Code to Zero (2000)

'No one else has been asked to join us,' the Dean said.

'But a man has a right to be confronted by his accuser.'

'This isn't a court, Mr. Carroll,' the Dean said testily.

'Miss Rayford and I have been asked to establish the facts. Disciplinary proceedings, if such prove necessary, will follow in due course.'

'I'm not sure that's acceptable,' Anthony said haughtily. 'Jenkins should be here.'

Elspeth saw what Anthony was doing. He hoped Jenkins would be scared to repeat his accusation to Anthony's face. If that happened, the college might 'have to drop the matter' She did not think it would work, but perhaps it was worth a try.

However, Luke cut the discussion short. 'Enough of this,' he said with an impatient gesture. He addressed the Dean. 'I brought a woman into the House last night, sir.'

Elspeth gasped. What was he talking about?

The Dean frowned. 'My information is that it was Mr. Carroll who invited the woman in.'

'I'm afraid you've been misinformed.'

Elspeth burst out 'That's not true!'

Luke gave her a look that chilled her. 'Miss Twomey was in her dorm by midnight, as the dormitory mistress's overnight book will show.'

Elspeth stared at -him. The book would show that, because a girlfriend had forged her signature. She realized she had better shut up before she talked herself into trouble. But what was Luke up to?

Anthony was asking himself the same question. Staring at Luke, mystified, he said: 'Luke, I don't know what you're doing, but - '

'Let me. tell the story,' Luke said. Anthony looked doubtful, and Luke added: 'Please.'

Anthony shrugged.

The Dean said sarcastically: 'Please carry on, Mr. Lucas. I can't wait.'

'I met the girl at the Dew Drop Inn,' Luke began.

Miss Rayford spoke for: the first time. 'The Dew Drop Inn?' she said incredulously. 'Is that a pun?'

'Yes.'

'Canyon.'

'She's a waitress there. Her name is Angela Carlotti.'

The Dean plainly did not believe a word. He said: 'I was told that the person seen in Cambridge House was Miss Bilhah Josephson here.'

'No, sir,' Luke said in the same tone of immovable certitude. 'Miss Josephson is a friend of ours, but she was out of town. She spent last night at the home of a relative in Newport, Rhode Island.'

Miss Rayford spoke to Billie. 'Will the relative infirm that?'

Billie shot a bewildered look at Luke, then said: 'Miss Rayford.'

Elspeth stared at Luke. Did he really intend to ice his career to save Anthony? It was crazy! Luke a loyal friend, but this was taking friendship too far. Ryder said to Luke: 'Can you produce this ... waitress?' He pronounced 'waitress' with distaste, as if were saying 'prostitute. 'Yes, sir, I can.'

The Dean was surprised. 'Very well.' Elspeth was astonished. Had Lake bribed a town to pretend to be the culprit? If he had, it would work. Jenkins would swear it was the wrong girl. Then Luke said: 'But I don't intend to bring her this.' 'Ah,' said the Dean. 'In that case, you make it for me to accept your story.'

Now Elspeth was baffled. Luke had told a tale and had no way to back it up. What the point?

Luke said: 'I don't think Miss Carlotti's evidence be necessary.'

'I beg to differ;' Mr. Lucas.'

Then Luke dropped his bombshell. I'm leaving the college tonight, sir.'

Anthony said: 'Luke!'

The Dean said: 'It will do you no good to leave before you can be sacked. There will still be an investigation.'

'Our country is at war.'

'I know that, young man.'

'I'm going to join the army tomorrow morning, sir.'

Elspeth cried; 'No!'

For the first time, the Dean did not have an answer. He stared at Luke with his mouth open.

Elspeth realized that Luke had been clever. The college could hardly pursue a disciplinary action against a boy who was risking his life for his country. And if there were no investigation, then Billie was safe.

A mist of grief obscured her vision. Luke had sacrificed everything - to save Billie.

Miss Rayford might still demand testimony from Billie's cousin, but he would probably lie for her. The key point was that Radcliffe could hardly expect Billie to produce the waitress Angela Carlotti.

But none of that mattered to Elspeth now. All she could think of was that she had lost Luke.

Ryder was muttering about making his report and leaving others to decide.' Miss Rayford made a big fuss about writing down the address of Billie's cousin. But it was all camouflage. They had been outwitted, and they knew it.

At last the students were dismissed.

As soon as the door closed, Billie burst into tears. 'Don't go to war, Luke!' she said.

Anthony said: You saved my life.' He put his arms around Luke and embraced him. 'I'll never forget this,' Anthony said. 'Never.' He detached himself from Luke and took Billie's hand. 'Don't worry,' he said to her. 'Luke's too smart to get killed.'

Luke turned to Elspeth. When he met her eye he flinched, and she realized that her rage must be plainly visible. But she did not care. She stared-at him for a long moment, then she raised her hand and slapped his face, once, very hard. He let out an involuntary gasp of pain and surprise.

You fucking bastard,' she said.

Then she turned and walked away.

.

1 PM.

Each Baby Sergeant motor is four feet long and six inches in diameter, and weighs fifty-nine pounds Its motor burns for just six and a half seconds.

Luke was looking for a quiet residential street Washington was totally unfamiliar to him, as if he had never been here before. Driving away from Union Station he had chosen a direction at random, and headed west. The road had taken him further into the centre of the city, a place of striking vistas and grandiose government buildings. Perhaps it was beautiful, but he found it intimidating. However, he knew that if he kept going in a straight line he must eventually come to a place where normal families lived in regular houses.

He crossed a river and found himself in a charming suburb of narrow streets lined with trees. He passed a building with a sign that read 'Georgetown Mind Hospital', and he guessed the neighbourhood was called Georgetown. He turned into a tree-lined street of modest houses. This was promising. People here would not have full-time household help, so there was a good chance of finding a place empty.

The street turned a corner and immediately dead-ended in a cemetery. Luke parked the stolen Ford facing the way he had come, in case he had to make a fast getaway.

He needed some simple tools, a chisel or screwdriver and a hammer. There was probably a small tool kit in the trunk - but the trunk was locked. He could pick the lock if he could find a piece of wire. Otherwise he would have to drive to a hardware store and buy or steal what he required.

He reached into the back and picked up the stolen bag. Rummaging through the clothes, he found a folder containing papers. He took out a paper clip and closed the case.

It took him about thirty seconds to open the trunk. As he had hoped, there were a few tools in a tin box next to the jack. He chose the largest screwdriver. There was no hammer, but there was a heavy adjustable wrench that would serve. He put them in the pocket of his ragged raincoat and slammed the lid of the trunk.

He took the stolen bag from inside the car, closed the door, and walked around the corner. He knew he was conspicuous, a ragged bum walking in a nice neighbourhood with an expensive suitcase. If the local busybody called the cops, and the cops had nothing much to do this morning, he could be in trouble in minutes. On the other hand, if all went well he might be washed and shaved and dressed like a respectable citizen in half an hour's time.

He drew level with the first house in the street He crossed a small front yard and knocked at the door.

Rosemary Sims saw a nice blue-and-white car drive slowly past her house, and she wondered whose it was. The Brownings might have bought a new car, they had plenty of money. Or Mr. Cyrus, who was a bachelor and did not have to stint himself. Otherwise, she reasoned, it must belong to a stranger.

She had good eyesight still, and she could watch most of the street from her comfy chair by the second-floor window, especially in winter when the trees were bare of leaves. So she saw the tall stranger when he came walking around the corner. And 'strange' was the word. He wore no hat, his raincoat was torn, and his shoes were tied up with string to stop them falling apart Yet he carried a new-looking suitcase.

He went to Mrs. Britsky's door and knocked. She was a widow, living alone, but she was no fool - she would make short work of the stranger, Mrs. Sims knew. Sure enough, Mrs. Britsky looked out the window and waved him away with a peremptory gesture.

He went next door and knocked at Mrs. Loew's. She opened up. She was a tall, black-haired woman, who was too proud, in Mrs. Sims's opinion. She spoke a few words with the caller, then slammed the door.

He went to the next house, apparently intending to work his way along the street. Young Jeannie Evans came to the door with baby Rita in her arms. She fished in the pocket of her apron and gave him something, probably a few coins. So he was a beggar.

Old Mr. Clark came to the door in his bathrobe and carpet slippers. The stranger got nothing out of him.

The owner of the next house, Mr. Bonetti, was at work, and his wife Angelina, seven months pregnant, had left five minutes ago, carrying a string bag, obviously heading for the store. The stranger would get no answer there.

By now, Luke had had time to study, the doors, which were all the same. They had Yale locks, the kind with a tongue on the door side and a metal socket in the jamb. The lock was operated by a key from outside and by a knob inside.

Each door had a small window of frosted glass at head height The easiest way in would be to break the glass and reach inside to turn the knob. But a broken window would be visible from the street so he decided to use the screwdriver.

He glanced up and down the street He had been unlucky, having to knock on five doors to find an empty house. By now he might have- attracted attention, but he could see no one. Anyway, he had no choice. He had to take the risk.

Mrs. Sims turned away from the window and lifted the handset of the phone beside her seat Slowly and carefully, she dialed the number of the local police station, which she knew by heart.

Luke had to do this fast He inserted the screwdriver's blade between the door and the jamb at the level of the lock. Then he struck the handle of the screwdriver with the heavy end of the adjustable wrench, trying to force the blade into the socket of the lock.

The first blow failed to move the screwdriver, which was jammed up against the steel of the lock. He wiggled the screwdriver, trying to find a way in. He used the wrench again, harder this time. Still the' screwdriver would not slip into the socket. He felt perspiration break out on his forehead, despite the cold weather.

He told himself to stay calm. He had done this before. When? He had no idea. It did riot matter. The technique worked, he was sure of that.

He wiggled the screwdriver again. This time, it felt as if a corner of the blade had caught in a notch. He hammered again, as hard as he could. The screwdriver sank in an inch.

He pulled sideways on the handle, levering the tongue of the lock back out of the socket. To his profound relief, the door opened inward.

The damage to the frame was too slight to be seen from the street.

He stepped quickly inside and closed the door behind him.

When Rosemary Sims finished dialing the number, she looked out the window again, but the stranger had vanished.

That was quick.

The police answered. Feeling confused, she hung up the phone without speaking.

Why had he suddenly stopped knocking on doors? Where had he gone? Who was he?

She smiled. She had something to occupy her thoughts all day.

It was the home of a young couple. The place was furnished with a mixture of wedding presents and junk-shop purchases. They had a new couch arid a big TV set in the living room, but they were still using orange crates for storage in the kitchen. An unopened letter on the hall radiator was addressed to Mr. G. Bonetti.

There was no evidence of children. Most probably, Mr. and Mrs. Bonetti both had jobs and would be out all day. But he could not count on it He went quickly upstairs. There were three bedrooms, only one of which was furnished. He threw the suitcase on the neatly made bed. Inside it he found a carefully folded blue chalk-stripe suit, a white shirt and a conservative striped tie. There were dark socks, clean underwear, and a pair of polished black wingtips that looked only about half a size too big.

He stripped off his filthy clothes and kicked them into a corner. It gave him a spooky feeling, to be naked in the home of strangers. He thought of skipping the shower, but he smelled bad, even to himself.

He crossed the tiny landing to the bathroom. It felt great to stand under the hot water and soap himself all over. When he got out, he stood still and listened carefully. The house was silent He dried himself with one of Mrs. Bonetti's pink bath towels - another wedding present, he guessed -and put on undershorts, pants, socks and shoes from the stolen bag. Being at least half dressed would speed his getaway if something went wrong while he was shaving.

Mr. Bonetti used an electric shaver, but Luke preferred a blade. In the suitcase he found a safety razor and a shaving brush. He lathered his face and shaved quickly.

Mr. Bonetti did not have any cologne, but maybe there was some in the suitcase. After stinking like a pig all morning, Luke liked the idea of smelling sweet. He found a neat leather toiletry case and unzipped it. There was no cologne inside - but there was a hundred dollars in twenties, neatly folded: emergency money. He pocketed the cash, resolving to pay the man back one day.

After all, the guy was not a collaborator.

And what the heck did that mean?

Another mystery. He put on the shirt, tie and jacket. They fitted well: he had been careful to choose a victim his own size and build. The clothes were of good quality. The luggage tag gave an address on Central Park South, New York. Luke guessed the owner was a corporate big shot who had come to Washington for a couple of days of meetings.

There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. He had not looked at his reflection since early this morning, in the men's room at Union Station, when he had been so shocked to see a filthy hobo staring back at him.

He stepped to the mirror, bracing himself.

He saw a tall, fit-looking man in his middle thirties, with black hair and blue eyes; a normal person, looking harassed. A weary sense of relief swept over him.

Take a guy like that, he thought What would you say he does for a living?

His hands were soft, and now that they were clean they did not look like those of a manual worker. He had a smooth indoor face, one that had not spent much time out in bad weather. His hair was well cut. The guy in the mirror looked comfortable in the clothes of a corporate executive.

He was not a cop, definitely.

There was no hat or coat in the bag. Luke knew he would be conspicuous without either, on a cold January day. He wondered if he might find them in the house. It was worth taking a few extra seconds to look.

He opened the closet. There was not much inside. Mrs. Bonetti had three dresses. Her husband had a sport coat for weekends and a black suit he probably wore to church. There was no topcoat - Mr. Bonetti must be wearing one, and he could not afford two -but there was a light raincoat Luke took it off the hanger. It would be better than nothing.' He put it on. It was a size small, but wearable.

