“Clark,” came his father’s tone. “Can you hold still, son?”
“Oh. Sorry Dad,” he replied back, settling himself quietly down. He sighed in frustration and threw his arms and head back in a long, exaggerated stretch. As he did, the air from the ceiling fan overhead suddenly caught his open pages. The breeze was just enough to begin a cascade of pages which rolled through the text in a fast, blurring sequence. Clark gasped, then threw a hand into the flutter with a thud.
Zen watched the entire ordeal from across the counter. He had actually been eyeing the math book just at the instant the draft caught the pages.
The sudden thump of the boy’s halting hand caused an awkward interruption in his father’s conversation, and this time, the glare he got from his father could have turned boiling water to ice.
Gracie just smiled humorously at the interruption, then went back to finishing up her business.
Sorry, Clark mimed back to his father’s angry face. His dad’s visual strangle-hold took a little longer this time to break its lock and focus back to Mrs. Reitman, and business.
Clark glared down at his book. No more goofing off, he told himself. But then as he eyed the front cover and moaned in a great exhale of air. “Ahh. I lost my page,” he mumbled. He grabbed at the cover and flipped the book open again. “It took forever to find that stupid multiplication table. Dumb math!”
Zen just couldn’t help himself. He suddenly leaned in quietly from over the counter. “You were on page 143,” he whispered. “However, there is a better example of your multiplication tables on page 177. They are listed in bold and in a series which is easier to follow—at least in my opinion,” he continued in a low voice. “Or, if you prefer, in Appendix C at the back of the book, there is an example which uses a grid format, which may also be beneficial.” He paused, smiled, then moved back to his original spot.
Clark stared back stupefied.
Zen returned a confident, almost humorous grin, and nodded reassuringly.
The entire contents of the boy’s school book was now imprinted permanently in Zen’s mind—luckily, he had just caught view of the text when the fan blew through it.
“How did you—?” Clark began.
Zen just shook his head and put his finger to his mouth.
Another awkward pause, longer, and this time accompanied by a strange silence. Strange only because Zen noticed that the background chatter had once again, stopped. He glanced up and was immediately accosted by the look. Yes. That stare from the wifey that means: Oh you are in so much trouble!
“Oops,” he whispered, feeling the lash in those beautiful, albeit stern eyes.
“Thanks!” whispered Clark as loudly as he dared.
“Dear,” spoke Gracie, evenly.
“Yes, Honey?”
“Mr. Smith and I are nearly finished with our business. Why don’t you take a walk outside and get some nice summer air. I’m sorry that this is taking more time than anticipated.”
He nodded. “Yes. An excellent idea. I should wait outside.” As he moved toward the door, Clark waved an inconspicuous hand at him.
“You were right,” the boy mouthed. “Every single page!”
Zen winked back at him.
The door shut between them.
Gracie returned to her business without missing a beat. “As I said before, Mr. Smith,” she continued.
But Fred’s attention was still drawn on his boy. The man continued to stare, baffled, as he watched Clark oddly flip through his math book, stopping only periodically to glance up, grin, then shake his head as if deciphering a riddle on a cereal box.
“Mr. Smith?” Gracie urged.
“Oh,” he startled. “Yes. Sorry. Where were we?”
“Please, Mr. Smith. I would like to finalize this transaction as soon as possible. We have friends waiting to meet us, and I hate to be late.”
“Of course,” he replied apologetically, then cleared his throat. “Well,” he continued looking over the map, “if you are certain, Mrs. Reitman. That’s a great deal of money to invest in such a large spread of land; land obviously void of any possible financial returns or advances. It’s a waste—”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith. Are we finished then?”
“Yes. I’ll have the final papers processed, notarized and ready for you to sign tomorrow. Ownership can be transferred over to you and your husband at that time.”
“Very good.” Gracie held out a gloved hand and smiled appreciatively. “Thank you so much for your time. We will meet again tomorrow, then?”
Fred nodded and shook her hand gently as though it were soft butter.
Gracie leaned over the counter and tossed a last wave at the boy. “It was nice to meet you, Clark.” She put her papers under her hand and headed for the door.
Fred hurried past her.
“Let me get that door for you, Mrs. Reitman.”
“You are too kind.” And with a confident smile, she stepped through the opened door and was gone.
Fred watched with renewed adulation as she walked briskly toward the automobile. Mrs. Reitman’s husband stood nearby, and upon seeing her approach, hurried toward her and the two embraced excitedly as though having just won a lottery. He opened her door, then hurried to his own.
In moments the motor roared into action—its ticking idle as precise as a finely tuned watch. With a slight screech of rubber, the sleek, red, Coupe de Ville turned onto Main street and was gone.
Chapter 9:
Professor Skid Wells walked briskly out the large glass doors from his office in the administration building and bounded down the steps toward the sidewalk. For a man of forty-eight, he was in excellent condition. His tall, lanky build was typical of a man who ran eight to ten miles every morning. In fact, it was said by Skid’s colleges at Los Alamos that they could set their watch to his morning run: 5:00 A.M. sharp—regardless of the weather.
