In memory of
Dr. Leonard Hudson
1926-1965
Whose creative genius is an
inspiration for all who follow.
Not very original, Hagen thought. But he had to give Hudson credit for playing the dead-man game down to the last detail.
He entered the anteroom and smiled warmly at the secretary, a demure older woman in a mannish navy-blue suit. "Mr. Judge," she said, "please go right in. Dr. Mooney is expecting you."
"Thank YOU."
Earl J. Mooney was thirty-six, younger than Hagen had expected when he studied a file on the doctor's history. His background was surprisingly similar to Hudson's-- same brilliant mind, same high academic record, even the same university. A fat kid who went thin and became director of Pattenden Lab. He stared through pine-green eyes under thunderous eyebrows and above a Pancho Villa moustache. Dressed casually in a white sweater and blue jeans, he seemed remote from intellectual rigor.
He came from behind the desk, scattered with papers, notebooks, and empty Pepsi bottles, and pumped Hagen's hand. "Sit down, Mr. Judge, and tell me what I can do for you."
Hagen lowered his bulk into a straight-back chair and said, "As I mentioned over the phone, I'm with the General Accounting Office, and we've had a legislative request to review your accounting systems and audit research funding expenditures."
"Who was the legislator who made the request?"
"Senator Henry Kaltenbach."
"I hope he doesn't think Pattenden Lab is mixed up in fraud," said Mooney defensively.
"Not at all. You know the senator's reputation for smelling out misuse in government funding. His witch-hunts make good publicity for his election campaign. Just between you and me, there're many of us at GAO who wish he'd fall through an open manhole and stop sending us out chasing moonbeams.
However, I must admit in all fairness to the senator, we have turned up discrepancies at other think tanks."
Mooney was quick to correct him. "We prefer to think of ourselves as a research facility."
"Of course. Anyway, we're making spot checks."
"You must understand, our work here is highly classified."
"The design of nuclear rocketry and third-generation nuclear weapons whose power is focused into narrow radiation beams that travel at the speed of light and can destroy targets deep in space."
Mooney looked at Hagen queerly. "You're very well informed."
Hagen shrugged it off. "A very general description given to me by my superior. I'm an accountant, Doctor, not a physicist. My mind can't function in the abstract. I flunked high school calculus. Your secrets are safe. My job is to help see the taxpayer gets his money's worth out of government-funded programs."
"How can I help you?"
"I'd like to talk to your controller and administration officials. Also, the staff that handles the financial records. My auditing team will arrive from Washington in two weeks. I'd appreciate it if we could set up someplace out of your way, preferably close to where the records are kept."
"You'll have our fullest cooperation. Naturally, I must have security clearances for you and your team."
"Naturally."
"I'll take you around personally and introduce you to our controller and accounting staff."
"One more thing," said Hagen. "Do you permit after-hours work?"
Mooney smiled. "Unlike nine-to-five office people, physicists and engineers have no set hours. Many of us work around the clock. I've often put in thirty hours at a stretch. It also helps to stagger the time on our computers."
"Would it be possible for me to do a little preliminary checking from now until, say, about ten o'clock this evening?"
"I don't see why not," Mooney said agreeably. "We have an all night cafeteria on the lower level if you want to grab a bite. And a security guard is always nearby to point out directions."
"And keep me out of the secret areas." Hagen laughed.
"I'm sure you're familiar with facility security."
"True," Hagen admitted. "I'd be a rich man if I had a dime for every hour I put in auditing different departments of the Pentagon."
"If you'll come this way," said Mooney, heading for the door.
"Just out of curiosity," Hagen said, remaining in his chair. "I've heard of Harvey Pattenden. He worked with Robert Goddard, I believe."
"Yes, Dr. Pattenden invented several of our early rocket engines."
"But Leonard Hudson is unfamiliar to me."
"A pretty bright guy," said Mooney. "He paved the way by design engineering most of our spacecraft years before they were actually built and sent aloft. If he hadn't died in his prime, there's no telling what he might have achieved."
"How did he die?"
"Light-plane crash. He was flying to a seminar in Seattle with Dr. Gunnar Eriksen when their plane exploded in midair and dropped into the Columbia River."
"Who was Eriksen?"
"A heavy thinker. Perhaps the most brilliant astrophysicist the country ever produced."
A tiny alarm went off in Hagen's mind. "Did he have any particular pursuit?"
"Yes, it was geolunar synoptic morphology for industrialized peoplement."
"Could you translate?"
"Of course." Mooney laughed. "Eriksen was obsessed with the idea of building a colony on the moon."
<<16>>
Ten hours ahead in time, 2 A.M. in Moscow, four men were grouped around a fireplace that warmed a small sitting room inside the Kremlin. The room was poorly lit and had a morbid feel about it. Cigarette smoke mingled with that of a single cigar.
Soviet President Georgi Antonov stared thoughtfully at the undulating flames. He had removed his coat after a light dinner and replaced it with an old fisherman's sweater. His shoes were off and his stocking feet casually propped on an embroidered ottoman.