There was 'no hat in the closet, but there was a tweed cap that Bonetti probably wore with the sport coat on Saturday. Luke tried it on. It was too small. He would have to buy a hat with some of the money from the sponge bag. But the cap would serve for an hour or so-

He heard a noise downstairs. He froze, listening.

A young woman's voice said: 'What happened to my front door?'

Another voice, similar, replied: 'Looks like someone tried to break in!'

Luke cursed under his breath. He had stayed too long.

'Jeepers, I think you're right!'

'Maybe you should call the cops.'

Mrs. Bonetti had not gone to work, after all. Probably she had gone shopping. She had met a friend at the store and invited her home for coffee.

'I don't know ... looks like the thieves didn't get in.'

'How do you know? Better check if anything's been stolen.'

Luke realized he had to get out of there fast.

'What's to steal? The family jewels?'

'What about the TV?'

Luke opened the bedroom window and looked out on to the front yard. There was no convenient tree or drainpipe down which he could climb. .

'Nothing's been moved,' he heard Mrs. Bonetti say. 'I don't believe they got in.'

'What about upstairs?'

Moving silently, Luke crossed the landing to the bathroom. At the back of the house there was nothing but a leg-breaking drop to a paved patio.

'I'm going to look.'

'Aren't you scared?'

There was a nervous giggle. But what else can we do? We'll look pretty silly if we call the cops and there's no one here.'

Luke heard footsteps on the stairs. He stood behind the bathroom door.

The footsteps mounted the staircase, crossed the landing and entered the bedroom. Mrs. Bonetti gave a little scream.

Her-friend's voice said: 'Whose bag is that?'

'I've never seen it before!'

Luke slipped silently out of the bathroom. He could see the open bedroom door, but not the women. He tiptoed down the stairs, grateful for the carpet 'What kind of burglar brings luggage?'

'I'm calling the cops right now. This is spooky.'

Luke opened the front door and stepped outside.

He smiled. He had done it He closed the door quietly and walked quickly away.

Sims frowned, mystified. The man leaving the Bonetti house had on Mr. Bonetti's black raincoat and the grey tweed cap he wore to watch the Redskins, but he was larger than Mr. Bonetti, and the clothes did not quite fit She watched him walk down the street and turn the corner. He would have to come back: it was a dead end. A minute later the blue-and-white car she had noticed earlier came around the corner, going too fast. She realized then that the man who had left the house was the beggar she had been watching. He must have broken in and stolen Mr. Bonetti's clothes!

As the car passed her window, she read the license plate and memorized the number.

.

1.30 P. M.

The Sergeant motors have undergone 300 static tests, 50 tests and 290 ignition-system firings without a failure.

Anthony sat in the conference room, fuming with | impatience and frustration.

Luke was still running around Washington. No one knew what he might be up to. But Anthony was stuck here, listening to a State Department time-server drone MI about the need to combat rebels massing in the fountains of Cuba. Anthony knew all about Fidel Castro and Che Guevara. They had fewer than a thousand men under their command. Of course they Would be wiped out - but there was no point If Castro ere killed, someone else would take his place.

What Anthony wanted to do was get out on the street and look for Luke.

He and his staff had put in calls to most of the police stations in the District of Columbia. They had the precincts to call in details of any incidents involving drunks or bums, any mention of a perpetrator who talked like a college professor, and anything at all out of the ordinary. The cops were happy to cooperate with the CIA: they liked the thought that they might be involved with international espionage.

The State Department man finished his talk, and a round-table discussion began. Anthony knew that the only way to prevent someone like Castro taking over was for the US to support a moderate reformist government Fortunately for the communists, there was no danger of that The door opened and Pete Maxell slipped in. He gave a nod of apology to the chairman at the head of the table, George Cooperman, then sat next to Anthony and passed him a folder containing a batch of police reports.

There was something unusual at just about every station house. A beautiful woman arrested for picking pockets at the Jefferson Memorial turned out to be a man; some beatniks had tried to open a cage and free an eagle at the zoo; a Wesley Heights man had attempted to suffocate his wife with a pizza with extra cheese; a delivery truck belonging to a religious publisher had shed its load in Petworth, and traffic on Georgia Avenue was being held up by an avalanche of Bibles.

It was possible that Luke had left Washington, but Anthony thought it unlikely. Luke had no money for train or bus fares. He could steal it, of course, but why would he bother? He had nowhere to go. His mother lived in New York and he had a sister in Baltimore, but he did not know that He had no reason to travel.

While Anthony speed-read the reports,' he listened with half an ear to his boss, Carl Hobart, talking about US ambassador to Cuba, Earl Smith, who had worked tirelessly to undermine church leaders and those who wanted to reform Cuba by peaceful means, Tony sometimes wondered if Smith were in fact a agent, but more likely he was just stupid. One of the police reports caught his eye, and he it to Pete.

'Is this right?' he whispered furiously.

Pete nodded. 'A bum attacked and beat up a patrolman on A Street and Seventh.' 'A bum beat up a cop?'

'And it's not far from the neighbourhood where we live.'

'It might be him!' Anthony said excitedly. Carl who was speaking, shot him a look of annoyance. Anthony lowered his voice to a whisper 'But why would he attack a patrolman? Did he I anything - the cop's weapon, for example?' but he beat him up pretty good. The officer treated in hospital for a broken forefinger on his hand.' tremor ran through Anthony like an electric 'That's him!' he said loudly. Carl Hobart said: 'For Christ's sake!' George Cooperman said good-humouredly 'Anthony shut the fuck up, or go outside and talk, why don't you?'

Anthony stood up. 'Sorry, George. Back in a flash.' He stepped out of the room, and Pete followed. 'That's him,' Anthony repeated as the door shut 'It was his trademark, in the war. He used to do it to the Gestapo - break their trigger fingers.'

Pete looked puzzled. 'How do you know that?'

Anthony realized he had made a blunder. Pete believed that Luke was a diplomat having a nervous breakdown. Anthony had not told Pete that he knew Luke personally. Now he cursed himself for carelessness. 'I didn't tell you everything,' he said, forcing a casual tone. 'I worked with him in OSS.'

Pete frowned. 'And he became a diplomat after the war.' He gave Anthony a shrewd look. 'He's not just having trouble with his wife, is he.'

'No. I'm pretty sure it's more serious.'

Pete accepted that. 'Sounds like a cold-blooded bastard, to break a guy's finger, just like that'

'Cold-blooded?' Anthony had never thought of Luke that way, though he did have a ruthless streak. 'I guess he was, when the chips were down.' He had covered up his mistake, he thought with relief. But he still had to find Luke. 'What time did this fight occur?'

'Nine-thirty.'

'Hell. More than four hours ago. He could be anywhere in the city by now.'

'What'll we do?'

'Send a couple of men down to A Street to show the photo of Luke around, see if you can get any dues where he might have been headed. Talk to the cop, too.'

'Okay.'

'And if you get anything, don't hesitate to bust in on this stupid fucking meeting.'

'Gotcha.'

Anthony went back inside. George Cooperman, Anthony's wartime buddy, was speaking impatiently. 'We should send in a bunch of Special Forces tough guys, clean up Castro's ragtag army in about a day and a half.'

The State Department man asked nervously: 'Could we keep the operation secret?

'No,' George said. 'But we could disguise it as a local conflict, like we did in Iran and Guatemala.'

Carl Hobart butted in. 'Pardon me if this is a dumb question, but why is it a secret what we did in Iran and Guatemala?'

The State Department man said: 'We don't want to advertise our methods, obviously.'

'Excuse me, but that's stupid,' Hobart said. 'The Russians know it was us. The Iranians and the Guatemalans know it was us. Hell, in Europe the newspapers openly said it was us! No one was fooled except the American people. Now, why do we want to lie to them?'

George answered with mounting irritation. 'If it all came out, there would be a Congressional inquiry. Fucking politicians would be asking if we had the right, was it legal, and what about the poor Iranian shit kicking farmers and Spic banana-pickers.'

'Maybe those aren't such bad questions,' Hobart persisted stubbornly. 'Did we really do any good in Guatemala? It's hard to tell the difference between the Armas regime and a bunch of gangsters.'

George lost his temper. 'The hell with this!' he shouted. 'We are not here to feed starving Iranians and give civil liberties to South American peasants, for Christ's sake. Our job is to promote American interests - and fuck democracy!'

There was a moment's pause, then Carl Hobart said: 'Thank you, George. I'm glad we got that straightened out'

.

2 P. M.

Each Sergeant motor has an igniter that consists of two electrical matches, wired in parallel, and a jellyroll of metal oxidant encased in a plastic sheath. The igniters are so sensitive that they have to be disconnected if an electrical storm comes within twelve miles of Cape Canaveral, to avoid accidental firing.

In a Georgetown menswear store, Luke bought a soft grey felt hat and a navy wool topcoat. He wore them out of the store and felt, at last, that he could look the world in the eye.

Now he was ready to attack his problems. First he had to learn something about memory. He wanted to know what caused amnesia, whether there were different kinds, and how long it might last Most importantly, he needed information on treatment and cures.

Where did one go for information? A library. How did one find a library? Look at a map. He got a street map of Washington at the news-stand next to the menswear store. Prominently displayed was the Central Public Library, at the intersection of New York and Massachusetts Avenues, back across town. Luke drove there.

It was a grand classical building raised above ground level like a Greek temple. On the pediment above the pillared entrance were carved the words:

SCIENCE-POETRY-HISTORY

Luke hesitated at the top of the steps, then remembered that he was now a normal citizen again, and walked in.

The effect of his new appearance was immediately apparent. A grey-haired librarian behind the counter stood up and said: 'Can I help you, sir?'

Luke was pathetically grateful to be treated so courteously. 'I want to look at books on memory,' he said.

'That'll be the psychology section,' she said. 'If you like to follow me, I'll show you where it is.' She led him up a grand staircase to the next floor and pointed to a corner.

Luke looked along the shelf. There were plenty of books on psychoanalysis, child development, and perception, none of which were any use. He picked out a fat tome called The Human Brain and browsed through it, but there was not much about memory, and what there was seemed highly technical. There were some equations, and a certain amount of statistical material, which he found easy enough to understand; but much of the rest assumed a knowledge of human biology he did not have.

His eye was caught by An Introduction to the Psychology of Memory by Bilhah Josephson. That sounded more promising. He pulled it out and found a chapter on disorders of the memory. He read:

The common condition in which the patient 'loses his memory' is known as 'global amnesia'.

Luke was elated. He was not the only person to whom this had happened.

Such a patient does not know his identity and will not recognize his own parents or children. However, he remembers a great deal else. He may be able to drive a car, speak-foreign languages, strip down an engine, and name the Prime Minister of Canada. The condition would be more appropriately called 'autobiographical amnesia'.

This was exactly what had happened to him. He could still check whether he was being tailed and start a stolen car without the key.

Dr Josephson went on to outline her theory that the brain contained several different memory banks, like separate filing cabinets, for different kinds of information.

The autobiographical memory records events we have experienced personally. These are labeled with time and place: we generally know not only what happened, but when and where.

The long-term semantic memory holds general knowledge such as the capital of Romania and how to solve quadratic equations.

The short-term memory is where we keep a phone number for the few seconds in between looking it up in the phone book and dialing it.

She gave examples of patients who had lost one filing cabinet but retained others, as Luke had. He felt profound relief, and gratitude to the author of the book, as he realized that what had happened to him was a well-studied psychological phenomenon.

Then he was struck by an inspiration. He was in his thirties, so he must have followed some occupation for a decade. His professional knowledge should still be in his head, lodged in his long-term semantic memory. He ought to be able to use it to figure out what line of work he did. And that would be the beginning of discovering his identity!

Looking up from the book, he tried to think what special knowledge he had. He did not count the skills of a secret agent, for he had already decided, judging by his soft indoor skin, that he was not a cop of any kind. What other special knowledge did he have?

It was maddeningly difficult to tell. Accessing the memory was not like opening the refrigerator, where you could see the contents at a glance. It was more like using a library catalogue - you had to know what you were looking for. He felt frustrated, and told himself to be patient and think this through.

If he were a lawyer, would he be able to remember thousands of laws? If a doctor, should he be able to look at someone and say: 'She has appendicitis'?

This was not going to work. Thinking back over the last few minutes, the only clue he noticed was that he had easily understood the equations and statistics in The Human Brain, even though he had been puzzled by other aspects of psychology. Maybe he was in a profession that involved numbers: accountancy or insurance, perhaps. Or he might be a math teacher.

He found the math section and looked along the shelves. A' book called Number Theory caught his attention. He browsed through it for a while. It was clearly presented, but some years out of date...

Suddenly he looked up. He had discovered something. He understood number theory.

That was a major clue. Most pages of the book in his hand contained more equations than plain text This was not written for the curious layman. It was an academic work. And he understood it He had to be some kind of scientist With mounting optimism, he located the chemistry shelf and picked out Polymer Engineering. He found it comprehensible, but not easy. Next he moved to physics and tried A Symposium on the Behaviour of Cold and Very Cold Gases. It was fascinating, like reading a good novel.

