V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History (10 page)

“We weren’t aware of any . . . uh, personal differences . . . when we made the room assignments,” he said, his gaze shifting between Gerry and Jack. “Is there going to be a problem here?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.” Jack looked Gerry straight in the eye. “Do you have a problem?”

Again, Gerry Mander hesitated. Then a grin slowly spread across his face, exposing a pair of crooked front teeth. “Well, hell, why not? Half the guys in the workhouse were colored.” He stuck out his hand. “Put it there, boy!”

Jackson bit his lip as he shook Gerry’s hand. For now, he’d have to settle for acceptance and work on respect later. “And you are . . . ?” he asked the G-man.

“Frank O’Connor, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” His handshake was firm enough to crack walnuts. “I’ve been assigned to be your security detail while you’re here. Where you go, I go.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Lloyd said. “He’s really our valet. Cooks a mean roast chicken.”

The others laughed again, and Agent O’Connor managed a shrug. “Got some leftovers in the icebox if you’re hungry.”

“Man, I’m not hungry . . . I’m starving.” Even as he said this, Jack Cube felt his stomach rumbling. The last time he’d had anything to eat was the egg-salad sandwich in Washington between trains. “Take me to it.”

He started to head for the kitchen, but O’Connor raised a hand. “Don’t worry about a thing, Lieutenant. I’ll set you a place at the table. Just make yourself comfortable and get to know everyone.”

He returned to the kitchen, and Jackson looked around to see Gerry staring at him in astonishment. “Lieutenant?” Gerry asked; apparently he hadn’t overheard Corporal Hillman’s initial introduction. “You’re a lieutenant?”

“Army Air Force, 332nd Fighter Group.” Jackson ignored his expression as he turned to the others. “Anyone got a smoke? I used up my last cigarette somewhere around Philadelphia.” Henry produced a pack of Camels and shook one out. “Thanks. So what’s the story here? When do we see Dr. Goddard?”

“First meeting is tomorrow morning, at the college.” Henry struck a match, held it out to him. The rest of the men were already going back to what they’d been doing when he arrived. “That’s when you’ll get the details.”

Something in the way he said this got Jack’s attention. “You know what’s going on?” he asked, letting Henry light his cigarette.

“Uh-huh . . . but I think it’d be better if Bob explains it himself.” Henry’s face was solemn. “Believe me when I tell you,” he quietly added, “we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

=====

Esther Goddard was unpacking yet another carton of books—it seemed as if books accounted for half the stuff shipped back from Roswell—when there was a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it,” she called out to Robert as she made her way through the cardboard boxes that had transformed the living room into a maze. The knock was repeated by the time she reached the front door; its impatience gave her a clue as to who their late visitor was even before she opened the door.

“Hello, Wallace,” she said, managing a smile that she didn’t feel. “Nice to see you again.”

“Good evening, Esther.” Wallace Atwood, the president of Clark University, stood on the front porch, hat pulled low and overcoat lapels turned up against the snow that was still falling. “Is Robert in?”

“Of course. Please come in.” She stepped aside and waited for Atwood to stamp the snow from his rubber overshoes. It had been many years since she’d last seen him, and as he walked into the house and took off his hat, she noted that time hadn’t treated him well. Now that he was in his seventies, time seemed to have caught up with him; a big man in past years, his shoulders had become stooped and his frame a little less ursine, and his hair had gone white and had almost completely receded from his forehead. It was remarkable that President Atwood hadn’t retired, and perhaps he would soon, but not before he confronted his old nemesis one more time.

“I’m sorry that I can’t offer you any coffee,” Esther said as she took his hat and coat, “but I haven’t unpacked the percolator yet.” A lie; it was one of the first things she’d pulled out of a box when the moving van showed up a couple of days ago. But coffee was tightly rationed and not to be splurged; besides, she didn’t want dear old Wallace to stay any longer than necessary.

“That’s quite all right. It’s only a quick visit.” Atwood gave the stacked boxes a disdainful glance. “Still getting settled in? I would’ve thought . . .”

“We’ve been gone almost twelve years, and we stopped renting out the house after the last tenant made a mess of the place. It takes a while to move back in, you know.”