Vladimir Polevoi, head of the Committee for State Security, and Sergei Kornilov, chief of the Soviet space program, wore dark wool suits, custom-tailored in London, while General Yasenin sat in full bemedaled uniform.
Polevoi threw the report and photographs on a low table and shook his head in amazement. "I don't see how they accomplished it without a breach of secrecy"
"Such an extraordinary advance seems inconceivable," Kornilov agreed. "I won't believe it until I see more proof"
"The proof is evident in the photographs," said Yasenin. "Rykov's report leaves no room for doubt.
Study the detail. The two figures standing on the moon are real. They're not an illusion cast by shadows or created by a flaw in the scanning system. They exist."
"The space suits do not match those of American astronauts," Kornilov retorted. "The helmets are also designed differently."
"I won't argue over trivials," said Yasenin. "But there is no mistaking the weapon in their hands. I can positively identify it as a surface-to-air missile launcher of American manufacture."
"Then where is their spacecraft?" Kornilov persisted. "Where is their lunar rover? They couldn't just materialize out of nowhere."
"I share your doubts," said Polevoi. "An absolute impossibility for the Americans to put men and supplies on the moon without our intelligence network monitoring the progress. Our tracking stations would have detected any strange movement entering or coming from space."
"Even stranger yet," said Antonov, "is why the Americans have never announced such a momentous achievement. What do they gain by keeping it a secret?"
Kornilov gave a slight nod. "All the more reason to challenge Rykov's report."
"You're all overlooking one important fact," said Yasenin in a level tone. "Selenos 4 went missing immediately after its scanners recorded the figures in the photographs. I say our space probe was damaged by rocket fire which penetrated the hull, drained away the capsule's pressure, and killed our cosmonauts."
Polevoi looked at him, startled. "What cosmonauts?"
Yasenin and Kornilov exchanged bemused looks. "There are some things even the KGB doesn't know,"
said the general.
Polevoi looked squarely at Kornilov, "Selenos 4 was a manned probe?"
"As were Selenos 5 and 6. Each craft carried three men."
He turned to Antonov, who was calmly puffing on a Havana cigar. "You knew about this?"
Antonov nodded. "Yes, I was briefed. But you must remember, Vladimir, not all matters concerning space fall under state security."
"None of you wasted any time running to me when your precious moon probe fell and vanished in the West Indies," Polevoi said angrily.
"An unforeseen circumstance," Yasenin patiently explained. "After its return from the moon, control could not be established for Selenos 4's earth reentry. The engineers at our space command wrote it off as a dead lunar probe. After orbiting for nearly a year and a half, another attempt was made to establish command. This time the guidance systems responded, but the reentry maneuver was only partially successful. Selenos 4 fell ten thousand miles short of its touchdown area. It was imperative we keep the deaths of our cosmonaut heroes secret. Naturally the services of the KGB were required."
"How many lost cosmonauts does that make?" asked Polevoi.
"Sacrifices must be made to ensure Soviet destiny," Antonov murmured philosophically.
"And to cover up blunders in our space program," Polevoi said bitterly.
"Let's not argue," cautioned Antonov. "Selenos 4 made a great contribution before it impacted in the Caribbean Sea."
"Where it has yet to be found," Polevoi added.
"True," said Yasenin. "But we retrieved the lunar surface data. That was the main purpose of the mission."
"Don't you think American space surveillance systems tracked its descent and pinpointed the landing position? If they had set their minds on salvaging Selenos 4, they'd already have it sitting hidden away inside a secure facility"
"Of course they tracked the descent trajectory," said Yasenin. "But their intelligence analysts had no reason to believe Selenos 4 was anything but a scientific deep-space probe that was programmed to land in Cuban waters."
"There is a crack in your carefully laid plot," Polevoi argued. "The United States rescue forces made an exhaustive air and sea search for the missing capitalist Raymond LeBaron in the same general area only a few days after Selenos 4 dropped from orbit. I have strong suspicions their search was a decoy to find and retrieve our spacecraft."
"I read your report and analysis of the LeBaron disappearance," said Kornilov. "I disagree with your conclusion. Nowhere did I see that they conducted an underwater search. The rescue mission was soon called off. LeBaron and his crew are still listed as missing in the American press and presumed dead.
That event was merely a coincidence, nothing more."
"Then we all agree that Selenos 4 and her cosmonauts lie somewhere on the bottom of the sea."
Antonov paused to blow a smoke ring. "The questions we still face are, do we concede the probability the Americans may have a base on the moon, and if so, what do we do about it?"
"I believe it exists," Yasenin said with conviction.
"We cannot ignore the possibility," Polevoi granted.
Antonov stared narrowly at Kornilov. "And you, Sergei?"
"Selenos 8, our first manned lunar landing mission, is scheduled for launch in seven days," he answered slowly. "We cannot scrap the mission as we did when the Americans upstaged us with their Apollo program. Because our leaders saw no glory in being the second nation to set men on the moon we tucked our tail between our legs and quit. It was a great mistake to place political ideology above scientific achievement. Now we have a proven heavy-lift launch vehicle capable of placing an entire space station with a crew of eight men on lunar soil. The benefits in terms of propaganda and military rewards are immeasurable. If our ultimate goal is to obtain permanent preeminence in space and beat the Americans to Mars, we must follow through. I vote we program the guidance systems of Selenos 8 to land the crew within walking distance of where the astronauts stood in the crater and eliminate them."