He was narrowing it down. His job involved math and physics. What branch of physics? Cold gases were interesting, but he did not feel that he knew as much as the author of the book. He scanned the shelves and stopped at geophysics, remembering the newspaper story headlined U. S. MOON STAYS EARTHBOUND. He picked out Principles of Rocket Design.

It was an elementary text, but nevertheless there was an error on the first page he looked at Reading on, he found two more--

Yes!' he said aloud, startling a nearby schoolboy who was studying a biology text If he could recognize mistakes in a textbook, he had to be an expert He was a rocket scientist He wondered how many rocket scientists there were in the United States. He guessed a few hundred. He hurried to the information desk and spoke to the grey-haired librarian. 'Is there any kind of list of scientists?'

'Sure,' she said. 'You need the Dictionary of American Scientists, right at the beginning of the science section.'

He found it easily. It was a heavy book, but nevertheless it could not include every single American scientist It must just be the prominent ones, he thought Still, it was worth looking at He sat at a table and went through the index, searching for anyone named Luke. He had to control his impatience and force himself to scan carefully.

He found a biologist called Luke Parfitt, an archaeologist called Lucas Dimittry, and a pharmacologist called Luc Fontainebleu, but no physicist Double-checking, he went through geophysicists and astronomers, but found no one with any version of Luke as a first name. Of course, he thought despondently, he was not even certain that Luke was his name. It was only what he had been called by Pete; For al he knew, his real name might be Percival.

He felt disappointed, but he was not ready to give up.

He thought of another approach. Somewhere, there were people who knew him. The name Luke might not be his own, but his face was. The Dictionary of American Scientists carried photos of only the most prominent men, such as Dr Wemher von Braun. But Luke figured he must have friends and colleagues who would recognize him, if only he could find them. And now he knew where to start looking - for some of his acquaintances must be rocket scientists.

Where did one find scientists? At a university.

He looked up Washington, DC in the encyclopedia. The entry included a list of universities in the city. He picked Georgetown University because he had been in Georgetown earlier and knew how to get back there. He looked for the university on his street map, and saw that it had a large campus covering at least fifty city blocks. It would probably have a big physics department with dozens of professors. Surely one of them would know him?

Full of hope, he left the library and got back into his car.

.

2.30 P. M.

The igniters were not originally designed to be fired in a vacuum.' For the Jupiter rocket, they have been redesigned so that: (i) the entire motor is sealed in an airtight container; (ii) in case that container should be breached, the igniter itself is also in a sealed container; and (in) the igniter should fire in a vacuum anyway. This multiple fail-safe is an application of a design principle known as 'redundancy'.

The Cuba meeting took a coffee break, and Anthony ran back to Q Building for an update, praying his team would have come up with something, any clue to Luke's whereabouts.

Pete met him on the stairs. 'Here's something weird,' he said.

Anthony's heart jumped with hope. 'Give!'

'A report from the police in Georgetown. A housewife comes back from the store to find that her home has been broken into and her shower has been used. The intruder has disappeared, leaving behind a suitcase and a pile of filthy old clothes.'

Anthony was electrified. 'At last - a break!' he said. 'Give me the address.'

You think this is our guy?'

'I'm sure of it! He's fed up with looking like a bum, so he's broken into an empty house, showered, shaved, and put on some decent clothes. That's characteristic, he would hate to be badly dressed.'

Pete looked thoughtful. 'You know him pretty well, I guess.'

Anthony realized he had slipped again. 'No, I don't,' he snapped. 'I read his file.'

'Sorry,' Pete said. After a moment he went on: T wonder why he left stuff behind?'

'My guess is, the housewife came home before he was quite finished.'

'What about the Cuba meeting?'

Anthony stopped, a passing secretary. 'Please call the conference room in P Building and tell Mr. Hobart that I was taken ill with stomach pains and Mr. Maxell had to drive me home.'

'Stomach pains,' she said, deadpan.

'Right,' he said, walking away. Over his shoulder he called: 'Unless you can think of something better.'

He left the building with Pete following, and they jumped into his old yellow Cadillac. 'This may need delicate handling,' he said to Pete as he headed for Georgetown. 'The good news is that Luke has left us some clues. Our problem is that we don't have a hundred men to chase up leads. So, my plan is to get the Washington Police Department working for us.'

'Good luck,' Pete said skeptically. 'What should I do?' .

'Be nice to the cops, and leave the talking to me.'

'I believe I can handle that.'

Anthony drove fast and quickly found the address in the police report. It was a small one Family home on a quiet street. A police cruiser was parked outside.

Before going into the house, Anthony studied the opposite side of the street, scrutinizing the houses. After a moment he spotted what he was looking for: a face in an upstairs window, watching him. It was an elderly woman, with white hair. She did not step back from the window when she caught his eye, but returned his stare with unabashed curiosity. She was just what he needed, a neighbourhood busybody. He smiled and gave her a salute, and she inclined her head in acknowledgement He turned away and approached the house that had been broken into. He could see scratches and a little splintering on the door jamb where the lock had been forced; a neat, professional job with no unnecessary damage, he thought That fitted Luke.

The door was opened by an attractive young woman who was expecting a baby - pretty soon, he guessed. She took Anthony and Pete into her living room where two men were sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and smoking. One was a uniformed patrolman. The other, a young man in a cheap sharkskin suit, was probably a detective. In front of them was a splayed-leg coffee table with a red Formica top. An open suitcase was on the table.

Anthony introduced himself. He showed his identification to the cops. He did not want Mrs. Bonetti - and all her friends and neighbours - to know that the CIA was interested in the case, so he said: 'We're colleagues of these police officers.'

The detective was Lewis Hite. You know something about this?' he said guardedly.

'I think we may have some information that will help you. But first, I need to know what you've got'

Hite spread his hands in a gesture of bafflement 'We got a suitcase belongs to a guy named Rowley Anstruther, Junior, from New York. He breaks into Mrs. Bonetti's house, takes a shower, and goes away, leaving his suitcase behind. Go figure!'

Anthony studied the case. It was a good-quality tan leather, bag, less than half full. He looked through the contents. There were clean shirts and underwear, but no shoes, pants or jackets.

'Looks like Mr. Anstruther arrived in Washington from New York today,' he said.

Hite nodded, but Mrs. Bonetti said admiringly: 'How do you know that?'

Anthony smiled. 'Detective Hite will tell you.' He did not want to offend Hite by stealing his limelight 'The bag contains clean underwear but no laundry,' Hite explained. 'The guy hasn't changed his clothes, so he probably hasn't yet spent a night away. That means he left home this morning.'

Anthony said: 'I believe some old clothes were also left behind.'

The patrolman, whose name was Lonnie, said: 'I got 'em.' He lifted a cardboard box from beside the couch. 'Raincoat,' he said, sorting through the contents, 'Shirt, pants, shoes.'

Anthony recognized them. They were the rags Luke had been wearing. 'I don't believe Mr. Anstruther came to this house,' Anthony said. 'I think the bag was stolen from him this morning, probably at Union Station.' He looked at the patrolman. 'Lonnie, would you call the precinct nearest the railroad station and ask if such a theft has been reported? That's if Mrs. Bonetti will permit us to use the phone.'

'Of course,' she said. 'It's in the hall.'

Anthony added: 'The theft report should fit the contents of the bag. I believe you'll find they include a suit and a pair of shoes that are not here now.' They were all staring at him in astonishment 'Please make a careful note of the description of the suit'

'Okay.' The patrolman went into the hallway.

Anthony felt good. He had managed to take command of the investigation without offending the police. Detective Hite now looked at him as if waiting for instructions. 'Mr. Anstruther must be a man of six foot one or two, about 180 pounds, athletic build, he said. 'Lewis, if you check the size of those shirts, you'll probably find they're sixteen neck, thirty-five sleeve.'

'They are already checked,' Hite said.

'I should have known you'd be ahead of me.' Anthony flattered him with a wry smile. 'We have a picture of the man we believe stole the suitcase and broke into this house.' Anthony nodded to Pete, who handed Hite a sheaf of photographs. 'We don't have a name for him,' Anthony lied. 'He's six foot one, 180 pounds, athletic build, and he may pretend to have lost his memory.'

'So what's the story?' Hite was intrigued. 'This guy wanted Anstruther's clothes, and he came here to change?'

'Something like that.'

'But why?'

Anthony looked apologetic. 'I'm sorry, I can't tell you.'

Hite was pleased. 'Classified, huh? No problem.'

Lonnie came back. 'Dead right about the theft Union Station, eleven-thirty this morning.'

Anthony nodded. He had impressed the hell out of the two cops. 'And the suit?'

'Navy blue, with a chalk stripe.'

He turned to the detective. 'So, you can put out a photo and description including the clothes he's wearing.'

You think he's still in town.'

Yes.' Anthony was not as sure as he pretended, but he could not think of any reason for Luke to leave Washington.

'I presume he's in a car.'

'Let's find out' Anthony turned to Mrs. Bonetti. 'What's the name of the white-haired lady who lives across the street, a couple of doors down?'

'Rosemary Sims.'

'She spends a lot of time looking out her window?'

'We call her Nosy Rosie.'

'Excellent.' He turned to the detective. 'Shall we have a word with her?'

'Yep.'

They crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Sims's door. She opened it instantly - she had been waiting in the hall. 'I saw him!' she said immediately. 'He went in there looking like a bum, and came out dressed to the nines!'

Anthony made a gesture indicating that Hite should ask the questions. Hite said: 'Did he have a car, Mrs. Sims?'

'Yes, a nice little blue-and-white model. I thought it didn't belong to anyone in this street.' She looked at them slyly. 'I know what you're going to ask me next.'

'Did you happen to notice the license plate?' Hite asked.

Yes,' she said triumphantly. 'I wrote it down.'

Anthony smiled.

.

3 P. M.

The upper stages of the missile art contained in an aluminum tub with a cast magnesium base. The upper-stage tub rests on bearings, allowing it to spin during flight. 'It will rotate at about 550 revolutions per minute to improve accuracy.

On 37th Street at the end of O Street, the iron gates of Georgetown University stood open. Around three sides of a muddy lawn were Gothic buildings of rusticated grey stone, and students and faculty hurried from one building to another in their cold-weather coats. As Luke drove slowly in, he imagined that someone might catch his eye, recognize him, and say. 'Hey, Luke! Over here!' And the nightmare would be over. '

Many of the professors wore clerical collars, and Luke realized this must be a Catholic university. It also appeared to be all-male.

He wondered whether he was Catholic.

He parked in front of the main entrance, a triple-arched portico marked 'Healy Hall'. Inside he found a reception desk and the first woman he had seen here. She said that the physics department was directly below where he stood, and told him to go outside and turn down a flight of steps that led beneath the portico. He felt he was coming nearer to the heart of the mystery, like, a treasure hunter penetrating the chambers in an Egyptian pyramid.

Following her directions, he found a large laboratory with benches down the centre and doors on either side that led to smaller offices. At one of the benches, a group of men were working with the components of a microwave spectrograph. They all wore eyeglasses. Judging by their ages, Luke thought they were professors and graduate students. Some of them might easily be people he knew. He approached them with an expectant look.

One of the older men caught his eye, but there was no flash of recognition. 'Can I help you?'

'I hope so,' Luke said. 'Is there a department of geophysics here?'

'Goodness, no,' he said. 'At this university, even physics is considered a minor subject' The others laughed.

Luke gave them all a chance to look at him, but none seemed, to know him. He had chosen badly, he thought despondently; he probably should have gone to George Washington University. 'What about astronomy?'

'Why, yes, of course. The heavens, we study. Our observatory is famous.'

His spirits lifted. 'Where is it?'

The man pointed to a door at the back of the lab. 'Go to the other end of this building and you'll see it on the far side of the baseball diamond.' He returned his attention to the bench.

Luke followed a long, dark, dirty corridor that ran the length of the building. Seeing a stooped man in professorial tweeds coming the other way, Luke looked him in the eye, a smile ready to break out if the professor recognized him. But a nervous expression came over the man's face and he hurried by.

Undaunted, Luke walked on, giving the same look to everyone he passed who might possibly be a scientist; but no one showed any sign of recognition. Leaving the building, he saw tennis courts and a view of the Potomac River and, to the west across the sports field, a white dome.

He approached it with mounting anticipation. On the flat roof of a small two-storey house was a large revolving observatory, its dome having a sliding roof section. It was an expensive facility that indicated a serious astronomy department. Luke stepped inside the building.

The rooms were arranged around a massive central pillar that supported the enormous weight of the dome. Luke opened a door and saw an empty library. He tried another, and found an attractive woman about his own age sitting behind a typewriter. 'Good morning,' he said. Is the professor in?' '

You mean Father Heyden?'

'Uh yes.'

'And you are?'

'Um...' Luke had stupidly not foreseen that he would have to give a name. Now his hesitation caused the secretary to raise her eyebrows, distrustfully. 'He won't know me,' Luke said. 'That is ... he will know me, I hope, but not by name.'

Her suspicion grew. 'Still, you do have a name.'

'Luke. Professor Luke.'

'To which university are you attached, Professor Luke?'

'Urn ... New York.' -

'Any particular one of New York's many institutions of higher learning?'

Luke's heart sank. In his enthusiasm he had failed to plan for this encounter, and now he saw that he was making a mess of it When you were in a hole, it was best to stop digging, he thought. He turned off his friendly smile and spoke coldly. 'I didn't come here to be cross-examined,' he said. 'Just tell Father Heyden that Professor Luke, the rocketry physicist ,:has dropped by and would like a word with him, would you?'