Skid was an LANL (Los Alamos National Laboratories) icon, and one of the original top scientists still employed at the complex since its surreptitious beginning in the early years of World War II, when the United States Government expropriated the then Los Alamos Ranch School in New Mexico, converting it into a classified research laboratory—a laboratory which was to play a major role in the inception of the atom bomb. Skid had worked with some of the greats: men such as Oppenheimer, Laurence, Fermi and Bohr. But these had moved on—LANL having completed its main directory—the post-war facility had become a very different pot of seeds. That is, until recently, when a unique group of young scientists—appropriated from the USSR—suddenly dropped in.
Now things were hot and hopping again, thought Skid. If the old stalwarts had only known, they’d never have left, he wryly conceded. The place was his domain now, and Uncle Sam couldn’t be more interested in their newest project: Y2.
Skid bent to tie a shoelace. He waved at a fellow employee passing on the opposite side of the street. He was habitually cheerful, a rare quality not shared by most Los Alamos denizens and often took time to wave, smile and even stop to chat about . . . well, about stuff. And not necessarily stuff relating to work, but anything at all—it was refreshing to have him around. But Skid’s characteristic soup contained at least as much respect as it did admiration—a must if one was to survive life at the complex.
Skid walked along in his usual garb: khaki pants (slightly flooded), with dark socks that shown oddly above a pair of bleach-white tennis shoes. His brightly patterned shirt (all his shirts were bright and clashed with his slacks) was wrinkled, both back and front, and looked like it probably could use a rendezvous with a washing machine. The man was a little odd, true, but he was also one of the most brilliant physicists in the country.
It had been an unusually arid and hot day. New Mexico was an oven in July. Santa Fe—just forty miles Southeast—had hit a whopping 105 degrees around noon. The thermometer on Skid’s building had kissed 103—a high for Los Alamos that week. But now it was evening, and Skid was glad to take off his
sunglasses and put them promptly away. What a sunset! he thought, stopping his stride long enough to admire the amber twilight. It was an unusually spectacular conclusion to the day. There had been several wild fires, which certainly contributed to the radiant spray of yellow and orange hues which now splashed across the west horizon. Skid waited for a moment longer to watch the handoff take place. He brought his hand to his forehead to shade his eyes and then, “ah . . . just beautiful!” he mumbled, and it was over: the sun had relinquished, leaving a fleeting glow as evidence that she had been, and that she would again return.
He blinked the bright colors from his eyes and headed on his way. Man, he loved the seclusion of the desert basin. No. He thought again. He loved being at Los Alamos—especially now.
Although only a fraction of the size it had once been, the complex was still a brain-soup, an aggregate of all types of individuals. The ending of the war had not changed that. Diverse scientists from all parts of the world combined into one great thinking machine. It was truly a unique environment.
Skid moved with more vigor than usual, anxious to get over to Building Seven and check on the progress of the LANL’s most coveted—and top-secret—project: the underground laboratory, or code named, Site Y2.
Site Y2 had been just newly completed and was still in the final testing stages. The cryptic underground was the newest facility to be annexed at the Los Alamos institution, and had cost the government a small fortune to build. Under a cloak of secrecy, it had been engineered and commissioned for one purpose: to accommodate a mysterious group of scientists known as, the Five.
Only a select few of the Los Alamos staff—those with top clearance—were able to interact with the unique group. Skid, of course, was one the authorized, and new them all by name. It had been said, of this Five, that they were the new life blood of Los Alamos; the new fuel to ignite the cooling ambers. They were arguably the smartest human beings on the planet. The mysteries team were as valuable a commodity—particularly to the military’s top brass—as a fleet of aircraft carriers, evidenced by Uncle Sam’s unabated financial pipeline. The money would flow as long as the genius team needed it, and need it, they did.
The Five had been commissioned to engineer a new fuel so technologically advanced that even the structure necessary to contain the classified substance required their unique design and engineering genius. If successful—and all were confident it would be—this new fuel would replace current energy plants all over the world, and at a fraction of the cost. The energy would be nearly limitless—a clean and safe solution for the whole of the planet. A thrilling prospect, for sure.
The young prodigies had envisioned a new and enriched world—the beginning of an era for an abundant and ecofriendly fuel to be used by all nations. It would be a humanitarian boon, ending wars, poverty and empowering global amity in ways never before conceived. This concept, this dream, was the very force which drove their purpose so intently. The five adolescents were more devout than any scientists Skid had ever known . . . which made his deception so much more difficult to deal with.
The military had a well-protected secret: a very different agenda in mind for the Five’s new creation. It would be used as a fuel, yes, but not for the general populous. This fuel was slated to become the new blood for the military’s next generation of war and defense machinery. Oh, there would be a small appropriation—a channeling for further research and development for altruistic purposes—but the lion’s share would go to a greedy, Uncle Sam. The outcome was sure to be a marvel of technology. It would propel the United States into an unmatched hegemony—a defensive supremacy years ahead of its time.
