Another groan; this time his eyes wandered, but stayed open.
‘Don’t be alarmed Professor Mayer, you are in hospital. I have been looking after you. Can you hear me?’
Mayer slowly nodded.
‘You have been asleep for a long time, but don’t worry. You are safe.’
Mayer croaked and coughed as the world swam in and out of focus.
White light.
His eyeballs throbbed. He instinctively turned his head away from the bright ceiling. Stiff muscles stretched. Ligaments found new life as the popping of unused tendons vibrated through his skull. It was somehow refreshing.
A dark, blurred figure sat on the edge of the bed. Ghostly movements filled his peripheral vision. Mayer tasted the dusty, leathery foulness of his mouth; swallowing, his throat grated. ‘Water… ’
The doctor leaned over and, after removing the face mask, he offered a drinking straw. ‘Take a sip… carefully… not too much… just wet your lips.’
The water flashed a sudden wave of coolness through his chest; his eyes started to focus. He gulped down several mouthfuls of the refreshing liquid. He stretched his right arm, there was no pain. He took in a deep breath. It was a little awkward, but effective.
The room came gradually into clear view. Mayer absorbed the scene. A clean white room, the smell of disinfectant, the hum of medical instruments. He took another good breath and flexed the digits of his right hand. His strength seemed to be returning.
A doctor hovered attentively to his left. He heard the doctor’s voice in his ear.
‘Just rest Professor… you are in hospital… ’ The doctor smiled, repeating himself. ‘You will be a little stiff; you have been sleeping for a long time… just rest.’
Hospital? Mayer remembered.
The crash. No, not a hospital, but a prison!
He turned his head slowly to the right.
A Nazi uniform, a commandant?
He gritted his teeth. Vague recollections of questions filled his mind. This man had asked him so many questions. Mayer sensed danger. Who was this man?
He gazed at the Nazi, searching for recognition. The mind is a strange thing, he could see the man asking questions.
What is his name?… What is his name? Kessler! His name is Commandant Kessler. Yes, Commandant Kessler from the SS.
Mayer met Kessler’s gaze head-on as it all came flooding back.
What have I told him? The rocket design! The turbo booster! My God!
He remembered making the sketch. He had told Kessler about the turbo booster. Had he told Kessler anything else?
Mayer wasn’t sure.
Well, there wouldn’t be anymore.
Mayer clenched his good arm into a fist on the bed and waited. His strength seemed to be returning with each passing minute.
‘Welcome back Professor, I’ve been waiting for you.’
Mayer opened his mouth to speak, but then decided not to. Silence would be his weapon.
Kessler asked another question.
Mayer ignored it, and instead assimilated the details of the room. The door was a few metres away. He tried to wiggle his toes. The right leg responded. Nothing from the left leg. He wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon.
He searched around the bed with his eyes.
Fight back… fight back… but how? The oxygen cylinder maybe?
Oxygen would burn, but he didn’t have anything to rig it up with. Regardless, it was just out of arm’s reach, too far from the bed. He didn’t have the strength.
Kessler spoke again.
Mayer blanked him out, and concentrated on the room, looking for a more realistic option.
Then he spotted the box of syringes.
It was worth the chance, but he needed a distraction.
‘Professor Mayer, you can hear me? Am I right?’
Kessler’s voice penetrated his thinking.
Mayer decided to respond. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s good, we can resume our last conversation.’
Mayer feigned undue weakness. ‘Con… versation?… What… con… versation?’
He gently gripped the bed clothes with his right arm, inching the box of syringes closer.
‘You spoke of a machine. Tell me about your machine.’
‘Fever… must have been… the fever,’ Mayer lied.
The box edged a little closer.
‘Yes, you spoke of a machine… ’
Mayer touched the edge of the box with his fingertips.
‘Mach… ine… what… machine?’ Mayer kept his gaze fixed on Kessler.
Kessler hissed. ‘Professor, no more games! Tell me about your new equations!’
‘Equation?… Lots of… equations.’
Kessler sat forward. ‘Tell me about carbon, Professor. What type of carbon? How do you use it?’
‘Carbon… yes… there are… many forms… of carbon.’ Mayer stalled.
He worked his fingers into the box, and around one of the syringes.
‘What do you do with the carbon to make your machine?’
‘Come… come closer… listen… ’
Kessler leaned in.