'I'm afraid that won't be possible,' she said firmly.

Luke left the room, slamming the door. He was angry with himself more than with the secretary, who was only protecting her boss from being pestered by an apparent nutcase. He decided to look around, opening doors until either someone recognized him or he was thrown out. He went up the stairs to -the second floor. The building seemed to be deserted. He climbed a wooden stair with no handrail and entered the observatory. It, too, was empty. He stood admiring the large revolving telescope with its complex system of cogs and gears, a real masterpiece of engineering, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.

The secretary came up the stairs. He prepared himself for a row, but instead she spoke sympathetically. 'You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you,' she said.

Her kindness brought a lump to his throat 'It's very embarrassing,' he said. 'I've lost my memory. I know I'm in the rocketry field, and I was hoping to run into someone who might recognize me.'

'There's nobody here right now,' she said. 'Professor Larkley is giving a lecture on rocket fuels at the Smithsonian Institution, as part of International Geophysical Year, and all the faculty are there.'

Luke felt a surge of hope. Instead of one geophysicist he could meet a whole roomful. 'Where's the Smithsonian Institute?'

'It's downtown, right in the Mall, around 10th Street.'

He had driven around Washington enough today to know that that was not far away. 'What time is the lecture?'

'It started at three.'

Luke checked his watch. It was three-thirty. If he hurried, he could get there by four. 'The Smithsonian,' he repeated.

'Actually, it's in the Aircraft Building, around the back.'

'How many people will be at the lecture, do you know?'

'About a hundred and twenty.' Surely one of them would know him! 'Thank you!' he said, and he ran down the stairs and out of the building.

.

3.30 P. M.

Rotating the second-stage tub stabilizes the flight path by averaging the variations between the eleven individual small rocket motors in the cluster.

Billie was furious with Len Ross for trying to ingratiate himself with the people from the Sowerby Foundation. The post of Director of Research ought to go to the best scientist - not the most oleaginous. She was still annoyed that afternoon when the chief executive's secretary called and asked her to come to his office.

Charles Silverton was an accountant, but he understood the needs of scientists. The hospital was owned by a trust whose twin aims were to understand and alleviate mental illness. He saw his job as making sure that administrative and financial problems did not distract the medical people from their work. Billie liked him.

His office had been the dining room of the original Victorian mansion, and it still had the fireplace and the ceiling mouldings. He waved Billie to a chair and said: 'Did you speak to the people from the Sowerby Foundation this morning?'

'Yes. Len was showing them around, and I joined the party. Why?' .

He did not answer her question. 'Do you think you could have said anything to offend them?'

She frowned, mystified. 'I don't think so. We just talked about the new wing.'

'You know, I really wanted you to get the job of Director of Research.'

She was alarmed. 'I don't like your use of the past tense!'

He went on: 'Len Ross is a competent scientist, but you're exceptional. You've achieved more than him and you're ten years younger.'

'The Foundation is backing Len for the job?'

He hesitated, looking awkward. 'I'm afraid they're insisting on it, as a condition of their grant.'

'The hell they are!' Billie was stunned.

'Do you know anyone connected with the Foundation?'

Yes. One of my oldest friends is a trustee. His name is Anthony Carroll, he's godfather to my son.'

'Why is he on the board? What does he do for a living?'

'He works for the State Department, but his mother is very wealthy, and he's involved with several charities.'

'Does he have a grudge against you?'

For a moment, Billie slipped back in time. She had been angry with Anthony, after the catastrophe that led to Luke's leaving Harvard, and they never dated again. But she forgave him because of how he behaved toward Elspeth. Elspeth had gone into a decline, letting her academic work slide, and was in danger of failing to graduate. She walked around in a daze, a pale ghost with long red hair, getting thinner and missing classes. It was Anthony who rescued her. They became close, though the relationship was a friendship rather than a romance. They studied together, and she caught up enough to pass. Anthony won back Billie's respect, and they had been friends ever since.

Now she told Charles: 'I got kind of mad at him, back in 1941, but we made it up long ago.'

'Maybe someone on the board admires Len's work.'

Billie considered. 'Len's approach is different from mine. He's a Freudian, he looks for psychoanalytical explanations. If a patient suddenly loses the ability to read, he assumes they have some unconscious fear of literature, a fear that is being suppressed. I would always look for damage to the brain as the likeliest cause.'

'So there might be a keen Freudian on the board who is against you.'

T guess.' Billie sighed. 'Can they do this? It seems so unfair.'

'It's certainly unusual,' Charles said. 'Foundations normally make a point of not interfering with decisions requiring professional expertise. But there's no law against it'

'Well, I'm not going to take this lying down. What reason did they give?'

'I got an informal call from the chairman. He told me the board feels Len is better qualified.'

Billie shook her head. 'There has to be another explanation.'

'Why don't you ask your friend?'

'That's exactly what I'm going to do,' she said.

.

3.45 P. M.

A stroboscope was used to determine exactly where weights should be placed so that the spinning tub would be perfectly balanced - otherwise the inner cage would vibrate within the outer frame, causing the whole assembly to disintegrate.

Luke had looked at his street map of Washington before leaving the Georgetown University campus. 'The Institute was in a park called the Mall. He checked his watch as he drove along K Street He would be at the Smithsonian in about ten minutes. Assuming it took him another five to find the lecture theatre, he should arrive as the talk was ending. Then he would find out who he was.

It was almost eleven hours since he had awakened to this horror. Yet, because he could remember nothing from before five o'clock this morning, it seemed to have been going on all his life.

He turned right on 9th Street, heading south towards the Mall with high hopes. A few moments later, he heard a police siren blip once, and his heart skipped a beat He looked in his rear-view mirror. A police cruiser was on his tail, lights flashing. There were two cops o the front seat. One pointed toward the right-hand kerb and mouthed: 'Pull over.'

Luke was devastated. He had almost made it.

Could it be that he had committed some minor traffic violation, and they wanted to ticket him? Even if that were all, they would still ask for his driving license, and he had no kind of identification. Anyway, this was not about a minor traffic violation. He was driving a stolen car. He had calculated that the theft would go unreported until the owner got back from Philadelphia later tonight, but something had gone wrong. They intended to arrest him.

But they would have to catch him first He clicked into escape mode. Ahead of him on the one-way street was a long truck. Without further thought, he stamped on the gas pedal and pulled around the truck.

The cops switched on their siren and followed.

Luke pulled in front of the truck, going fast Acting on instinct now, he yanked the parking brake and spun the wheel hard to the right The Ford went into a long skid, turning as it did so. The truck swerved left to avoid it, forcing the patrol car all the way over to the left side of the street Luke shifted unto neutral to prevent the car stalling. It came to rest facing the wrong way. He put it into drive again and stepped on the gas, heading against the traffic on the one-way street Cars veered wildly left and right to avoid a head-on collision. Luke swung right to miss a city bus, then clipped a station wagon, but ploughed on amid a chorus of indignant horns. An old prewar Lincoln swung onto the sidewalk and hit a lamp post. A motorcyclist lost control and fell off his machine. Luke hoped he was not badly hurt He made it to the next crossing and swung right onto a broad avenue. He raced two blocks, running red lights, then looked in his mirror. There was no sign of the police car. '

He turned again, heading south now. He was lost, but he knew the Mall was to his south. Now that the patrol car was out of sight, he would have been safer to drive normally. However, it was four o'clock, and he was farther away from the Smithsonian than he had been five minutes ago. If he was late, the audience would have gone. He stepped on the gas again.

The southbound street he was on dead-ended, and he was forced to turn right. He tried to watch for street names as he sped along, swerving around slower vehicles. He was on D Street. After a minute he came to 7th and turned south.

His luck changed. All the lights were green. He hit seventy crossing Constitution Avenue, and he was in the park.

Across the lawn to his right, he saw a big dark-red building like a castle in a fairy tale. It was exactly where the map said the museum would be. He stopped the car and checked his watch. It was five past four. The audience would be leaving. He cursed and jumped out He ran across the grass. The secretary had told him the lecture was in the Aircraft Building around the back. Was this the front or the back? It looked like the front. To the side of the building was a path through a little garden. He followed it and came out on a wide two-way avenue. Still running, he found an elaborate iron gateway leading to the back entrance of the museum. To his right, beside a lawn, was what looked like an old aircraft hangar. He went inside.

He looked around. All kinds of aircraft were suspended from the ceiling: old biplanes, a wartime jet, and even the sphere of a hot-air balloon. At floor level were glass cases of aircraft insignia, flight clothing, aerial cameras, and photographs. Luke spoke to a uniformed guard, I'm here for the lecture on rocket fuels.'

'You're too late,' the man said, looking at his watch. 'It's ten past four, the lecture's over.'

'Where was it held? I might still catch the speaker.'

'I think he's gone.'

Luke stared hard at him and spoke slowly. 'Just answer the fucking question. Where?'

The man looked scared. 'Far end of the hall,' he said hastily.

Luke hurried the length of the building. At the end, a lecture theatre had been improvised, with a lectern, blackboard, and rows of chairs. Most of the audience had left, and attendants were already stacking the metal seats at the side of the room. But a small knot of eight or nine men remained in a corner, deep in discussion, surrounding a white-haired man who might have been the lecturer.

Luke's spirits fell. A few minutes ago, more than a hundred scientists in his field had been here. Now there were just a handful, and it was quite possible that none of them knew him. .

The white-haired man glanced up at him, then looked back at the others. It was impossible to know whether he had recognized Luke or not He was speaking, and carried on without a pause. 'Nitro-methane is almost impossible to-handle. You can't ignore safety factors.'

'You can build safety into your procedures, if the fuel is good enough,' said a young man in a tweed suit.

The argument was a familiar one to Luke. A bewildering variety of rocket fuels had been tested, many of them more powerful than the standard combination of alcohol and liquid oxygen, but they, all had drawbacks.

A man with a southern accent said: 'What about unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine? I hear they're testing that at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena.' .

Luke suddenly said: 'It works, but it's deadly poison.'

They all turned to him. The white-haired man frowned, looking slightly annoyed, resenting the interruption from a stranger.

Then the young man in the tweed suit looked shocked and said: 'My God, what are you doing in Washington, Luke?'

Luke felt so happy he could have wept.

*

PART 3

4.15 P. M.

A tape programmer in the tub varies the speed of rotation of the upper stages between 450 r.p.m. and 750 r.p.m., to avoid resonance vibrations that could cause the missile to break up in space.

Luke found he could not speak. The emotion of relief was so strong it seemed to constrict his throat All day he had forced himself to be calm and rational, but now he was close to breaking down.

The other scientists resumed their conversation, oblivious to his distress, except for the young man in the tweed suit, who looked concerned and said: 'Hey, are you okay?' .

Luke nodded. After a moment, he managed to say: 'Could we talk?'

'Sure, sure. There's a little office behind the Wright Brothers display. Professor Larkley used it earlier.' They headed for a door to one side. 'I organized this lecture, by the way.' He led Luke into a small, spartan room with a couple of chairs, a desk and a phone. They sat down. 'What's going on?' said the man.

'I've lost my memory.'

'My God!'

'Autobiographical amnesia. I still remember my science, that's how I found my way to you guys, but I don't know anything about myself.' -

Looking shocked, the young man said: 'Do you know who I am?'

Luke shook his head. 'Heck, I'm not even sure of my own name.'

'Whew.' The man looked bewildered. 'I never came across anything like this in real life.'

'I need you to tell me what you know about me.'

'I guess you do. Uh ... where shall I start?'

'You called me Luke.'

'Everyone calls you Luke. You're Dr Claude Lucas, but I guess7you never liked 'Claude. I'm Will McDermot'

Luke closed his eyes, overwhelmed by relief and gratitude. He knew his name. 'Thank you, Will.'

'I don't know anything about your family. I've only met you a couple of times, at scientific conferences.'

'Do you know where I live?'

'Huntsville, Alabama, I guess. You work for the Army Ballistic Missile Agency. They're based at Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville. You're a civilian, though, not an army officer. Your boss is Wernher von Braun.'

'I can't tell you how good it is to know this stuff!'

'I was surprised to see you because your team is about to launch a rocket that will put an American satellite in space for the first time. They're all down in Cape Canaveral, and word is it could be tonight.' '

'I read about it in the paper this morning - my God, did I work on that''

'Yeah. The Explorer. It's the most important launch in the history of the American space programme -especially since the success of the Russian Sputnik and the failure of the Navy's Vanguard.'

Luke was exhilarated. Only hours ago he had imagined himself a drunken bum. Now it turned out he was a scientist at the peak of his career. 'But I ought to be there for the launch!'

'Exactly ... so do you have any idea why you're not?'

Luke shook his head. 'I woke up this morning in the men's room at Union Station. No idea how I got there.'

Will gave him a man-to-man grin. 'Sounds like you went to a great party last night!'

'Let me ask you seriously - is that the kind of thing I do? Get so drunk I pass out?'

'I don't know you well enough to answer that' Will frowned. 'I'd be surprised, though. You know us scientists. Our idea of a party is to sit around drinking coffee and talking about our work.'

That sounded right to Luke. 'Getting drunk just doesn't seem interesting enough.' But he had no other explanation of how he had gotten into this scrape. Who was Pete? Why had people been following him? And who were the two men searching for him at Union Station?