Wallace gave her a stiff-necked nod, still not looking at her. This was the house where Bob had been born and raised; it had been in his family for two generations, perched atop Maple Hill in one of Worcester’s more pleasant neighborhoods. Even after he and Esther moved to New Mexico, he decided to keep the place, for reasons both sentimental and practical. Had he put the house on the market, it would have signaled that he never intended to return to Massachusetts . . . and Wallace Atwood would have taken advantage of that.

“Yes, well . . .” Atwood noisily cleared his throat, and Esther tried not to laugh. No one could harrumph as well as Clark University’s president. “If you could tell your husband that I’m here . . .”

“And so you are!” Bob exclaimed as he strode into the living room, arms open as if to give their caller a hearty embrace. “Good evening, Wallace! How wonderful to see you again!”

Esther couldn’t keep from grinning. In baggy old pants and a wool shirt filthy with dust brought all the way from New Mexico, the smoldering butt of a cigar clenched between his teeth, Bob looked like a desert rat magically transported to Massachusetts. Atwood was dressed in the same tweed suit he’d probably worn to church for the last twenty years, and he recoiled from Bob as if afraid he might be carrying a virus.

“Ah . . . um . . . pleased to see you, too.” Atwood nervously extended a hand and visibly winced as Bob clasped it with both of his own. “Your lovely wife was just telling me . . .”

“We’re still unpacking, yes, yes. May take us a while to get squared away.” Bob took the cigar from his mouth and waved it at the living room furniture, some of which was still covered by canvas sheets. “If you’re dropping by to give us a hand, that would be terrific. We could use all the help we can get. You can start in here by . . .”

“Well, no, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not. Actually, the reason why I’ve stopped by is to discuss the nature of your return. That is, I’d like to know why you’ve . . .”

“Come back after so many years?” Noticing that his cigar had gone out, Bob searched for a place to dispose of it. “Why, to teach, of course. And to pursue a research project, as you’ve no doubt heard already.”

“That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. You haven’t . . .”

Atwood was interrupted by footsteps clumping across the upstairs hallway. He glanced upward, surprised to find that there was someone else in the house. “You have a guest?”

“Oh, yes.” Bob dropped the cigar butt in the small ceramic candy dish he’d been using until Esther could dig out a proper ashtray. “In fact, I believe you’ve already met.” He turned to the stairs and raised his voice. “Colonel? President Atwood is here.”

Colonel Bliss descended the staircase, the evening edition of the
Worcester Telegraph
in hand. Although his tie was missing and his sleeves were rolled up, he might just as well have been wearing a full dress uniform; Bliss had the sort of military bearing that didn’t disappear even when he was in civilian clothes. “Good evening, Dr. Atwood,” he said. “I thought I’d heard you come in.”

“Hello, Colonel.” Once again, Atwood was startled. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

“Omar is visiting for a few days while Bob gets his project started.” Esther picked up a rag to dust off her hands. “I imagine you’ll see him from time to time.”

“Probably not very often. Just when I need to make sure that everything is going well with Dr. Goddard’s work.” The colonel reached the bottom of the steps but didn’t offer a handshake. “Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help but overhear you from the guest room . . . you have a question about his schedule?”

“Yes, well . . .” Atwood shifted from one foot to another as he turned to Bob again. “I’ve been told that you’ve requested that you teach only one class, a seminar in advanced physics. Furthermore, you’re reserving approval over any students who sign up for this.”

“That’s right,” Bob said. “Physics 390 will be the one course I’ll teach this semester, and the only students who take it will be the ones whom I personally approve. And I’ve already picked my students.”

“Not even the Introduction to Physics or Introductory Calculus classes you’ve normally taught?” Atwood asked, and Bob shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not satisfactory.”

“As chairman of the physics and math departments, it’s my privilege to teach as few classes as I choose, and every professor at Clark has the option of selecting the students he wants for his graduate-level courses.”

“And that’s not satisfactory either,” Atwood said.

Bob shrugged. “Well, I’m sorry, Wallace, but you’ll just have to be satisfied.”

