Pillar to the Sky Read online

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ll need it,” Erich said with a sardonic smile, and then pointed to one of the bookshelves sagging in the middle from the heavy weight of volumes and papers.

  “Start with that book in the upper left corner; it will take you back to the beginning of all things. A good aerospace engineer is also a good historian. An old friend of mine, L. Sprague de Camp, wrote that first book up there about ancient engineering. You will read how the Romans built roads, how Prince Henry of Portugal designed ships that could sail round the world … Ever hear of him?”

  Gary could only shake his head.

  “Well, start with the book by de Camp. A book a day, young man.”

  Gary all but gulped openly as he looked at the rows of books. He was there for ten weeks, not ten years, and besides, though he could devour math in any form, his parents had been told he had some sort of learning disability called dyslexia and reading of regular texts came very slowly.

  “I want you to start with that, the history of it all, even before Von Braun in Germany and Goddard here in the States began their work. I want you to get inside the minds of the inventors, the engineers, the dreamers.”

  He chuckled.

  “Yes, the dreamers. I want you to learn what they went through and find out if you have the stomach to face what they faced.

  “Ever hear of Brunel?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What in hell are they teaching you at Purdue?”

  “Engineering, sir.”

  “Well, they should throw in a history class or two. Isambard Brunel. In the 1850s he built an iron ship nearly as big as Titanic, but he was fifty years ahead of his time. There were no docks big enough in the world to handle his dream, no market big enough to fill the hull for a profitable journey, including the amount of fuel it would need to cross the Atlantic—though they finally found a use for it when it was used to lay the transatlantic cable. It is said the mockery about ‘Brunel’s Folly,’ as they called it, is what killed him. Fifty years later he was hailed as a visionary. I want you to learn that now.”

  “Is that what keeps you going, sir?” Gary ventured.

  Erich looked at him crossly and did not reply.

  “By the end of the week I want you up to speed on through Brunel; Eads; Ericsson; the Roeblings; Herman Haupt, a railroad engineer as important to the Union cause as Grant or Sherman; the private entrepreneur Hill, who built a transcontinental railroad on his own, the Great Northern, without a dime of government money only twenty-five years after the first transcontinental, which proved to be one of the great boondoggles of its time—names few know but you will know. Then we’ll start talking about space.”

  Gary was a bit surprised. He had come here to learn what was the cutting edge, not some darn boring history lessons.

  Erich smiled.

  “In time you will see why I make you learn the past, then learn how to shape the future and have the strength to do it.

  “So, I expect to see a book a day off that shelf. Don’t forget the book by de Camp on your way out. Have it read by tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Erich looked down at the paper he had been reading and for several minutes focused on it, ignoring Gary, so that he wondered if he had been dismissed. Erich had a red pencil out and began scratching some notes along the margins, then folded it over.

  “This was given to me by the other new intern.” He looked up at the old-style clock hanging on the wall. “And in another minute that person will be late.”

  There was a knock on the door with thirty seconds to spare.

  “Enter.”

  Gary could not help but gaze in admiration. He had noticed her in the group orientation for new interns the day before. Blond; tall, at least for Gary, at about five feet ten inches; startling green eyes; and classic Slavic high cheekbones. She was tastefully dressed in a modest skirt and blouse—actually, rather formal for the facility, where “dressing down” to jeans and T-shirts had become the norm with the younger staff over the last few years, though the “old-timers” still wore white shirts and neckties.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked politely. The accent revealed by those three words told Gary she was the Ukrainian exchange intern.

  “Not at all, young lady,” and Old World charm took hold of Erich as he stood, nodded slightly, and pointed to a chair next to Gary. Erich made a polite offer of tea, which she gracefully accepted. Gary, a bit flustered, because he hated tea, accepted a cup as well but was a bit chagrined that Erich had not offered him tea or coffee when he came in.