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

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

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

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

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

'This is Dr Lucas-'

'Luke! At last! Where the hell are you?'

'I'm in Washington.'

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

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

'But that's extraordinary. How did it happen, for Christ's sake?'

'I was hoping you could tell me that, Colonel.'

'You always call me Bill.'

'Bill.'

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

'Patrick?'

'Patrick Air Force Base, near Cape Canaveral. Marigold made the reservations-'

'Who's Marigold?'

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

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

'Marigold made an appointment for you to see General Sherwood at the Pentagon at ten a.m. yesterday - but you didn't keep the appointment'

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

'Apparently not'

'What's his area of responsibility?'

'Army security - but he's also a friend of your family's, so the meeting could have been about anything.'

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

'No, we've got weather problems. It's been postponed until tomorrow at ten-thirty p.m.'

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

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

Luke scribbled it on a scratchpad. I'll call him right away.'

'First you should talk to your wife.'

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

'You still there?' Hide said.

Luke started to breathe again. 'Uh, Bill...'

'Yes?'

'What's her name?'

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

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

'Elspeth speaking. Luke, is that you?'

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

'I've been so worried. Are you okay?'

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

'What on earth happened?'

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

'Everyone's been looking for you. Where are you now?'

'At the Smithsonian, in the Aircraft Building.'

'Is someone taking care of you?'

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

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

Luke nodded gratefully.

Elspeth was saying: 'So you don't remember why you took off for Washington in such a hurry.'

'No. Obviously I didn't tell you.'

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

'Did he do anything?'

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

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

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

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

'No.'

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

Elspeth went on: 'We've been trying for a baby ever since we got married, which was four years ago, but we haven't succeeded.'

'Are my parents alive?'

Tour Mom is. She lives in New York. Your Pa died five years ago.'

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

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

'Do you have phone numbers for them?'

'Of course. Hold on while I look them up.'

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

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

'There were some bad moments.'

'Let me give you those numbers.' She read them out.

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

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

'Bill Hide told me I'm staying in my 'usual suite' at the Carlton.'

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

'So you and I don't live on what the army pays me.'

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

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

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

'To figure out this mystery with me. I could use some help - and companionship.'

'You should forget about it and come down here.'

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

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

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

'He was at Harvard with you and Anthony Carroll. He's a writer now.'

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

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

'Okay.'

'Take care of yourself, Luke, please,' she said earnestly.

'I will, I promise.' He hung up.

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

Bern had a gravelly voice and the trace of a New York accent 'Luke, thank God! What the hell happened I'd you?'

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

You lost your memory?'

'Right.'

'Oh, shit Do you know how this happened to you?'

'No. I was hoping you might have a clue.'

'I might'

'Why have you been trying to reach me?'

'I was worried. You called me on Monday. You said you were on your way here, you wanted to see me, and you would call me from the Carlton. But you never did.'

'Something happened to me on Monday night'

Yeah. Listen, there's someone you have to call. Dr Billie Josephson is a world expert on memory.'

The name rang a bell. 'I think I came across her book in the library.'

'She's also my ex-wife, and an old friend of yours.' Bern gave Luke the number.

'I'm going to call her right away. Bern ...'

Yeah.'

'I lose my memory, and it turns out that an old friend of mine is a world expert on memory. Isn't that a hell of a coincidence?'

'Ain't it just,' said Bern.

.

4.45 P. M.

The final stage, containing the satellite, is eighty inches long and only six inches across, and weighs just over thirty pounds. It is shaped like a stovepipe.

Billie had scheduled an hour-long interview with a patient, a football player who had been 'dinged' -concussed in a collision with an opponent. He was an interesting subject, because he could remember everything up to one hour before the game, and nothing after that until the moment when he found himself standing on the sideline with his back to the play, wondering how he got there.

She was distracted during the interview, thinking about the Sowerby Foundation and Anthony Carroll. By the time she got through with the football player and called Anthony, she was feeling frustrated and impatient. She was lucky, and reached him at his office on the first try. 'Anthony,' she said abruptly, 'what the hell is going on?'

'A lot,' he replied. 'Egypt and Syria have agreed to merge, skirts are getting shorter, and Campanella broke his neck in a car wreck and may never catch for the Dodgers again.'

She controlled the impulse to yell at him. 'I was passed over for the post of Director of Research here at the hospital,' she said with forced calm. 'Len Ross got the job. Did you know that?'

'Yeah, I guess I did.'

'I don't understand it I thought I might lose to a highly qualified outsider - Sol Weinberg, from Princeton, or someone of that order. But everyone knows I'm better than Len.'

'Do they?'

'Anthony, come on! You know it yourself. Hell, you encouraged me in this line of research, years ago, at the end of the war, when we-'

'Okay, okay, I remember,' he interrupted. 'That stuff is still classified, you know.'

She did not believe that things they did in the war could still be important secrets. But it did not matter. 'So why didn't I get the job?'

'I'm supposed to know?'

This was humiliating, she felt, but her need to understand overrode her embarrassment. 'The Foundation is insisting on Len.'

'I guess they have the right'

'Anthony, talk to me!'

'I'm talking.'

'You're part of the Foundation. It's very unusual for a trust to interfere in this kind of decision. They normally leave it to the experts. You must know why they took this exceptional step.'

'Well, I don't.' And my guess is the step has not yet been taken. There certainly hasn't been a meeting about it - I'd know about that'

'Charles was very definite.'

'I don't doubt it's true, unfortunately for you. But it's not the kind of thing that would be decided openly. More likely, the Director and one or two board members had a chat over a drink at the Cosmos Club. One of them has called Charles and given him the word. He can't afford to upset them, so he's gone along. That's how these things work. I'm just surprised Charles was so candid with you.'

'He was shocked, I think. He can't understand why they would do such a thing. I thought you might know.'

'It's probably something dumb. Is Ross a family man?'

'Married with four children.'

'The Director doesn't really approve of women earning high salaries when there are men trying to support a family.'

'For Christ's sake! I have a child and an elderly mother to take care of!'

'I didn't say it was logical. Listen, Billie, I have to go. I'm sorry. I'll call you later.' .

'Okay,' she said.

When she had hung up, she stared at the phone, trying to sort out her feelings. The conversation rang false to her, and she asked herself why. It was perfectly plausible that Anthony might not know about machinations among the other board members of the Foundation. So why did she disbelieve him? Thinking back, she realized he had been evasive - which was not like him. In the end he had told her what little he knew, but reluctantly. It all added up to a very clear impression.

Anthony was lying.

.

5 P. M.

The fourth-stage rocket is made of lightweight titanium instead of stainless steel. The weight saving permits the missile to carry a crucial extra two pounds of scientific equipment.

When Anthony hung up the phone, it rang again immediately. He picked it up and heard Elspeth, sounding spooked. 'For God's sake, I've been on hold for a quarter of an hour!'

'I was talking to Billie, she-'

'Never mind. I just spoke with Luke.'

'Jesus, how come?'

'Shut up and listen! He was at the Smithsonian, in the Aircraft Building, with a bunch of physicists.'

I'm on my way.' Anthony dropped the phone and ran out the door. Pete saw him and ran after him. They went down to the parking lot and jumped into Anthony's car.

The fact that Luke had spoken with Elspeth dismayed Anthony. It suggested that everything was coming unglued. But maybe if he got to Luke before anyone else, he could hold things together. It took them four minutes to drive to Independence Avenue and 10th Street. They left the car outside the back entrance to the museum and ran into the old hangar that was the Aircraft Building.

There was a payphone near the entrance, but no sign of Luke.

'Split up,' Anthony said. I'll go right, you go left.' He walked through the exhibits, scrutinizing the faces of the men as they gazed into the glass cases and stared up at the aircraft suspended from the ceiling. At the far end of the building he met up with Pete, who made an empty-hands gesture.

There were some restrooms and offices to one side. Pete checked the men's room and Anthony looked in the offices. Luke must have called from one of these phones, but he was not here now.

Pete came out of the men's room and said: 'Nothing.'

Anthony said: 'This is a catastrophe.'

Pete frowned. 'Is it?' he said. 'A catastrophe? Is this guy more important than you've told me?'

'Yes,' Anthony said. 'He could be the most dangerous man in America.'

'Christ'

Against the end wall, Anthony saw stacked chairs and a movable lectern. A young man in a tweed suit was talking to two men in overalls. Anthony recalled that Elspeth had said Luke was with a bunch of physicists. Maybe he could still pick up the trail.

He approached the man in the tweed suit and said: 'Excuse me, was there a meeting of some kind here?'

'Sure, Professor Larkley gave a lecture on rocket fuels,' the young man said. 'I'm Will McDermot, I organized it as part of International Geophysical Year.'

'Was Dr Claude Lucas here?'

Yes. Are you a friend of his?'

Yes.'

'Did you know he's lost his memory? He didn't even know his own name, until I told him.'

Anthony suppressed a curse. He had been afraid of this from the moment Elspeth had said she had spoken, to Luke. He knew who he was.

'I need to locate Dr Lucas urgently,' Anthony said.

'What a shame, you just missed him.'

'Did he say where he was going?'

'No. I tried to encourage him to see a doctor, get himself checked out, but he said he was fine. I thought he seemed very shocked-'

Yes, thank you, I appreciate your help.' Anthony turned and walked quickly away. He was furious.

Outside on Independence Avenue he saw a police cruiser. Two cops were checking out a car parked on the other side of the road. Anthony went closer and saw that the car was a blue-and white Ford Fairlane. 'Look at that,' he said to Pete. He checked the license plate. It was the car Nosy Rosy had seen from her Georgetown window.

He showed the patrolmen his CIA identification. 'Did you just spot this car illegally parked?' he said.

The older of the two men replied. 'No, we saw a man driving it on 9th Street,' he said. 'But he got away from us.'

You let him escape?' Anthony said incredulously.

'He turned around and headed right into the traffic!' the younger cop said. 'Hell of a driver, whoever he is.'

'Few minutes later, we see the car parked here, but he's gone.'

Anthony wanted to knock their wooden heads together. Instead, he said: 'This fugitive may have stolen another car in this neighbourhood and made his getaway.' He took a business card out of his billfold. 'If you get a report of a car stolen nearby, would you please call me at this number?'

The older cop read the card and said: I'll make sure to do that, Mr. Carroll.'

Anthony 'and Pete returned to the yellow Cadillac and drove away.

Pete said: 'What do you think he'll do now?'

'I don't know. He might go right to the airport and get a plane to Florida; he could go to the Pentagon; he may go to his hotel. Hell, he could take it into his head to go visit his mother in New York. We may have to spread ourselves kind of thin.' He was silent, thinking, while he parked and entered Q Building. Reaching his office, he said: 'I want two men at the airport, two at Union Station, two at the bus station. I want two men in the office calling all known members of Luke's family, friends and acquaintances, to ask if they're expecting to see him or if they've heard from him. I want you to go with two men to the Carlton Hotel. Take a room, then stake out the lobby. I'll join you there later.'

Pete went out and Anthony shut the door.

For the first time today, Anthony was scared. Now that Luke knew his own identity, there was no telling what else he might find out This project should have been Anthony's greatest triumph, but it was turning into a foul-up that might end his career.

It might end his life.

If he could find Luke, he could still patch things up. But he would have to take drastic measures. It would no longer be enough simply to put Luke under surveillance. He had to solve the problem once and for all.

With a heavy heart, he went to the photograph of President Eisenhower that hung on the wall. He pulled on one side of the frame, and the picture swung out on hinges to reveal a safe. He dialed the combination, opened the door, and took out his gun.

It was a Walther P38 automatic. This was the handgun used by the German army in the Second World War. Anthony had been issued with it before he went to North Africa. He also had a silencer that had been specially designed by OSS to fit, the gun.

The first time he had killed a man, it had been with this gun.

Albin Moulier was a traitor who had betrayed members of the French Resistance to the police. He deserved to die - the five men in the cell were agreed on that. They drew lots, standing in a derelict stable miles from anywhere, late at night, a single lamp throwing dancing shadows on the rough stone walls. Anthony might have been excused, as the only foreigner, but that way he would have lost respect, so he insisted on taking his chances with the rest. And he drew the short straw.

Albin was tied to the rusty wheel of a broken plough, not even blindfolded, listening to the discussion and watching the drawing of lots. He soiled himself when they pronounced the death sentence, and screamed when he saw Anthony take out the Walther. The screaming helped: it made Anthony want to kill him quickly, just to stop the noise. He shot Albin at close range, between the eyes, one bullet. Afterwards, the others told him he did it well, without hesitation or regrets, like a man.

Anthony still saw Albin in his dreams.

He took the silencer from the safe, fitted it over the barrel of the pistol, and screwed it tight He put on his topcoat. It was a long camel-hair winter coat, single-breasted, with deep inside pockets. He placed the gun, butt down, in the right-hand pocket, with the silencer sticking up. Leaving the coat unbuttoned, he reached in with his left hand, pulled the gun out by the silencer, and transferred it to his right hand. Then he, moved the thumb safety lever on the left of the slide up to the 'fire' position. The whole process took about a second. The silencer made the weapon cumbersome. It would be easier to carry the two parts separately. However, he might not have time to fit the silencer before shooting. This way was better.

He buttoned his coat and went out.

.