And there it was, the source of the long-standing feud between the two men. Atwood became the university president in 1920; three years later, he promoted Goddard to the chairmanship of the physics department following the suicide of his predecessor. They had gotten along well at first, with Atwood securing the university grants that Goddard used to jump-start his rocket research, and Goddard in turn becoming one of the university’s crown jewels. It wasn’t long, though, before Goddard began to outgrow Clark University; once he acquired new funding sources, first from the Carnegie Institute and the Smithsonian, and later from Charles Lindbergh and the Guggenheim family, he no longer needed the university’s meager financial support. When this happened, Goddard committed less effort to his job at the college, preferring to spend more time with his rocket experiments.

Yet Atwood couldn’t afford to fire him. By then, Dr. Robert H. Goddard was one of the most famous scientists in America, while Clark University remained in the shadows of Harvard and Boston College to the east and Amherst, Smith, and Mount Holyoke to the west. Clark needed Goddard more than Goddard needed Clark, and Atwood knew it.

Bob’s marriage to Esther hadn’t helped either. Esther Kisk had been a recent high-school graduate working as a typist in Atwood’s office when she met Doctor G, and the puritanical and churchgoing university president had disapproved of the romance between the teenage girl and the middle-aged professor. To make matters worse, Esther had taken charge of Bob’s personal affairs once they were married; she’d become a formidable defender of her husband’s private life, and Atwood soon discovered that he couldn’t easily intimidate her.

The final break had occurred when the Goddards moved to Roswell. Bob had told the university that it would only be a short sabbatical, yet as time went on, and his visits to Worcester became increasingly infrequent, it became apparent that he was gone for good. Yet he’d refused to relinquish his chairmanship of the physics and math departments, even after Atwood had eliminated most of the graduate programs, and when the president requested that Goddard give up his chair and take a pay cut, Goddard had retaliated by tendering his resignation. Atwood had no choice but to let Goddard retain his chairmanship and salary even though he was an invisible man on campus. Like it or not, losing Goddard would have been a major blow to the university’s prestige.

All this must have been in the back of Wallace Atwood’s mind because his face reddened and his eyes narrowed. “Just who do you think you are?” he snapped, glaring at Goddard as if he were a freshman caught soaping Atwood’s office windows. “You’re gone twelve years, then you come back thinking you can just waltz in and . . .”

“Dr. Atwood, may I remind you that the War Department has specifically requested Dr. Goddard’s reinstatement?” Leaning against the banister, Colonel Bliss remained calm in the face of the president’s bluster. “We’ve already discussed our arrangements. The reasons why he’s here are none of your concern, nor are the conditions he’s requested. You’re to give him everything he wants and leave him alone, and that’s all you need to know.”

Atwood’s angry gaze swung toward Bliss. “And if I don’t?”

“You tell me . . . how much federal aid does your school receive each year? And while you’re at it, you might also wonder how many of your teachers and students have requested and received draft deferrals.” A cunning smile. “Uncle Sam can be very generous in his support of higher education, Dr. Atwood, but his generosity has its limits.”

Before Esther’s very eyes, it seemed as if Wallace Atwood actually shrank a few inches. His haughty demeanor vanished like snowflakes on a hot frying pan as he gaped at the colonel, his mouth opening as if to object, then closing without another word. Bob said nothing, but when Atwood turned to Esther, she simply held out his hat and coat.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Wallace,” she murmured. “Do come again, will you?”

“Perhaps we could have lunch some afternoon,” Bob added.

Atwood silently took his hat and coat, then walked out the door. Esther caught it before it slammed shut and watched as he stormed down the front walk, the snow muffling his footsteps as he headed for the car parked at the front curb. Its headlights had barely vanished when Bob let out a sigh.

“Well,” he murmured, “that was . . . unpleasant.”

“Really?” Esther smiled. “I don’t think so. Remind me to bake him some cookies, will you?”

And then she went back to unpacking books, humming a happy song as she ignored the stares from both her husband and their houseguest.