  Erich made the introductions, and Gary stood to shake Evgeniya Petrenko’s hand, unable to avoid those green eyes, which seemed to bore into him. He sensed that she was the type who on a daily basis brushed off the attention of fellow male grad students and perhaps many a professor as well. Then he nervously sat down again, self-consciously pushing his own glasses, which had slid down a bit, back up on his nose.

  “Your translation of this paper,” Erich said, holding up the printout. “May I ask, is it accurate?”

  Evgeniya seemed to bristle slightly at this question about her English ability.

  “I assure you, sir, it is accurate.”

  “I’ve not seen it before, though I’ve, of course, heard of the theory. Some years back Arthur C. Clarke even wrote a novel about the idea. But even he said when he wrote it he thought it would be two hundred years or more from now before we had the technology to do it.”

  “The paper was published in, of all places, a popular journal in Moscow in 1960. I am surprised your CIA did not grab it and rush it here.”

  Shadows of the Cold War still lingered in the way she had said “CIA.”

  “Perhaps the KGB blocked it,” Gary said softly.

  She looked at him crossly.

  “It was in a popular magazine like your Scientific American, which I should add we read every month within a day or two of its release.”

  “Free flow of information,” Gary could not help but reply.

  She seemed ready to snap back, and Erich extended a hand in a calming gesture.

  “The Cold War is over, you two,” he said with a smile. “And I am glad to see a Russian intern on my staff.”

  Though he had been in this man’s presence for less than an hour, Gary sensed something of a line, but the response by Eva caught him off guard.

  “I am not Russian, sir,” she replied, with a hint of irritation. “I am Ukrainian. It just so happens that to pursue my field no such schools exist in my country, so I had to go to Moscow to study.”

  Erich was a bit taken aback but then smiled.

  “My apologies, Miss Petrenko. I know the history of the persecution your people suffered by both Hitler and Stalin. I am surprised they would let a Ukrainian study aerospace engineering.”

  “My grandfather was a hero of the Great Patriotic War, and received our highest decoration Hero of the Soviet Union. I was first in my class, and friends and admirers of my grandfather helped me to gain admission and now this assignment.”

  “And your plans after your summer here?”

  “To return to Moscow, of course.”

  “I see.”

  “Dr. Rothenberg. Your government and mine have already signed accords and understandings about building the space station. Would it not be helpful for me to work for that once I return home?”

  Erich nodded in agreement even as he poured her another cup of tea.

  “Then if that is the case, Miss Petrenko, why did you feel it necessary to give me this paper?” He nodded to the document on his desk.

  She smiled.

  “Because the space station is just a beginning. Perhaps even a dead end. I came here to learn about what is beyond that. And to bring along this suggestion as well.”

  “Bringing this to me might cause problems for you.”

  She laughed softly.

  “Sir, it was published, as I told Mr. Morgan here”—she shot him a l
ook of disdain—“in a popular magazine. Not classified, if anyone here had bothered to take the time to look. No harm in sharing it.”

  “And may I guess that this is what you wish to research further?”

  “I plan to write my dissertation on it. But I will need access to computers here that are not yet available in Moscow to run some algorithms to test out some theories. That is what I hope you will give me the freedom to do.”

  Erich gave a mischievous smile and tossed the paper over to Gary.

  “Regarding access to our Cray, I’ll have to ask security about that, but I think we can arrange it under proper supervision.”

  She beamed with delight.

  “But”—again that smile—“since this is, as you say, public information in your country, I will ask this young man to take a look at your paper. Perhaps he can help, as his transcript shows some unique skills in programming.”

  She looked over at Gary with an icy gaze.

  “Sir, I hardly think—”

  “Miss Petrenko, we work as a team here. I am intrigued with this idea—very intrigued. Mr. Morgan tells me he has a visionary soul and is looking for some sort of ‘dream’ while here this summer. Maybe what you present openly to us here is it. So, Mr. Morgan, after you read de Camp, I want you to read this paper, because it is so visionary it borders on the absurd, then pick up coffee for three…”

  He looked at Evgeniya.