6 P. M.

The satellite is bullet-shaped, rather than spherical. In theory, a sphere should be more stable; but in practice, the satellite must have protruding antennae for radio communication, and the antennae spoil the round shape.

Luke took a taxicab to the Georgetown Mind Hospital and gave his name at the reception desk, saying he had an appointment with Dr Josephson.

She had been charming on the phone: concerned about him, pleased to hear his voice, intrigued to know that he had lost his memory, eager to see him as soon as she could. She spoke with a southern accent, and sounded as if laughter was forever bubbling up at the back of her throat.

Now she came running down the stairs, a short woman in a white lab coat, with big brown eyes and a flushed expression of excitement Luke could not help smiling at the sight of her.

'It's so great to see you!' she said, and she threw her arms around him in a hug.

He felt an impulse to respond to her exuberance and squeeze her tightly. Afraid that he might do something to cause offence, he froze, his hands in the air like the victim of a hold-up.

She laughed at him. 'You don't remember what I'm like,' she said. 'Relax, I'm almost harmless.'

He let his arms fall around her shoulders. Her small body was soft and round under the lab coat.

'Come on, I'll show you my office.' She led him up the stairs.

As they crossed a broad corridor, a white-haired woman in a bathrobe said: 'Doctor! I like your boyfriend!'

Billie grinned and said: You can have him next, Marlene.'

Billie had a small room with a plain desk and a steel filing cabinet, but she had made it pretty with flowers and a splashy abstract painting in bright colours. She gave Luke coffee and opened a package of cookies, then asked him about his amnesia.

She made notes as he answered her questions. Luke had had no food for twelve hours, and he ate all the cookies. She smiled and said: 'Want some more? There's another pack.' He shook his head.

'Well, I have a pretty clear picture,' she said eventually. 'You have global amnesia, but otherwise you seem mentally healthy. I can't assess your physical state, because I'm not that kind of doctor, and it's my duty to advise you to have a physical as soon as you can.' She smiled. 'But you look all right, just shook up.'

'Is there a cure for this type of amnesia?'

'No, there's not The process is generally irreversible.'

That was a blow. Luke had hoped everything might come back to him in a flash. 'Christ,' he muttered.

'Don't be downhearted,' Billie said kindly. 'Sufferers have all their faculties, and are able to relearn what has been forgotten; so they can usually pick up the threads of their lives and live normally. You're going to be fine.' _,.-.

Even while he was hearing horrible news, he found himself watching her with fascination, concentrating his attention first on her eyes, which seemed to glow with sympathy, then her expressive mouth, then the way the light from the desk lamp fell on her dark curls. He wanted her to carry on talking for ever. He said: 'What might have caused the amnesia?'

'Brain damage is the first possibility to consider. However, there's no sign of injury, and you told me you don't have a headache.'

That's right. So what else?'

'There are several alternatives,' she explained patiently. 'It can be brought on by prolonged stress, a sudden shock, or drugs. It's also a side effect of some treatments for schizophrenia involving a combination of electric shock and drugs.'

'Any way to tell which affected me?'

'Not conclusively. You had a hangover this morning, you said. If that wasn't booze, it might be the after effects of a drug. But you're not going to get a final answer by talking to doctors. You need to find out what happened to you between Monday night and this morning.'

'Well, at least I know what I'm looking for,' he said. 'Shock, drugs or schizophrenia treatment'

'You're not schizophrenic,' she said. You have a real good hold on reality. What's your next step?'

Luke stood up. He was reluctant to leave the company of this bewitching woman, but she had told him all she could. 'I'm going to see Bern Rothsten. I think he may have some ideas.'

'Got a car?'

'I asked the taxi to wait'

I'll see you out'

As they walked down the stairs, Billie took his arm affectionately Luke said: 'How long have you been divorced from Bern?'

'Five years. Long enough to become friends again.

'This is a strange question, but I have to ask it Did you and I ever date?'

'Oh, boy,' said Billie. 'Did we ever.'

.

1943

On the day Italy surrendered, Billie bumped into Luke in the lobby of Q Building.

At first she did not know him. She saw a thin man of about thirty in a suit that was too big, and her eyes passed over him without recognition. Then he spoke. 'Billie? Don't you remember me?'

She knew the voice, of course, and it made her heart beat faster. But when she looked again at the emaciated man from whom the words issued, she gave a small scream of horror. His head looked like a skull. His once-glossy black hair was dull. His shirt collar was too large, and his jacket looked as if it were draped over a wire hanger. His eyes were the eyes of an old man. 'Luke!' she said. 'You look terrible!'

'Gee, thanks,' he said, with a tired smile.

'I'm sorry,' she said hastily.

'Don't worry. I've lost some weight, I know. There's not a lot of food where I've been.'

She wanted to hug him,- but she held back, not sure he would like it He said: 'What are you doing here?'

She took a deep breath. 'A training course - maps, radio, firearms, unarmed combat.'

He grinned. You're not dressed for jujitsu.'

Billie still loved to dress stylishly, despite the war. Today she was wearing a pale yellow suit with a short bolero jacket and a daring knee-length skirt, and a big hat like an upside-down dinner plate. She could not afford to buy the latest fashions on her army wages, of course: she had made this outfit herself, using a borrowed sewing machine. Her father had taught all his children to sew. I'll take that as a compliment,' she said with a smile, beginning to get over her shock, 'Where have you been?'

'Do you have a minute to talk?'

'Of course.' She was supposed to be at a cryptography class, but to heck with that.

'Let's go outside.'

It was a warm September afternoon. Luke took off his suit coat and slung it over his shoulder as they walked alongside the Reflecting Pool. 'How come you're in OSS?'

'Anthony Carroll fixed it,' she said. The Office of Strategic Services was considered a glamorous assignment, and jobs here were much coveted. 'Anthony used family influence to get here. He's Bill Donovan's personal assistant now.' General 'Wild Bill' Donovan was head of OSS. I'd been driving a general around Washington for a year, so I was real pleased to get posted here. Anthony's used his position to bring in all his old friends from Harvard. Elspeth is in London, Peg is in Cairo, and I gather you and Bern have been behind enemy lines somewhere.'

'France,' Luke said.

'What was that like?'

He lit a cigarette. It was a new habit - he had not smoked at Harvard - but now he drew tobacco smoke into his lungs as if it were the breath of life. 'The first man I killed was a Frenchman,' he said abruptly.

It was painfully obvious that he needed to talk about it 'Tell me what happened,' she said.

'He was a cop, a gendarme, Claude, same name as me. Not really a bad guy - anti-Semitic, but no more so than the average Frenchman, or a lot of Americans for that matter. He blundered into a farmhouse where my group was meeting. There was no doubt what we were doing - we had maps on the table and rifles stacked in the corner, and Bern was showing the Frenchies how to wire a time bomb.' Luke gave an odd kind of laugh, with no humour in it. 'Damn fool tried to arrest us all. Not that it made any difference. He had to be killed whatever he did.'

'What did you do?' Billie whispered.

'Took him outside and shot him in the back of the head.'

'Oh, my God.'

'He didn't die right away. It took about a minute.'

She took his hand and squeezed it. He held on, and they walked around the long, narrow pool hand in hand. He told her another story, about a woman Resistance fighter who had been captured and tortured, and Billie cried, tears streaming down her face in the September sunshine. The afternoon cooled, and still the grim details spilled out of him: cars blown up, German officers assassinated, Resistance comrades killed in shoot-outs, and Jewish families led away to unknown destinations, holding the hands of their trusting children.

They had been walking for two hours when he stumbled, and she caught him and prevented his falling. 'Jesus Christ, I'm so tired,' he said. 'I've been sleeping badly.'

She hailed a taxi and took him to his hotel.

Luke was staying at the Carlton. The army did not generally run to such luxury, but she recalled that his family was Wealthy. He had a corner suite. There was a grand piano in the living room and - something she had never seen before - a telephone extension in the bathroom. f She called room service and ordered chicken soup and scrambled eggs, hot rolls and a pint of cold milk. He sat on the couch and began to tell another story, a funny one, about sabotaging a factory that made saucepans for the German army. 'I ran into this big metalworking shop, and there were about fifty enormous, muscle-bound women, stoking the furnace and hammering the moulds. I yelled: 'Clear the building! We're going to blow it up!' But the women laughed at me! They wouldn't leave, they all carried on working. They didn't believe me.' Before he could finish the story, the food came.

Billie signed the check, tipped the waiter, and put the plates on the dining table. When she turned around, Luke was asleep.

She woke him just long enough to get him into the bedroom and onto the bed. 'Don't leave,' he mumbled, then his eyes closed again.

She took off his boots and gently loosened his tie. A mild breeze was blowing in through the open window: he did not need blankets.

She sat on the edge of the bed watching him for a while, remembering the long drive from Cambridge to Newport almost two years ago. She stroked his cheek with the outside edge of her little finger, the way she had that night. He did not stir.

She took off her hat and her shoes, thought for a moment, and slipped off her jacket and skirt. Then, in her underwear and stockings, she lay down on the bed. She got her arms around his bony shoulders, put his head on her bosom, and held him. 'Everything's all right, now,' she said. 'You just sleep as long as you want. When you wake up, I'll still be here.'

Night fell. The temperature dropped. She closed the window and pulled a sheet around them. Soon after midnight, with her arms wrapped around his warm body, she fell asleep.

At dawn, when he had been asleep for twelve hours, he got up suddenly and went to the bathroom. He returned a couple of minutes later and got back into bed. He had taken off his suit and shirt, and wore only his underwear. He put his arms around her and hugged her. 'Something I forgot to tell you, something very important,' he said.

'What?'

'In France, I thought about you all the time. Every day.'

'Did you?' she whispered. 'Did you really?'

He did not answer. He had gone back to sleep.

She lay in his embrace, thinking about him in France, risking his life and remembering her; and she was so happy she felt her heart would burst.'

At eight o'clock in the morning, she went into the living room of the suite, phoned Q Building, and said she was sick. It was the first day she had taken off for illness in more than a year in the military. She had a bath and washed her hair, then got dressed. She ordered coffee and cornflakes from room service. The waiter called her Mrs. Lucas. She was glad it was not a waitress, for a woman would have noticed that she wore no wedding ring.

She thought the smell of coffee might wake Luke, but it did not. She read the Washington Post from cover to cover, even the sports pages. She was writing a letter to her mother hi Dallas, on hotel stationery, when he came stumbling out of the bedroom hi his underwear, his dark hair mussed, his jaw blue with stubble. She smiled at him, happy that he was awake.

He looked confused. 'How long did I sleep?'

She checked her wristwatch. It was almost noon. 'About eighteen hours.' She could not tell what he was thinking. Was he pleased to see her? Embarrassed? Was he wishing she would go away?

'God,' he said. 'I haven't slept like that for a year.'

He rubbed his eyes. 'Have you been here all the time? You look as fresh as a daisy.'

'I took a little nap.'

You stayed all night?'

You asked me to.'

He frowned. 'I seem to remember...' He shook his head. 'Boy, I had some dreams.' He went to the phone. 'Room service? Let me have a T-bone steak, rare, with three eggs, sunnyside up. Plus orange juice, toast and coffee.'

Billie frowned. She had never spent the night with a man, so she did not know what to expect in the morning, but this disappointed her. It was so unromantic that she felt almost insulted. She was reminded of her brothers waking up - they, too, emerged from sleep stumbly, grouchy and ravenous. But, she recalled, they generally improved when they had eaten.

'Hold on,' he said into the phone. He looked at Billie. 'Would you like something?'

'Yeah, some iced tea.'

He repeated her order and hung up.

He sat beside her on the couch. 'I talked a lot yesterday.'

'That's the truth.'

'How long?'

'About five hours straight.'

I'm sorry.'

'Don't be sorry. Whatever you do, please don't be sorry.' Tears came to her eyes. 'I'll never forget it as long as I live.'

He took her hands. 'I'm so glad we met again.'

Her heart jumped. 'Me, too.' This was more like what she had hoped for.

'I'd like to kiss you, but I've been in the same clothes for twenty-four hours.'

She felt a sudden sensation inside, like a spring breaking, and she was conscious of wetness. She was shocked at herself: it had never happened this fast before.

But she held back. She had not decided where she wanted this to go. She had had all night to make a' decision, but she had not even thought about it Now she was afraid that once she touched him she would lose control. And then what?

The war had brought about a new moral laxity in Washington, but she was not part of it She clasped her hands in her lap and said: 'I sure don't aim to kiss you until you're dressed.'

He gave her a skeptical look. 'Are you afraid of compromising yourself?'

She winced at the irony in his voice. 'Just what does that mean?' -

He shrugged. 'We spent the night together.'

She felt hurt and indignant. 'I stayed here because you begged me too!' she protested.

'All right, don't get mad.'

But her desire for him had turned, in a flash, to equally powerful anger. 'You were falling down with exhaustion, and I put you to bed,' she said wrathfully. 'Then you asked me not to leave you, so I stayed.'

'I appreciate it'

'Then don't talk as if I've acted like a ... whore!'

'That's not what I meant.'

'It sure is! You implied I've already compromised myself so' much that anything else I might do makes no difference.'

He gave a big sigh. 'Well, I didn't intend to imply that. Jesus, you're making a hell of a fuss about a casual remark.'

'Too dam casual.' The trouble was, she had compromised herself.

There was a knock at the door.

They looked at one another. Luke said: 'Room service, I guess.'