FEBRUARY 10, 1942

“I cannot stress too strongly the need for absolute secrecy,” Colonel Bliss said. “No one, but no one, outside this room can know what we’re doing. Not your families, not your friends, not your colleagues . . . no one. This is why some of you have received phony draft notices, while others like Dr. Chung have received job offers in other parts of the country.”

“You hear me complaining?” Gerry Mander asked. “Coupla weeks ago, I was breaking rocks on an Alabama road crew.”

“In your case,” Robert Goddard replied, “I’d say you’re moving up in the world.”

Everyone laughed except the colonel, who remained stoical. The nine members of the research team were seated on wooden stools around the long, unfinished pine table that ran down the center of the second room of the physics lab. The laboratory was comprised of two adjacent rooms in the basement ground floor of the Science Building. Separated by only a square arch, they had whitewashed-brick walls, oak-plank floors, and high wooden ceilings. A coal furnace stood in one corner between shelves containing a variety of tools, flasks, and pieces of scrap metal. An enormous vacuum pump was located in the middle of the first room, just in front of the sturdy double doors, which had been closed for the meeting. Frank O’Connor, the FBI agent, leaned against the door, arms folded across his chest.

“If secrecy is so important,” Henry Morse asked, “shouldn’t we do something about that?” He pointed to the row of tall windows on one side of the two rooms; halfway up the wall, they looked out upon a small courtyard, where an elderly custodian was shoveling snow from the walkway between classroom buildings. “Anyone can peep in here and see what we’re doing.”

“We’ve ordered blinds. Until they arrive, we’ll make sure that this”—Bliss tapped a knuckle against the blackboard behind him—“is covered or erased after each meeting. Furthermore, all notes are to be kept in those file cabinets over there, which will be locked when not being used. I’ll also ask that you not remove any notes from these rooms or take anything back to the boardinghouse.”

Several of the men groaned and shook their heads. “Fat chance of that,” Lloyd muttered under his breath. Telling a scientist to keep his research confined to the workplace was like ordering a restaurant chef not to take home any leftovers.

Bliss ignored the protests. “Agent O’Connor will be in charge of security. He will escort you to and from the boardinghouse where you’ll be staying, while Corporal Hillman will do the same for Dr. Goddard. So far as anyone is concerned, you’re graduate students enrolled in an advanced-studies program, Physics 390, with Dr. Goddard as your instructor and Dr. Chung as his teaching assistant. The boardinghouse will be your primary residence, and we’d prefer that you keep your social activities to a minimum.”

“So joining a fraternity is out of the question, I take it,” Ham Ballou said.

The others laughed again, but Bliss was not amused. “You take it correctly. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you shaved off your mustache. It makes you look older.”

Ham chuckled, then he caught the expression on the colonel’s face, and his smile faded. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything.” Bliss looked at the rest of the team. “Believe me when I say this . . . the outcome of the war, and the future of the United States, may very well depend on what goes on in here. From this point on, you’re no longer private citizens but military scientists working on a project at the highest levels of national security. Very few people . . . the president, the Secretary of State, and the White House science advisor, select members of the War Department and the intelligence community . . . are aware that this program even exists. So it goes without saying that you must keep what you know to yourselves.” Bliss paused, letting his gaze travel around the room. “Have I made myself understood?”

No one spoke. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the lab as they all glanced at one another. Then Goddard coughed into his hand. “Thank you, Colonel,” he said. “I think these men realize the gravity of the situation.”

“Would you like to continue the briefing, Dr. Goddard?”

“No,” Goddard said, “I’d rather get to work.” The others quietly laughed or hid smiles behind their hands as he stood up and strolled to the blackboard. “If I may . . . ?”

Bliss moved aside, giving Goddard the floor. “Thank you,” Goddard said as the colonel took a seat at the table, then he looked at the team. “If I haven’t personally met anyone here already . . . well then, welcome to warm and sunny Worcester, the Paris of New England.”

Once again, everyone laughed. After Colonel Bliss’s no-nonsense approach, Bob Goddard’s deadpan humor was a relief. “This is the first time my wife and I have been back in quite a while,” he continued, “so a little housewarming party is in order. Esther and I would like to have you all over to the house next Saturday for a chicken dinner . . .”

“Dr. Goddard!” Bliss snapped.