It was just enough.
Mayer took a deep breath and, tensing his grip on the syringe, he thrust the needle upwards with all his strength. The needle rammed home into Kessler’s flesh, deep under his lower jaw. The metallic lance sat buried to the hilt, only stopping when the glass end of the barrel met the skin. Shaking with effort, Mayer frantically pushed on the plunger.
‘Arghh!’
Kessler lashed out.
Mayer absorbed the blow; his head rattled with the numbness of the impact.
Kessler staggered backwards. ‘Arghhh!’ He pulled the hypodermic from under his jawbone. Gazing down at the broken syringe, he saw that it was empty.
‘I will break you!’ Kessler produced a crisp handkerchief and mopped at the wound under his neck. His face turned pink with rage. ‘You will tell me everything. Then you will beg for death!’
He stormed out of the room, holding the wound under his neck, as the drugs took effect.
Kessler staggered down the corridor as a wave of heroin and mescaline pacified his muscles. His eyes registered the impossible.
The walls pulsated with iron crosses.
He reached out to one shiny black cross; as he did so, the medal dissolved into blood. He took another. The metal became effervescent, and vanished from his palm. Blood dripped through his fingers. He grabbed desperately at the wall; each cross turned crimson red.
Death oozed forth from the plasterboard.
His father’s voice echoed inside his skull.
‘Iron cross? No… only heroes deserve such honours. It is beyond your reach… murderer… murderer!’ The voice boomed with laughter, then hissed, ‘Remember your grandmother. Remember the Sabbath!… Jew… ’
The ceiling sagged like an overweight blancmange. Sandbags and a machine gun nest came into view. His father stood, skeletal, with his rotting flesh holding onto the weapon. He pulled back the cocking mechanism of the heavy-calibre gun.
‘Be a real hero boy… be a man… ’
His tattered Imperial uniform flapped as he opened fire. Empty shell casings rattled into the treasure chest of medals at his feet.
Kessler screamed as he dived forward into the hailstorm of bullets, hoping for just one medal from the box.
CHAPTER 34
Making Carbon
Mayer sat up in the bed, trying to hold still. He felt the fresh air against his scalp, and a certain claustrophobia lift with each turn of the crepe bandage. The doctor unwound the dressing.
‘How does that feel, any pain?’
Mayer replied. ‘Feels fine, tender but no pain.’ He lifted his right arm to feel the healing wound on his head.
‘No, no, don’t touch it.’ The doctor gently blocked his movement. ‘We need to keep it clean. The scar tissue looks pink, a decent scab has formed, and no puss. I think you’re on the mend at last. Any headache
?’
The constant dull throb in his head provided the answer. ‘Yes… most of the time.’ Mayer rubbed his eyes with his good arm.
‘But improving? Less frequent?’
Mayer half shrugged, and moved his attention to the rest of his body. He worked his right arm and tensed the muscles in his good leg. It seemed reasonable, even good enough to stand on. The left arm and leg remained mostly numb. Paralysis. He wondered about escape. ‘My left side?’
The doctor tried to keep a neutral expression. ‘Look, I am afraid I don’t know if it will improve. In time, perhaps, but you can expect some disability.’
Mayer looked the doctor in the eye. ‘You… you can get me out of here?’
The doctor paused and lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘No… no, I wish I could, but I can’t. I am truly sorry… ’
The door burst open. Kessler stood in the doorway. The doctor suddenly fussed with the bed clothes, going red in the face.
‘Why was I not informed that the patient was awake?’
Mayer interrupted before the doctor could reply. ‘Because the patient… is… civilian… not a convict.’ He stared daggers at Kessler. Hatred, yes, it was hatred. It was alright though. In these extreme circumstances it was possible, even acceptable, to hate another human being. But then, where did Kessler score on that scale? Did he count as human? Mayer’s resolve strengthened.
Kessler moved briskly towards the bed, pulling up a wooden chair. A small plaster covered the cut on his neck.
Mayer stared. ‘Wound hurts… doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, well, your little stunt yesterday,’ Kessler resisted the urge to rub the bruise under his jaw, ‘tells me that you are fit for interrogation.’
‘Go to hell.’ Mayer turned away, focusing on a blank spot on the wall.
‘Oh, I can assure you Professor, you will go to hell, but only after answering my questions.’ Kessler slapped him across the face.