She did not want a waiter to see her with an undressed man. 'Get in the bedroom.'

'Okay.'

'First, give me your ring.'

He looked at his left hand. He wore a gold signet ring on the little finger. 'Why?'

'So the waiter will think I'm married.'

'But I never take it off.'

That angered her even more. 'Get out of sight,' she hissed.

He went into the bedroom. Billie opened the suite door and a waitress brought in the room-service cart. 'There you go, Miss,' she said.

Billie flushed. There was an insult in that 'Miss'. She signed the check but did not tip. 'There you go,' she said, and turned her back.

The waitress left. Billie heard the shower running. She felt exhausted. She had spent hours in the grip of a profound romantic passion, then in a few minutes it had turned sour. Luke was normally so gracious, yet he had metamorphosed into a bear. How could such things happen?

Whatever the reason, he had made her feel cheap. In a minute or two, he would come out of the bathroom, ready to sit down and have breakfast with her as if they were a married couple. But- they were not, and she was feeling more and more uncomfortable.

Well, she thought, if I don't like it, why am I still here? It was a good question.

She put on her hat. It was better to get out with what dignity she had left.

She thought about writing him a note. The sound of the shower stopped; He was about to reappear, smelling of soap, wearing a dressing gown, his hair wet and his feet bare, looking good enough to eat. There was no time for a note.

She left the suite, dosing the door quietly behind her.

She saw him almost every day for the next four weeks. At first he was in Q, Building for daily debriefing sessions. He would seek her out at lunchtime, and they would eat together in the cafeteria or take sandwiches to the park. His manner reverted to his characteristic relaxed courtesy, making her feel respected and cared for.. The sting of his behavior in the Carlton eased. Maybe, she thought, he too had never spent the night with a lover; and, like her, he was not sure of the etiquette. He had treated her casually, as he might treat his sister - and perhaps his sister was the only girl who had ever seen him in his underwear.

At the end of the week he asked her for a date, and they saw the movie of Jane Eyre on Saturday night On Sunday they went canoeing on the Potomac. There was a spirit of recklessness in the Washington air. The city was full of young men on their way to the front or back home on leave, men for whom violent death was an everyday event. They wanted to gamble, drink, dance, and make love because they might never have another chance. The bars were jammed, and a single girl never needed to spend an evening alone. The Allies were winning the war, but the bubble of exuberance was burst daily by news of relatives, neighbours, and college friends killed and wounded on the front line.

Luke put on a little weight and started to sleep better. The haunted look went from his eyes. He bought some clothes that fitted him, short-sleeved shirts and white pants and a navy flannel suit that he wore for their evening dates. A little of his boyishness came back.

They talked endlessly. She explained how the study of human psychology would eventually eliminate mental illness, and he told her how men could fly to the moon. They relived the fateful Harvard weekend that had changed their lives. They discussed the war, and when it might, end: Billie thought the Germans could not last much longer, now that Italy had fallen, but Luke believed it would take years to clear the Japanese out of the Pacific. Sometimes they went out with Anthony and Bern, and argued politics in bars, just as they had when they were all at college together, in a different world. One weekend Luke flew to New York to see his family, and Billie missed him so badly she felt ill. She never tired of him, never came near to being bored. He was thoughtful and witty and smart.

They had a major fight about twice a week. Each followed the pattern of their first row, in his hotel suite. He would say something high-handed, or make a _ decision about their evening's plans without consulting her, or assume he knew better about some subject, radio or automobiles or tennis. She would protest hotly, and he would accuse her of overreacting. She would get more and more angry as she tried to make him understand what was wrong with his attitude, and he would start to feel like a hostile witness under cross-examination. In the heat of the argument, she would exaggerate, or make some wild, assertion, or say something she knew to be false. Then he would accuse her of insincerity, and say there was no point in talking to her, because she was willing to say anything to win an argument. He would walk out, more convinced than ever that he was right Within minutes, she would be distraught She would seek him out and beg him to forget it and be friends. At first he would be stony-faced; then she would say something that made him laugh, and he would melt But in all that time she did not go to his hotel, and when she kissed him it was a chaste brush of the lips, always in a public place. Even so, she felt the liquid sensation inside every time she touched him, and she knew she could go no farther without going the whole way.

The sunny September turned into a chilly October, and Luke was posted.

He got the news on a Friday afternoon. He was waiting for Billie in the lobby of Q Building when she left for the day. She could see by his face that something bad had happened. 'What's wrong?' she said immediately.

'I'm going back to France.'

She was dismayed. 'When?'

'I leave Washington early on Monday morning. Bern, too.'

'For God's sake, haven't you done your share?'

'I don't mind the danger,' he said. 'I just don't want to leave you.'

Tears came to her eyes. She swallowed hard. 'Two days.'

'I've got to pack.'

I'll help you.'

They went to his hotel.

As soon as they were inside the door she grabbed him by his sweater, pulled him to her, and tilted her face to be kissed. This time there was nothing chaste about it. She ran the tip of her tongue along his lips, top and bottom, then opened her mouth to his tongue.

She slipped off her coat. She was wearing a dress with blue-and-white vertical stripes and a white collar. She said: 'Touch my breasts.'

He looked startled.

'Please,' she begged.

His hands closed over her small breasts. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the sensation.

They broke apart, and she stared at him hungrily, memorizing his face. She wanted never to forget the particular blue-of his eyes, the lock of dark hair that fell over his forehead, the curve of his jaw, the soft cushion of his mouth. 'I want a photo of you,' she said. 'Do you have one?'

'I don't carry photographs of myself around,' he said with a grin. In a New York accent he added: 'What am I, Frank Sinatra?'

'You must have a picture of yourself somewhere.'

'I might have a family photo. Let me look.' He went into the bedroom.

She followed him.

His battered brown leather bag lay on a suitcase stand where, Billie guessed, it had been for four weeks. He took out a silver picture frame that opened up like a small book. Inside were two photographs, one on each side. He slipped a picture out and handed it to her.

It had been taken three or four years ago, and showed a younger, heavier Luke in a polo shirt With him were an older couple, presumably his parents, plus twin boys of around fifteen, and a little girl. They were all dressed in beach clothes.

'I can't take this, it's your picture of your family,' she said, although she longed for it with all her heart 'I want you to have it. That's me, I'm part of my family.'

That was what she loved about it. 'Did you take it to France with you?'

'Yes.'

It was so important to him, she could hardly bear to deprive him of it - yet that made it even more precious to her. 'Show me the other one,' she said, 'What?'

'There are two photos in that frame.'

He seemed reluctant, but opened it. The second picture had been cut out of the Radcliffe year book. It was a photo of Billie.

'You had that in France, too?' she said. She could not breathe properly, her throat felt constricted.

Yes.'

She burst into tears. It was unbearable. He had cut her picture out of the year book and carried it, alongside the photo of his family, all that time his life was in such danger. She had had no idea that she meant so much to him.

'Why are you crying?' he said.

'Because you love me,' she replied.

'It's true,' he said. 'I was frightened to tell you. I've loved you ever since Pearl Harbor weekend.'

Her passion turned to rage. 'How can you say that, you bastard? You left me!'

'If you and I had become lovers then, it would have destroyed Anthony.'

To hell with Anthony!' She hammered his chest with her fist, but he did not seem to feel it 'How could you put Anthony's happiness before mine, you son of a bitch?'

'It would have been dishonourable.'

'But don't you see, we could have had each other for two years!' The tears streamed down her cheeks. 'Now we've only got two days - two lousy goddamn days!'

'Then stop crying and kiss me again,' he said.

She put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down. Her tears ran between their lips and into their mouths. He began to unfasten her dress. Impatient, she said: 'Please, just rip it.' He pulled hard, and the buttons flew off down to her waist Another tug opened it completely. She slipped it back off her shoulders and stood in her slip and stockings.

He looked solemn. 'Are you sure you want to?'

She was afraid he would become paralyzed by moral misgivings. 'I have to, I have to, please don't stop!' she cried.

He pushed her gently back to the bed. She lay on her back and he lay on top of her, resting his weight on his elbows. He looked into her eyes. 'I've never done this before.'

'That's all right,' she said. 'I haven't either.'

The first time was over quite quickly, but an hour later they wanted it again, and this time it took longer. She told him she wanted to do everything, give him every pleasure he had ever dreamed of, perform every possible act of sexual intimacy. They made love all weekend, frantic with desire and sorrow, knowing they might never meet again.

After Luke left on Monday morning, Billie cried for two days.

Eight weeks later she discovered she was pregnant 6.30 P. M.

Scientists can only guess at the extremes of heat and cold the satellite will suffer in space as it moves from the deep darkness of the earth's shadow into the glare of naked sunlight. To mitigate the effects of this, the cylinder is partially coated with shiny aluminum oxide in stripes one-eighth of an inch wide, to reflect the sun's scorching rays, and insulated with glass fibre, to keep out the ultimate cold of space.

Yes, we dated,' Billie said as they went down the stairs.

Luke's mouth was dry. He imagined holding her hand, looking at her face over a candlelit table, kissing her, watching her slip out of her clothes. He felt guilty, knowing he had a wife, but he could not remember his wife, and Billie was right here beside him, talking animatedly and smiling and smelling faintly of scented soap.

They came to the door of the building and stopped. 'Were we in love?' Luke asked. He looked hard at her, studying her expression. Until now, her face had been easy to read, but suddenly the book had been closed, and all he could see was a blank cover.

'Oh, sure,' she said, and although her tone was light, there was a catch in her voice. 'I thought you were the only man in the world.'

How could he have let a woman like this slip away from him? It seemed a tragedy worse than losing all his memories. 'But you learned better.'

'I'm old enough now to know there's no Prince Charming, just a bunch of more or less flawed men. Sometimes they wear shining armour, but it's always rusty in spots.'

He wanted to know everything, every detail, but there were too many questions. 'So you married Bern;'

Yes.'

'What's he like?'

'Clever. All my men have to be smart Otherwise I get bored. Strong, too - strong enough to challenge me.' She smiled the smile of someone with a big heart.

He said: 'What went wrong?'

'Conflicting values. It sounds abstract, but Bern risked his life for the cause of freedom in two wars, the Spanish Civil War and then the Second World War -and for him, politics came above all else.'

There was one question Luke wanted to ask more than any. He could not think of a delicate, roundabout way of putting it, so he blurted it out 'Do you have anyone now?'

'Sure. His name's Harold Brodsky.'

Luke felt foolish. Of course she had someone. She was a beautiful divorcee in her thirties, men would be queuing up to take her out He smiled ruefully. 'Is he Prince Charming?'

'No, but he's smart, he makes me laugh, and he - adores me.'

Envy stabbed Luke's heart. Lucky Harold, he thought. 'And I guess he shares your values.'

'Yes. The most important thing in his life is his child - he's a widower - and after that comes his academic work.'

'Which is?'

'Iodine chemistry. I feel the same about my work.' Billie smiled. 'I may not be starry-eyed about men, but I guess I'm still idealistic about unravelling the mysteries of the human mind.'

That brought Luke back to his immediate crisis. The reminder was like an unexpected blow, shocking and painful, 'I wish you could unravel the mystery of my mind.'

She frowned, and despite the weight of his problems he noticed 'how pretty she was when her nose wrinkled in puzzlement 'It's strange,' she said. 'Maybe you suffered a cranial injury that left no visible trace, but in that case it's surprising you don't still have a headache.'

'Nope.'

'You're not an alcoholic or a drug addict, I can tell by looking at you. If you'd suffered some terrible shock, or been under prolonged stress, I probably would have heard about it, either from you or from our mutual friends.'

'Which leaves...?'

She shook her head. 'You certainly aren't schizophrenic, so there's no way you could have been given the combination drug-and-electrotherapy treatment that could have caused-'

She stopped suddenly, looking alluringly startled, mouth open, eyes wide.

'What?' Luke said.

'I just remembered Joe Blow.'

'Who's he?'

'Joseph Bellow. The name struck me because I thought it sounded made up.'

'And?'

'He was admitted late yesterday, after I'd gone home. Then he was discharged in the night - which was real strange.'

'What was wrong with him?'

He was a schizophrenic.' She paled. 'Oh, shit'

Luke began to see what she was thinking. 'So this patient...'

'Let's check his file.'

She turned and ran back up the stairs. They hurried along the corridor and entered a room marked Records Office. There was no one inside. Billie turned on the light.

She opened a drawer marked 'A-D', flipped through the file, and pulled out a folder. She read aloud: 'White male, six feet one inch tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, thirty-seven years old.'

Luke's guess was confirmed. 'You think it was me,' he said.

She nodded. 'The patient was given the treatment that causes global amnesia.'

'My God.' Luke was dismayed and intrigued at the same time. If she was right, this had been done to him deliberately. That explained why he had been followed around - presumably by someone keen to make sure the treatment had worked. 'Who did this?'

'My colleague, Dr Leonard Ross, admitted the patient Len's a psychiatrist I'd like to know his rationale for authorizing the treatment. A patient should normally be kept under observation -for some time, usually days, before any treatment is given. And I can't imagine the medical justification for discharging the patient immediately afterwards, even with the consent of relatives. This is very irregular.'

'Sounds like Ross is in trouble.'

Billie sighed. 'Probably not. If I complain, people will accuse me/of sour grapes. They'll say I'm bitter because Len got the job I wanted, Director of Research here.'