  “Do you like your coffee with or without cream?”

  “I prefer tea, sir,” she said, with another cold glance at Gary.

  “Fine, then. I doubt if my friend George down at the diner even knows what tea is, so I’ll just boil some water here. I’ll brew your cup of tea and see both of you at 0730 tomorrow. Coffee for two, then, Gary. You may go now.”

  As Gary walked out the door, clutching the dusty book by Erich’s old friend and the dozen-page printout, he could almost sense daggers from Evgeniya’s eyes going into his back.

  He muttered a curse to himself. He already had a crush on her—and had from the moment their eyes met.

  2

  Eighteen Years Earlier

  Ten minutes ahead of schedule, Gary arrived at Rothenberg’s office, balancing two cups of coffee, a battered satchel containing de Camp’s book and the report Eva had lent to Erich, and his fourteen-pound Tandy 1400 laptop. Just one day in and he was already exhausted. He was a very slow reader and it had taken him till midnight to finish de Camp’s book—which he actually found to be fascinating—then another three hours of reading and rereading Eva’s article, taking notes and loading them onto a three-and-a-half-inch floppy disk before finally turning in for a two-hour nap. But such a routine was normal in graduate school, especially in the final weeks leading up to exams, and today somehow felt like an exam: he had to either place at the top of the “class” or face the suggestion he try another department at Goddard. He knew that, with a man like Erich, fulfilling the entire assignment on day one was exactly like a final exam, except in this case it was either pass or get out.

  Setting down the cup of coffee, Erich took a sip, grunted approval, took the Times and Post, opened the former to Tuesday’s science section, then looked around the edge of the paper at Gary, who was unfolding the half screen for the Tandy and starting to boot up the writing software.

  “What in hell is that?” Erich asked.

  “It’s a laptop, sir.”

  “Wouldn’t a pencil and paper be a bit easier to haul around than that monstrosity?”

  On many a winter day hiking across the Purdue campus, facing a windy blast as he struggled the half mile from the parking garage to the lab, he would have readily agreed. But his handwriting was so atrocious, and the ability to take notes quickly such a blessing with this machine, it was worth the weight. One of his friends had even written a program that allowed the punching in of calculus formulas—a bit cumbersome, but it worked well in combination with his Texas Instruments handheld.

  He waited as the machine booted up over several minutes, sipping his coffee and glancing at the clock. At exactly 07:29:30 the door opened and Eva came in. She was dressed in Goddard “casual”: modest slacks, a blue men’s-style long-sleeved shirt, but typical of her culture it was obvious she had spent plenty of time making sure her hair and makeup were perfect. Gary half stood and offered his hand, wishing her a good morning, which she politely returned as she settled into the seat next to him, opening her briefcase to draw out a notepad. She glanced at his laptop but made no comment.

  Erich already had the teakettle heated and offered to fill her cup, which she accepted with a polite nod.

  “So, Mr. Morgan, you read the report she loaned to us? I am curious as to your reaction.”

  Gary immediately felt trapped. He had read it, reread it, and wished he had access to a library at three in the morning to look up other sources, but, of course, did not. And yet, looking at her, he felt his heart skip over as she brushed a wisp of blond hair back off her cheek.

  He did not reply, just continued to look at her.

  Erich actually chuckled softly and put down his newspaper, leaned back, and puffed his pipe back to life.

  “Mr. Morgan?”

  “Sir?”

  “I asked your opinion about the report Miss Petrenko loaned to us.” There was a bit of a sly grin on Erich’s face: mentoring graduate students for years, he had seen this more than once.

  “I gave the report to you, sir,” she replied primly, and then fell silent, the veiled rebuke obvious.