"I am in complete agreement with Kornilov," said Yasenin. "The facts speak for themselves. The Americans are actively engaged in imperialistic aggression in space. The photographs we've studied prove they've already destroyed one of our spacecraft and murdered the crew. And I believe the cosmonauts in Selenos 5 and 6 met the same fate. They have taken their colonialistic designs to the moon and claimed it for their own. The evidence is unequivocal. Our cosmonauts will be attacked and murdered when they attempt to plant the red star on lunar soil."
There was a prolonged hush. No one spoke his thoughts.
Polevoi was the first to break the pensive silence. "So you and Kornilov propose we attack them first."
"Yes," said Yasenin, warming to the subject. "Think of the windfall. By capturing the American moon base and its scientific technology intact, we'd be advancing our own space program by ten years."
"The White House would surely mount a propaganda campaign and condemn us before the world as they did with the KAL Flight 007 incident," protested Polevoi.
"They will remain quiet," Yasenin assured him. "How can they announce the seizure of something that isn't known to exist?"
"The general has a point," said Antonov.
"You realize we could be guilty of launching a war in space," cautioned Polevoi.
"The United States struck first. It is our sacred duty to retaliate." Yasenin turned to Antonov. "The decision must be yours."
The President of the Soviet Union again turned his gaze to the fire. Then he laid the Havana in an ashtray and looked down in wonder at his trembling hands. His face, ordinarily ruddy, was gray. The omen was plain. The demons outnumbered the forces of good. Once the course was set in motion, it would hurtle forward outside his control. Yet he could not allow the country to be slapped in the face by the imperialists. At last he turned back to the other men in the room and wearily nodded.
"For Mother Russia and the party," he said solemnly. "Arm the cosmonauts and order them to strike the Americans."
<<17>>
Eight introductions and three tiresome conversations after his introduction to Dr. Mooney, Hagen was seated in a small office feverishly pounding an adding machine. Scientists dote on computers and engineers fondle digital calculators, but accountants are a Victorian lot. They still prefer traditional adding machines with thumb size buttons and paper tapes that spit out printed totals.
The controller was a CPA, a graduate of the University of Texas School of Business, and an ex-Navy man. And he had the engraved degrees and photographs of the ships he'd served on displayed on the oak-paneled wall of his office to prove it. Hagen had detected an uneasiness in the man's eyes, but no more than he'd expect from any corporate finance director who had a government auditor snooping around his private territory.
There had been no suspicious look, no hesitation, when he asked to spot-check the telephone records for the last three years. Though his accounting experience with the justice Department was limited to photographing ledgers in the dead of night, he knew enough of the jargon to talk a good line. Anyone who happened to glance in his office and saw him scribbling notes and intently examining the tape on the adding machine would have thought he was an old pro.
The numbers on the tape were exactly that, numbers. But the note scribbling consisted of a methodical diagram of the placement and view angles of the security TV cameras between his office and Mooney's.
He also wrote out two names and added several notations beside each one. The first was Raymond LeBaron and the second was Leonard Hudson. But now he had a third, Gunnar Eriksen.
He was certain that Eriksen had faked his death along with Hudson and dropped from the living to work on the Jersey Colony project. He also knew Hudson and Eriksen would never completely cut their ties with Pattenden Laboratory. The facility and its high-powered crop of young scientists were too great an asset to ignore. There had to be an underground channel to the "inner core."
The telephone records for a facility
with three thousand employees filled several cardboard cartons.
Control had been tight. Everyone who used a phone for any purpose, business or personal, had to keep a diary of the calls. Hagen wasn't about to attempt an examination of each one. That chore would take weeks. He was concerned only with the entries in Mooney's monthly diaries, especially those involving long distance.
Hagen was not psychic, nor was he as exact as some men he knew who had a talent for detecting an irregularity, but he had an eye and a gut instinct for the hidden that seldom failed him.
He copied down six numbers that Mooney had phoned more than once in the past ninety days. Two were itemized as personal calls, four as company calls. Long shots all. Still, it was the only way he might trace a lead to another member of the "inner core."
Playing by the rules, he picked up the phone and punched the Pattenden Lab operator, requesting an open line and promising to record all his calls. The hour was late, and most of the list showed area codes of numbers in the Middle West or in the East Coast. Their time zones were two or three hours ahead and they had likely shut down for the day, but he doggedly began calling anyway.
"Centennial Supply," announced a male in a bored tone.
"Yes, hello, is anyone in this evening?"
"The office is closed. This is the twenty-four-hour order desk."
"My name is judge, and I'm with the federal government," said Hagen, using his cover in case the phone was tapped. "We're doing an audit of the Pattenden Physics Laboratory in Bend, Oregon."
"You'll have to call back tomorrow morning after the office opens."
"Yes, I'll do that. But can you tell me exactly what kind of business Centennial Supply conducts?"
"We supply specialized parts and electronics for recording systems."
"For what applications?"
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