'When did that happen?'

'Today.'

Luke was startled. 'Ross got promoted today?'

'Yes. I guess it's not a coincidence.'

'Hell, no! He was bribed. He was promised the promotion in return for doing this irregular treatment'

'I can't believe it Yes, I can. He's real weak.'

'But he's, someone else's tool. A superior in the hospital hierarchy must have got him to do it'

'No.' Billie shook her head. 'The trust that's funding the post, the Sowerby Foundation, insisted on Ross for the job. My boss told me. We couldn't figure out why. Now I know.'

'It all fits - but this is almost as baffling as before. Someone in the Foundation wanted me to lose my memory?'

'I can guess who,' Billie said. 'Anthony Carroll. He's on the board.'

The name rang a bell. Luke recalled that Anthony was the CIA man mentioned by Elspeth. 'That still leaves the question why.'

'But now we have someone to ask,' Billie said, and she picked up the phone.

While she dialed, Luke tried to organize his thoughts. The last hour had been a series of shocks. He had been told he was not going to get his memory back. He had learned that he had loved Billie and lost her, and he could not understand how he could have been such a fool. Now he had discovered that his amnesia had been deliberately inflicted on him and that someone in the CIA was responsible. Yet he still had no clue as to why this had been done.

'Let me speak to Anthony Carroll,' Billie said into the phone. 'This is Dr Josephson.' Her tone was peremptory. 'Okay, then tell him I need to speak to him urgently.' She looked at her watch. 'Have him call me at home in exactly one hour from now.' Her face suddenly darkened. 'Don't jerk me around, buster, I know you can get a message to him any time of the day or night, wherever he is.' She slammed the phone down.

She caught Luke's eye and looked abashed. 'Sorry,' she said. 'The guy said: 'I'll see what I can do,' like he was doing me a darn favour.'

Luke remembered Elspeth saying that Anthony Carroll was an old buddy who had been at Harvard with Luke and Bern. 'This Anthony,' he said. 'I thought he was a friend.'

'Yeah.' Billie nodded, a worried frown on her expressive face. 'So did I.'

.

7.30 P. M.

The temperature problem is a key obstacle to manned space flight. To gauge the efficacy of its insulation, the Explorer carries four thermometers: three in the outer shell, to measure skin temperature, and one inside the instrument compartment, to give the interior temperature. The aim is to keep the level between forty and seventy' degrees Fahrenheit - a comfortable range for human survival.

Bern lived on Massachusetts Avenue, Overlooking the picturesque gorge of Rock Creek, in a neighbourhood of large homes and foreign embassies. His apartment had an Iberian theme, with ornate Spanish colonial furniture, twisted shapes in dark wood. The stark white walls were hung with paintings of sun-baked landscapes. Luke recalled Billie saving that Bern had fought in the Spanish Civil War.

It was easy to imagine Bern as a fighter. His dark hair was receding now, and his waist hung over the belt of his slacks a little, but there was a hard set to his face and a bleak look in his grey eyes. Luke wondered if such a down-to-earth man would credit the strange story he had to tell.

Bern shook Luke's hand warmly and gave him strong coffee in a small cup. On top of the console gramophone was a silver-framed photograph of a middle-aged man in a torn shirt holding a rifle. Luke picked it up. 'Largo Benito,' Bern explained. 'Greatest man I ever knew. I fought with him in Spain. My son is named Largo, but Billie calls him Larry.'

Bern probably looked back on the war in Spain as the best time of his life. Luke wondered enviously what had been the best time of his own life. 'I guess I must have had great memories of something,' he said despondently.

Bern gave him a sharp look. 'What the hell is going on, old buddy?'

Luke sat down and related what he and Billie had discovered at the hospital. Then he said: 'Here's what I think happened to me. I don't know if you're going to buy it, but I'll tell you anyway, because I'm really hoping you can shed some light on the mystery.'

I'll do what I can,'

'I came to Washington on Monday, right before the launch of the rocket, to see an army general for some mysterious purpose that I wouldn't tell anyone about. My wife was worried about me and called Anthony, to ask him to keep an eye on me. Anthony made a breakfast date with me for Tuesday morning.'

'It makes sense. Anthony's your oldest friend. You were room-mates already when I met you.'

'The, next bit is more speculative. I met Anthony for breakfast, before going to the Pentagon. He put something in my coffee to make me fall asleep, then got me into his car and drove me to Georgetown Mind Hospital. He must have gotten Billie out of the way somehow, or maybe waited until she left for the day. Anyway, he made sure she didn't see me, and checked me in under a false name. Then he got hold of Dr Len Ross, whom he knew might be bribed. Using his position as a board member of the Sowerby Foundation, he persuaded Len to give me a treatment that would destroy my memory.'

Luke paused, waiting for Bern to say the whole thing was ludicrous, impossible, a figment of an overactive imagination. But he did not. To Luke's surprise, he simply said: 'But for God's sake, why?'

Luke began to feel better. If Bern believed him, he might help. He said: 'For the moment, let's concentrate on how, rather than why.'

'Okay.'

'To cover his tracks, he checked me out of the hospital, dressed me in rags - presumably while I was still unconscious from the treatment - and dumped me in Union Station, along with a sidekick whose job was to persuade me that I lived like that, and at the same time to keep an eye on me and make sure the amnesia treatment had worked.'

Now Bern did look skeptical. 'But he must have known you'd find out the truth sooner or later.'

'Not necessarily - not all of it, anyway. Sure, he had to calculate that after a few days or weeks I would figure out who I was. But he thought I'd still believe I had gone on a bender. People do lose their memories after drinking heavily, at least according to legend. If I did find it hard to believe, and asked a few questions, the trail would have gone cold. Billie probably would have forgotten about the mystery patient - and in case she remembered, Ross would have destroyed his records.'

Bern nodded thoughtfully. 'A risky plan, but one with a good chance of success. In clandestine work, that's generally the best you can hope for.'

'I'm surprised you're not more skeptical.'

Bern shrugged.

Luke pressed him. 'Do you have a reason for accepting the story so readily?'

'We've all been in secret work. These things happen.'

Luke felt sure Bern was keeping something back. There was nothing he could do but plead. 'Bern, if there's something else you know, for God's sake, tell me. I need all the help I can get'

Bern looked anguished. 'There is something - but it's secret, and I don't want to get anyone into trouble.'

Luke's heart leaped in hope. 'Tell me, please. I'm desperate.'

Bern looked hard at him. 'I guess you are.' He took a deep breath. 'Okay, then, here goes. Toward the end of the war, Billie and Anthony, worked on a special project for the OSS, the Truth Drug Committee. You and I didn't know about it at the time, but I found out later, when I was married to Billie. They were looking for drugs that would affect prisoners under interrogation. They tried mescaline, barbiturates, scopolamine, and cannabis. Their test subjects were soldiers suspected of communist sympathies. Billie and Anthony went to military camps in Atlanta, Memphis and New Orleans. They would win the confidence of the suspect soldier, give him a reefer, and see whether he betrayed secrets.'

Luke laughed. 'So a lot of grunts got a free high!'

Bern nodded. 'At that level, the whole thing was faintly comical. After the war, Billie went back to college and did her doctoral thesis on the effects of various legal drugs such as nicotine on people's mental states. When she finally became a professor, she continued to work on the same area, concentrating on how drugs and other factors affect memory.'

'But not for the CIA.'

'That's what I thought. But I was wrong.'

'Christ.'

'In 1950, when Roscoe Hillenkoetter was Director, the Agency started a project codenamed Bluebird, and Hillenkoetter authorized the use of unvouchered funds, so there was no paper trail. Bluebird was about mind control. They financed a. whole series of legitimate research projects in universities, channeling the money through trusts to conceal their true source. And they financed Billie's work.'

'How did she feel about that?'

'We fought about it I said it was wrong, the CIA was planning to brainwash people. She said that all scientific knowledge could be used for good or evil, she was doing invaluable research and she didn't care who paid the bill.'

'Is that why you divorced?'

'Sort of. I was writing a radio show called Detective Story, but I wanted to get into movies. In 1952 I wrote a screenplay about a secret government agency that brainwashed unsuspecting citizens. Jack Warner bought it. But I didn't tell Billie.'

'Why not?'

'I knew the CIA would get the film cancelled.'

'They can do that''

You bet your goddamn life.'

'So what happened?'

'The movie came out in 1953. Frank Sinatra played the nightclub singer who witnesses a political murder, then has his memory wiped by a secret process. Joan Crawford played his manager. It was a huge hit my career was made 'I was deluged with big-money offers from the studios.'

'And Billie?'

'I took her to the premiere.'

'I guess she was angry.'

He smiled ruefully. 'She went ape. She said I'd used confidential information that I got from her. She was sure the CIA would withdraw her funding, ruin her research. It was the end of our marriage.'

'That's what Billie meant when she said you had a conflict of values.'

'She's right She should have married you 'I never really understood why she didn't'

Luke's heart missed a beat. He was curious to know why Bern had said that But he postponed the question. 'Anyway, to return to 1953,I assume the CIA didn't cut off her funding.'

'No.' Bern looked bitterly angry. 'They destroyed my career instead.'

'How?'

'I was subjected to a loyalty investigation. Of course, I had been a communist, right up until the end of the war, so I made an easy target. I was blacklisted in Hollywood, and I couldn't even get back my old job in radio.'

'What was Anthony's role in that''

'He did his best to protect me, Billie said, but he was overruled.' Bern frowned. 'After what you've just told me, I wonder if that was true.'

'What did you do?'

'I had a couple of bad years, then I thought of The Terrible Twins.'

Luke raised an eyebrow.

'It's a series of children's books.' He pointed to a bookcase. The bright jackets made a splash of colour. You've read them, as it happens - to your sister's kid.'

Luke was pleased he had a nephew or niece - or maybe several. He liked the idea of reading aloud to them.

There was so much he had to learn about himself He waved a hand at the expensive apartment. 'The books must be successful.'

Bern nodded. 'I wrote the first story under a pseudonym, and used an agent who was sympathetic to the victims of the McCarthy witch-hunt. The book was a big bestseller, and I've written two a year ever since.'

Luke got up and took a book from the shelf. He read:

Which is stickier, honey or melted chocolate? The twins had to know. That was why they did the experiment that made Mom so mad.

He smiled. He could imagine children loving this stuff. Then he felt sad. 'Elspeth and I don't have any kids.'

'I don't know why,' Bern said. 'You always-wanted a family so badly.'

'We tried, but it didn't happen.' Luke closed the book. 'Am I happily married?'

Bern sighed. 'Since you ask, no.'

'Why?

'Something was wrong, but you didn't know what you called me one time, to ask my advice, but I couldn't help you.'

'A few minutes ago, you said Billie should have married me.'

You two used to be nuts about each other.'

'So what happened?'

'I don't really know. After the war, you had a big quarrel. I'm not too sure what it was about.'

I'll have to ask Billie.'

'I guess.'

Luke put the book back on the shelf. 'Anyway, now I understand why you didn't react with total incredulity to my story.'

Yes,' Bern said. 'I believe Anthony did this.'

'But can you imagine why?'

'I don't have the slightest idea.'

.

8 P. M.

If temperature variations are higher than expected, it is possible that the germanium transistors will overheat, the mercury batteries will freeze, and the satellite will fail to transmit data back to Earth.

Billie sat at her dressing-table, freshening her make-up. She thought her eyes were her best feature, and she always did them carefully, with black eyeliner, grey eye shadow, and a little mascara. She left the bedroom door open, and she could hear television gunfire downstairs: Larry and Becky-Ma were watching Wagon Tram.

She did not feel like a date tonight The events of the day had stirred up strong passions. She was angry about not getting the job she wanted, bewildered by what Anthony had done, and confused and threatened to find that the old chemistry between herself and Luke was as powerful and dangerous as ever. She found herself reviewing her relationships with Anthony, Luke, Bern and Harold, wondering whether she had made the right decisions in life. After all that had happened, the prospect of spending the evening watching the Kraft Theater on TV with Harold seemed insipid, fond of him though she was.

The phone rang.

She jumped up from her stool and crossed the room to the extension by the bed, but Larry had already picked up in the hallway. She heard Anthony's voice say: 'This is the CIA, Washington is about to be invaded by an army of bouncing cabbages.'

Larry giggled. 'Uncle Anthony, it's you!'

'If you are approached by a cabbage do riot, repeat, do not attempt to reason with it'

'A cabbage can't talk!'

'The only way to deal with them is to beat them to death with sliced bread.'

You're making this up!' Larry laughed.

Billie said: Anthony, I'm on the extension.'

Anthony said: 'Get your jammies on, Larry, okay?'

'Okay,' said Larry. He hung up.

Anthony's voice changed. 'Billie?'

'Here.'

You wanted me to call urgently. I gather you chewed out the duty officer.'

Yeah. Anthony, what the hell are you up to?'

You'll have to ask me a more specific question-'

'Don't screw around for Christ's sake. I could tell you were lying last time we spoke, but I didn't know what the truth was then. Now I do. I know what you did to Luke at my hospital last night'

There was a silence.

Billie said: 'I want an explanation.'

'I can't really talk about this on the phone. If we could meet some time in the next few days-'

'The hell with that.' She was not going to let him procrastinate. 'I want your story right now.'

You know I can't-'

'You can do anything you damn well please, so don't pretend otherwise.'