  “Miss Petrenko, if it is not classified, it is open information in this facility. No interns have access to classified information; that was, may I remind you, part of the understanding when you arrived here as an exchange student for the summer. Whatever information you decide to share is open to all.”

  He paused and smiled.

  “Or is the Cold War still on?”

  She blushed and shook her head.

  “No, sir, of course not, sir.”

  “Fine, then. Now, Mr. Morgan…?”

  Gary took a deep breath, unsure of himself.

  “Go on, Mr. Morgan, I’m curious.”

  Gary looked over at Eva, but she was ignoring him, instead gazing into her cup of tea as she sipped it.

  Oh, well, he figured, what was more important, the tenuous prospect of trying to impress Evgeniya favorably, or the reason that he had come to Goddard?

  “It will never work,” he said softly, staring straight at Erich, and there was a flicker of a smile from the old man in response. Did Erich know the dilemma he had just put him in?

  Eva did not slam the cup down, but she certainly set it down heavily so that a few drops spilled over the rim, and as she turned, her green eyes all but flashing, he felt his heart skip a beat.

  If only her expression was that of a warm smile, the way some of the undergrad females at Purdue would look at him at the corner pub—a bit wide-eyed when he told them what he was majoring in, and they’d exclaim, “Oh, you’re one of the guys studying to be an astronaut?”

  Absurd, of course, with his thick glasses, but at times he would play along, hoping for a date, though most of the humanities majors would burn him off as yet another “science geek,” some even lecturing him on how it was technology that had messed up the world, that man should return to his natural state; then they would go looking for better hunting, like one of the ballplayers or even a history major. But at this moment, if looks could kill, he’d already be buried and forgotten.

  “Let the debate begin,” Erich said with a smile, relighting his pipe and sitting back, opening his window, and gesturing for Gary to close the door. “You first, Mr. Morgan.” He extended a hand in a calming gesture to Eva, indicating that her turn would come.

  Later, Gary would learn this was exactly how his mentor worked. He would take young interns coming out of top universities with some cutting-edge ideas, throw them into what his team called the “gladiator pit” to fight it out, and perhaps just perhaps a synthes
is might emerge—though at times a blood feud could result when a cherished idea, especially a dissertation topic, was cut into bloody tatters. More than one intern had staggered out of the gladiator pit in tears, tossed their dissertations, and switched majors. It was heartless in a way, but also compassionate: better to lose it here as an intern rather than a few years down the road with the realization their theses were dead ends.

  Gary cleared his throat nervously and took a long, deep sip of the still-hot coffee. The battle was on.

  “Your article, ahhh, Miss Petrenko…” He trailed off, not sure of how to pronounce her last name.

  “Eva is fine,” she said coldly.

  “Ahh, yes, ‘Miss Eva’ would be easier for both of us,” Erich chuckled. “With your permission, of course.”

  She nodded, saying nothing.

  “Well, Mr. Morgan, she proposes this thing called a ‘space elevator.’”

  “A tower—a space tower,” Eva cut in. “The idea was invented in Russia nearly a century ago, and some of our people take it seriously.”

  “I regret to say it is the stuff of science fiction here,” Gary replied. “I did read Arthur C. Clarke’s novel Fountains of Paradise. Have you?”

  “No, but I have heard of his work.”

  “He postulated it would be two hundred years or more before the technology would be available.”

  “‘Science fiction,’ you call it,” she retorted. “In the Ukraine we call it ‘fantastic science.’”

  “Well, this is ‘fantastic science,’ then,” Gary replied, figuring he had won a point.

  “So, Mr. Morgan,” Erich prompted. “Go ahead. Take it apart, tell me why this is so ‘fantastic’?”

  Gary nodded, the glare in Eva’s eyes now giving him some strength. Any hope of winning a date with her was obviously dead, so what the hell?

  He scanned the notes on his small computer screen for a moment, then stood up and went over to the whiteboard on the wall to the left of Erich’s desk.

  “May I, sir?”