This machination was to remain undisclosed until the final, successful testing was complete. Only then would the primary objective be revealed to its architects: the trusting Five. The military brass, along with their bureaucratic constituents, knew too well that these young scientists—this group of noble virtuosos—would never condone such a self-serving omniscience of power. They would not only refuse all further involvement—on this or any other project—but would attempt to rescind all that had been done. With an unprecedented price tag attached to Y2, and the prospect of acquiring a technology years ahead of any other world power, the military machine would see it through to the end . . . at all costs.
This was the part of Skid’s job that he hated. He despised deceiving his young team. But he was under strict orders, and had little choice—no one with his clearance at the LANL did. He had signed a non-disclosure agreement. To violate it would mean treason. But that didn’t make it any easier on his conscience. This was the dark tag attached to his otherwise magnificent prize, and Skid Wells would have traded his soul to see Site Y2 severed from the military umbilical.
Now, all that remained to bring the secret lab online were several mundane tests necessary to establish energy consumption benchmarks and peak output variations. If all went well—and Skid was sure that it would—the tests would be an eventless finale. Afterwards, the handoff would take place . . . the consignment of deception. All of which he and the Five had worked for, handed over on a silver platter to government black suits.
Skid just couldn’t think about that right now. He couldn’t imagine how he would explain things to his loyal team. They trusted him, and he them. It was a precarious spot his government had put him in; one which gnawed at his conscience like the drip of water to sandstone. He had worked with the Five from the beginning, and over the past three years had developed a relationship which surpassed mere colleagues. To him, they were family. Although one short of his precious clan, he cleaved to the other four individuals as though they were fleeting souls. And in fact, he somehow felt they were.
Zen Reitman, the oldest of the group, had been recently transferred to Dugway Military Base in the west desert of Utah. Both Zen and Skid had fought ruthlessly to keep the transfer from taking place, but had lost to political overrides. Zen couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his colleagues, and Skid, well . . . he needed the boy there at Los Alamos, now more than ever, to lead and motivate. Zen was the oldest. He was the patriarch and stabilizer of the group. When the time came for the Site Y2 handoff, Zen might have helped pacify his team in ways Skid could not. Skid understood how important the work was for Zen at Dugway, but why now? Why conscript the senior member of the group to Dugway now when he was so desperately needed to lead his team at LANL?
When Zen left, Skid had planned on keeping in close communication with the kid, but Dugway’s commanders had acted strangely and—after just a few weeks—severed all ties, as though their base had become some classified location. It was as if Zen had vanished from the planet. No messages, phone calls . . . nothing?
Then, just when Skid really started to wonder what was going on at Dugway, the real surprise came: he received word that Zen had been granted a short leave of absence . . . to get married! Married, for heaven sakes! When and where did the kid have time to date!
Skid was thrilled—shocked beyond words, yes—but thrilled. He figured with the marriage and all, it couldn’t be too long before Zen was back at LANL. The kid would probably show up at his office—the most inopportune time, no doubt—with hands clasped around some cute new bride. He’d clear his throat, stereotypically (loud and scrappy) then smile and say: Hey Skid? Let me introduce my new wife . . . Skid sure hoped as much, anyway. Truth was, the LANL Director knew as long as Zen’s precious team—especially his sister, Ruthanne—was stationed there at Los Alamos, he’d eventually find his way home. It was as though they were all appendages of the same body. Cut one off and the rest soon die. And Ruthanne? She’d be the heart.
In the course of Skid’s daily routine, he often interacted with Ruthanne. It was always a treat. The girl was extremely unique, and fascinated Skid in ways the others did not. Yet, she was also more private than the rest, and getting her to open up, especially on personal issues, proved difficult. Skid wondered if the recent barrier of silence between he and Zen extended to Ruthanne as
well? Was Zen as hushed and seemingly sequestered from his team as he appeared to be from Skid, and others of the LANL administration who had also tried to contact him? Was it Dugway or Zen who had choked off communication?
Skid had purposely—and perhaps in a sloppy, conspicuous way—mentioned Zen, repeatedly, while in Ruthanne’s company, hoping to catch a hint as to her brother’s work and situation at the base. But Ruthanne equivocated, and had always replied that . . . sadly, she had not heard from Zen. Skid thought it so odd. The two siblings had been nearly inseparable since their arrival from the USSR. And now she hadn’t even mentioned her brother’s marriage?
Well, Skid considered. When they were all together again at Los Alamos, he’d get the whole scoop; the nitty-gritty on the wedding, and hopefully all the other unclassified tidbits Zen might chat about. It would be during a late night dinner at the cafeteria of Building Seven, accompanied by lots of laughter and provoking humor. This was always the case with the Five.
Skid could hardly wait. The Dugway senior commander had assured him that Zen would be back soon. That was one promise that Skid would ride out to the very end.
The entry to Building Seven—unlike the rest of the structures—held a kiosk of armed security. It was also better lit than the other buildings and had an electric perimeter protecting its exterior fence. As Skid approached, he made a pleasant gesture and reached for his identification. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
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