“Oh, you’re invited, too, Colonel, if you’re still in town by then . . .”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t permit that. The team can’t be seen with you outside the classroom.”

Goddard stared at him. “Oh, good heavens . . . why not? Students have always come to my house.”

“The colonel’s right, sir.” O’Connor spoke up from his place near the door. “Security considerations . . . when you’re not here on campus, it would be unwise to have you seen with anyone who might be identified by German intelligence operatives as being another rocket scientist.”

“Oh, come on . . . German spies, really . . .”

“Always a possibility,” Bliss said.

“Damn,” Henry murmured to Jack Cube. “There goes a free dinner.”

Goddard glared at O’Connor and Bliss. When neither of them appeared willing to compromise or back down, he shrugged. “Well, then . . . perhaps another time. Maybe we should devote ourselves to the task at hand.”

Turning to the blackboard, he flipped its panel upside down, revealing what had been hidden on its other side: a chalk sketch of the Silver Bird on its horizontal launch track, with several rows of figures beneath it. “As you’ve already been informed, allied military intelligence recently learned that the German Army and the Luftwaffe are planning to build a manned spacecraft . . . what they call an antipodal bomber . . . which will be launched by means of a rocket-propelled sled moving along a horizontal track. This
Silbervogel
, as they call it, or Silver Bird, will have an approximate length of ninety-two feet and a wingspan of forty-eight feet, with a dry weight of approximately one hundred tons . . .”

As he spoke, Ham Ballou leaned over to Lloyd Kapman. “Man, I don’t like this,” he whispered. “Are we going to have G-men chaperoning us the whole time?”

“I hear you,” Lloyd replied, his voice subdued as well. “Can’t even visit the john without Frankie tailing us.”

“Yeah, well, look . . . I spotted a nice little bar downtown, right across the street from City Hall. Maybe we can shake the babysitter later and . . .”

“Gentlemen? You have something to add?”

Ham and Lloyd looked to see that Goddard had interrupted himself to look at them. So was everyone else in the room. “Umm . . . just discussing fuel options, Bob,” Lloyd said. “Alcohol-derived versus oxygen-hydrogen mix.”

A few knowing chuckles; some of the others caught the joke. The only people who didn’t laugh were Goddard, Bliss, and O’Connor. “Sounds interesting,” Goddard said, not smiling. “Perhaps you can discuss this later, though. For now, I’d like to have your attention.”

“Sure thing, Bob . . . sorry,” Lloyd said, and Ham nodded. As Goddard turned back to the blackboard, though, Henry glanced back at them. He gave them a quick smile and wink, and Jack Cube did the same.

Later, indeed.

=====

As it turned out, getting away from O’Connor was almost ridiculously easy. A fire escape ran up the back side of the Birch Street boardinghouse; after dinner, each of the team members said good night to the others and casually went upstairs to his room, closing the doors behind him. After waiting a few minutes, they quietly left their rooms and tiptoed to the window at the end of the hall where the ladder was located. It was a childish stunt, but so far as the FBI agent was concerned, the scientists were tucked away for the night. By a quarter to nine, they’d walked down to Park Avenue and caught a streetcar that would take them downtown.

The big clock on top of Worcester City Hall had just struck nine when they got off the trolley. By then, the streets were nearly empty, the Worcester Commons quilted by heavy white snow that glistened in the streetlights. As the streetcar trundled away, the eight men stood huddled on the corner of Main and Front, hats pulled down against the wind and hands shoved in their coat pockets.

“Think we lost him?” Mike glanced nervously over his shoulder.

“Of course we lost him.” Gerry grinned. “Serves Frankie right for not watching the back of the house.”

“And even if he figures out we’re missing,” Ham asked, “how is he going to find us?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Mike rolled his eyes. “This is only the FBI we’re talking about.” Looking away, he spotted a neon
BAR
sign on the other side of the Commons. “Is that the place, Lloyd?”

“That’s it. C’mon, gents . . . first round’s on me.”

