V-S Day: A Novel of Alternate History

by Steele, Allen

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

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

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

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

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

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

  PHYSICS 390

  FEBRUARY 10, 1942

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Dr. Goddard!” Bliss snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Always a possibility,” Bliss said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Gentlemen? You have som
ething to add?”

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

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

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

  Later, indeed.

  =====

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  =====

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

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

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

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

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

  “A spaceship?” Ham gave him a disbelieving smirk. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Well, maybe not this spaceship, but still . . .”

  “This isn’t a science fiction story. We’ve got to come up with something real.”

  “Why not?” Henry passed the pitcher to Taylor. “You heard what Bob said this morning. Even if we manage to build a missile capable of reaching Silver Bird’s altitude, making a direct hit would be a crapshoot . . . unlikely at best. The only way we’re going to get something accurate enough to bring that thing down is to put a pilot aboard. And that means building a manned spacecraft of our own.”

  “But putting something into orbit . . .” Ham began.

  “It could be done,” Lloyd said. “Henry will tell you . . . down in New Mexico, we’ve built rockets that have broken altitude records.”

  “Besides, who’s talking about reaching orbit?” Henry asked. “All we ne
ed, really, is a craft capable of making a suborbital jaunt. Launch from New Mexico, intercept over North America, land somewhere on the East Coast. If it can reach an apogee of just forty to fifty miles, then we’ve got it licked.”

  “But the thrust we’d need . . .” Ham shook his head. “Besides, we’d have to build a step-rocket for something like this. Two stages, at least.”

  “No . . . no step-rockets.” Jack Cube tapped a finger against the table. “A two-stage rocket means we’d have to design, build, and test two different engines. I don’t think we have time for that.”

  “You’ve got a point there.” Harry absently leafed through Henry’s magazine. “But I think Ham’s right, too. I doubt a single-stage rocket would do the trick. Besides, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with relying on just one engine. If it cuts out during launch . . .”

  “What about solid-fuel rockets?” Gerry asked. “For boosters, I mean.”

  Everyone stopped to look at the end of the table where the teenager was seated. “Come again?” Henry asked.

  “Umm . . .” Gerry appeared nervous by the attention he’d suddenly drawn. “What I mean is, you build a single-stage rocket with a liquid-fuel engine, then strap on some solid rockets as boosters during launch. When they burn out, you just throw ’em away.” He hesitated. “Oh, maybe that’s a dopey idea.”

  “No . . . no, it isn’t.” Taylor looked at the others. “Really, he might have something there.” He glanced down at Gerry. “Nice thinking there, kid,” he added, and Gerry grinned.

  “Yeah, Harry and I were working with solid-fuel rockets at Caltech.” Mike played with his beer glass, absently sliding it back and forth across the battered tabletop. “You don’t have much control over them once they’ve ignited . . . you can’t throttle them up or down, or even shut them off . . . but they’re simple to make, and you can get a high impulse-per-second thrust ratio from them.”

  “What sort of propellant?” Jack asked.

  “Ammonium nitrate would be my guess.”