazi."

"Robust?"

"Is that not the correct word?  But I'm sure you understand what
I mean."

"Yes, I do.  You must miss such robustness, even with a Nazi.
Did you find another girl?"

He shrugged.

She nodded.  "I see.  No one special.  Just an occasional
friend?"

"You speak very boldly for a woman."

"This is America, Karl.  You must be cautious of girls who appear
to be demure."

"Demure?" he muttered.  "_Ach, so!  Sproede._"  He grinned.
"Those kind are supposed to make good wives."

"Is that what you're looking for, a wife?"

"I'm married to my work," he retorted.

"Of course you are.  That's why you would prefer a bold girl to
one who is demure."

He stared at her with mouth agape.  "Actually," he finally said,
"there has been neither kind for me in a number of years."

"That's very unhealthy, Karl," she responded, as if by accident
brushing the skirt's hem to reveal her knees.  "And I'm
responsible for the health of our employees," she added.

"You are more than bold!" he exclaimed, turning again to the
window.

"Do I shock you?  We aren't ordinary people, you know.  We're
going to the moon."

He faced her once more to reveal a blush on his cheeks.  "You
make me very uncomfortable, I suppose because I was never a, a
_Bummler_.  I never chased around and have always been too
serious about work."

"I would never interfere with your work, Karl.  But as I've
already mentioned, we have a few hours to pass until John
returns."

"What are you saying?" he exploded.  "You should not play with
people like this!"

She rose from the couch and approached him in three steps.  She
placed her hands on his waist to pull him close.

"I do enjoy playing, Karl, but not alone."

She kissed him soundly with arms encircling his back.  At first
he stood passively with her lips pressed to his, but very soon
his arms embraced her and he returned the kiss passionately.
Rosalind smiled broadly when they separated.

"You're not teasing me?" he asked, as if he could not believe his
good fortune.

"Hardly that.  I find you very attractive, and you've gone
without a woman for too long."

They kissed again, he with extreme intensity.  His hand roughly
captured one of her breasts.  She pushed him back gently, but
with a palm she caressed his cheek.

"Let's be more deliberate about this," she said, "and not tear
our clothes."

"You're having second thoughts," he stated with a frown.

"On the contrary, Karl.  I'm available to you totally.  Are there
things you have only dreamed of doing with a woman?  Do you wish
me to play a role for you?  I can be demure, if you like, or
slutty.  You may rape me, if that would please you."

"I would never do that, Anna!"

"But you have my permission."

He grinned.  "I would rip your dress, if I were such a beast."

"I've changed my mind about that.  It's not expensive."

"No." he said, touching her left breast with a finger.  "When I
was fourteen I had an older cousin who once allowed me to feel
her, but very briefly.  She was tall like you."

"I'll be your cousin, Karl."

His eyes grew large.  "Yes, Gudrund," he gasped.  "I want to
undress you."

With nervous fingers he began to disrobe her, slowly,
deliberately, as if unwrapping an unexpected present.  "Help me
with this," he begged when daunted by the bra clasp.  Her large
breasts sprang forth when released, firm and youthful.  He
embraced her, half kneeling to suck a nipple.

"Sit down!" he ordered almost in a shout and shoved her to the
floor, her back against the couch.

He tore open his trousers, then paused.  A wriggle of his legs
sent them falling down.  His clean, white under shorts tented
above her, promising a significant member.  With an expression of
pure lechery on his boyish face he pushed them slowly off.  The
purplish head thrust half out of the foreskin.  He knelt astride
her and ran the tip across her lips, which parted submissively.
Her hands on his thighs limited his crude thrust.  Her throat
worked and her mouth sucked with a purpose.  His response was
almost immediate.

"Oh, _du Schoene_!" he cried, hips jerking as he held her head
with both hands.

Once sated, he was obviously aghast at his behavior.  He stood
and retreated a couple of steps while her tongue pushed semen
over lips and chin.

"Are you all right?" he asked.  "I'm sorry."

"Get me a towel," she mumbled thickly.

He was back in seconds.  She grabbed the cloth and buried her
face with spitting sounds.  He stood watching with a contrite,
foolish expression, nevertheless removing his shirt expectantly.
She rose from one knee.

"We've just begun," she said, stroking the hair on his chest.
"But perhaps I should brush my teeth first, unless, of course,
you prefer to taste yourself."

He grinned.  "I tried that once when I was thirteen but didn't
enjoy it."

"You sucked yourself?"

"Only in my dreams!  No.  I contorted myself upside down and
squirted into my mouth."

She laughed indulgently.  He followed when she turned and went
into the bathroom, touching her as if he were blind.  At the sink
he leaned against her from behind, hands on her hips, pressing
his half erect member against her butt cheeks.

"Is this permitted too?" he asked.

She put aside the toothbrush, rinsed her mouth and turned to him.

"Anything you want, Karl," she purred, placing her arms around
his neck.  "But first I need you to please _me_.  I'm feeling
itchy."

He looked at her dumbly, not comprehending.

"I want you to lick on me," she explained.

"Really?  Like another woman?"

"You've never done it before?"

"My wife never allowed that.  She said it was perverse."

Rosalind grinned.  "I'll teach you."

"I'm familiar with the anatomy," he protested.

Hand in hand they went into his room, to his bed, where she
reclined with knees raised and arms inviting.  He rushed his head
between her outspread thighs.  She fondled a breast, and with the
other hand gripped his hair.

"Oh, yes!  You know how!" she exclaimed.

Her moans soon climaxed in a shriek.  She captured his head
between tightly pressed thighs.

"Do me now!" she gasped, releasing his head and pulling at his
shoulders.

"I don't have a condom," he muttered, but he mounted her
nevertheless.

She groaned with the penetration, glancing at his face then
closing her eyes.  She established the rhythm, a wild, greedy
thrusting and grappling with arms and legs.  He serviced her,
gazing at her distorted mouth with an amused expression, watching
the onset and arrival of her orgasm.  She cried out wordlessly,
but redoubled her efforts, wanting another one.

"Kiss me!" she screamed, and he did.

For a moment they clutched each other in a tight embrace, not
moving.  Then he rose on his elbows to look down on her.  She
smiled at him.

"It's your turn now, Karl.  Take your pleasure."

Slowly he obeyed, staring into her eyes.  She stroked his arms
affectionately.  He grimaced and pounded until he collapsed
heavily upon her.  She sucked his ear lobe as his body convulsed.

"You're smothering me," she protested gently when he was
obviously finished.

He rolled off to lie beside her.  He reached over to fondle a
sweaty breast, then rose on an elbow to kiss her.

"That was magnificent, Anna," he said.  "I've never experience it
like that before."

"You may do it every day, Karl.  Whenever you want."

"What about John?  Won't he be jealous?"

She tousled his hair.  "We're all family.  There are two other
women who are prettier and greedier than I."

He smiled and kissed her again.  "How is that possible?"

"Karl, I am only the first special benefit that will come to you
as a Fernworks principal.  Go get us another glass of schnaps and
let's snuggle for a while.  I'd like to hear your colonization
dreams."

I lowered the viewer.  She was grinning at me.  "Not too wilted,
was it?"

I laughed sheepishly.  "And I was about to give you a few
suggestions!  This reminds me of another old saying not common in
Germany: 'Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs.'"

"I'm not your grandmother."  Her hand caught me.  "This thing is
hard!"

"Why does that surprise you?"

She took a deep breath.  "Timmy ..."

"I'm right here."  I pulled her atop me.  "I don't mind if you
pretend otherwise."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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