The eight men trudged across the Commons, trying not to slip on the icy concrete path. Crossing Franklin Street behind City Hall, they headed for the warm lights of what appeared to be a hotel taproom, passing a sidewalk newsstand along the way. Incredibly, the stand was still open, its elderly proprietor huddled against the cold. Seeing this, Morse figured that he must either be desperate for business or just didn’t have anything else better to do.

“Think they’re gonna let me in?” Gerry murmured, eying the bar warily. “I mean . . . guys, I’m just nineteen.”

“Sure they will. You look twenty-one to me.” Walking beneath the entrance awning, Henry grabbed the brass door handle and was about to open it when he looked back. “Hey, what’s going on? Aren’t you coming in?”

Everyone was about to follow him inside except Jack Cube. He’d stopped on the sidewalk, gazing at something displayed in the front window. “Umm . . . ’fraid not,” he said quietly. “I’m going to have some trouble with this place.”

Wondering what was going on, Henry let go of the door and walked out from beneath the awning to see what had stopped Jack. In the window was a handwritten sign:
NO COLOREDS
.

“Oh, hell,” Lloyd muttered. “Jack, I’m sorry. I didn’t see . . .”

Everyone stopped except Gerry, who’d taken hold of the door handle. He was about to walk in even though the older men had suddenly become reluctant. Jack Cube was embarrassed; the sign was a reminder that racial barriers existed even outside the South.

“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “You fellows go on in. Maybe I can find a coffee shop somewhere.”

He started to walk back up the sidewalk, heading toward Main Street. Henry hesitated, then raised a hand. “Hey, wait up!” he called. “I think I’ll join you for that coffee!”

Harry Chung glared at the window sign. “Y’know, I bet they won’t let me in either,” he murmured, then turned to follow Henry and Jack.

“They probably don’t like Jews,” Lloyd said, as he fell in behind the other three.

Ham shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got something against second-generation French-Canadians.” Then he walked away from the bar.

“Coffee works for me.” Taylor joined the exodus.

“Place looks like a dump anyway,” Mike added. Stepping away from the door, he looked back at Gerry. “What about you, kid? Still want to try your luck?”

Seeing that it was hopeless, Gerry let his hand fall from the door handle and hurried to catch up with the others. “They would’ve just thrown me out,” he said with an indifferent shrug.

Henry clapped him on the shoulder, then something caught his eye that made him stop. Within the glow of the bare lightbulb dangling from the newsstand’s ceiling were the magazines on its racks.
Argosy
,
Life
,
Collier’s
,
Detective
,
The Shadow
,
The New Yorker
,
Doc Savage
,
Western Romance
, and so forth . . . and in their midst, the current issue of
Astounding Science Fiction
.

On impulse, Henry dug a quarter out of his pocket, dropped it on the counter, and picked up the pulp. The old man grunted as he scooped up the quarter with a gloved hand. “Never miss an issue,” he said, as the others watched with amusement. “Who knows? Maybe it’ll give us some ideas.”

=====

They didn’t find a coffee shop, but neither did they have to settle for one. A couple of blocks down Main was another bar. It was considerably less fancy than the one on the Commons, with a flickering Pabst Blue Ribbon sign in the window and a stale beer stench in the air, but at least the bartender didn’t seem to care who came in so long as they paid cash. The group pushed together a couple of tables in the back of the room, and Lloyd made good on his promise by ordering three pitchers of beer. The waitress brought them a couple of bowls of peanuts as well, then went back to the newspaper she’d been reading when they came in.

“Nice place.” Taylor examined the dimly lit barroom with a critical eye. It was nearly empty, the inevitable wino slumped over the bar the only other patron. “When do you think the city health inspector last set foot in here?”

“Look at the bright side . . . O’Connor probably won’t find us either.” Mike poured a glass of beer for himself, then passed the pitcher to Henry. “Put down the magazine and have a drink. You can read it later.”

Henry closed the issue of
Astounding
he’d just bought and placed it on the table. Curious, Harry reached over to pull it a little closer. On its cover was an illustration of a sleek silver craft descending through a grove of tall sequoias. “Beyond This Horizon” by Anson MacDonald was the featured story.

“You know,” Harry murmured as he studied the magazine, “there may be something to this.”