His good side stung from the blow. The scab on his head cracked, oozing a fresh crevice of blood.
‘Go to hell… ’
Mayer reeled from another slap, his head jarred. The wetness of fresh blood dripped from his nostril. Pain shot through his scalp as the scab on his head lifted.
Kessler spoke with an edge in his voice. ‘You will answer my questions.’
‘No… you will kill me anyway.’ Mayer turned away.
Kessler looked at the doctor. ‘Hold out his arm.’
The doctor stood motionless.
‘Do it now, hold out his arm!’ Kessler took a fresh box of mescaline syringes from his breast pocket.
Mayer thrashed, snorting through gritted teeth, as Kessler’s fingers locked around his wrist. The pressure hurt the wrist bones; he tried to pull back, but it was no good. The muscle tension failed as Kessler forced the arm flat against the bed.
‘Arghh! Nothing… you get… nothing!’
Kessler dropped the box on the bed and, with his spare hand, took one of the syringes. Unceremoniously, as if darting a wild boar, he thumped the syringe into Mayer’s arm.
‘Arghh! I… will not!’ Mayer took the pain through gritted teeth and turned his head away.
A rush of coolness shot up his arm, and fanned out across his chest. He gazed at the wall, snorting in deep breaths.
Fight it… fight it… fight!
A tug on his arm, a second pinprick. Violation, a needle moved around in his flesh. A deluge of anaesthesia and euphoria swept through his veins.
Pain. Perhaps pain would hold the tide back?
Mayer bit his lip.
His lip throbbed for a moment, then was lost as heroin and mescaline pulsed through his skull. His brain fogged; a primeval force seemed to erupt from his brain stem, taking control of his body.
Mayer foamed at the mouth; his eyes rolled back in his head as the mammoth dose of mescaline took over.
Kessler waited.
The doctor protested. ‘How can you be so brutal? This… ’ he waved his arm at the pitiful scene, ‘… this is not what Germany is about.’
Kessler whispered harshly, ‘You will assist me, or if you prefer, you can be reassigned to the labour camps in the east: as an inmate!’
The doctor blanched.
Both men watched as Mayer writhed about on the bed. Slowly, he calmed to a drunken stillness. Kessler gave a satisfying smirk. It was good to be in control.
Kessler barked an order. ‘Steinhoff! Where’s Steinhoff? Steinhoff, we need to start. Get in here!’
Suddenly, Steinhoff appeared at the door. He glanced at Mayer, then at the doctor.
‘Commandant… I… I am at your disposal, sir.’
‘Pull up a chair, take notes. I need your assistance.’
Steinhoff nodded, as he sheepishly took out his notebook.
Kessler composed himself, and delivered a test question, leaning in close so that Mayer could hear. ‘Let us begin… the substance graphite is made of carbon? Made of carbon… think about carbon Professor Mayer… answer yes or no… is graphite made of carbon?’
‘Yeeeessss.’
‘Good, good… another question. Diamond is made of a carbon? Yes or no?’
‘Yeeeessss.’
‘So you understand carbon structures. Now, let’s talk about carbon particles.’
Mayer suddenly snorted, his eyes wandering.
‘Ah! I thought that would touch a raw nerve,’ Kessler smirked. ‘Don’t worry, let me rephrase the question. How do you make carbon particles?’
Mayer gave a spasm, thrashing his good side pathetically in the bed. ‘Ummmhhhh!… Ummmhhhh!’
Kessler baulked at the surprising resistance to the drugs, but took care to conceal his reaction. ‘Please answer, how do you make carbon particles?’
‘Ummmmhhhh!’
‘Never mind, don’t trouble yourself Professor. You see… our clever Dr Steinhoff has already figured it out. You remember Steinhoff don’t you?’
Mayer wheezed, snot dribbling from his nose. ‘Ummmhhh!… Ummmhhh!’
Kessler leaned closer to Mayer’s ear. ‘That’s it… that’s it! Feel the despair! Feel it!… You have already given your secret away! What harm can it do now… tell us the detail… tell us the rest… ’
‘Ummmmhhh! Ummmmhhh! Noooooo!’
‘It is carbon sixty that we need, yes or no?!’
‘Ummmmmhhhhh!’
‘Okay, I will take that as a yes! How do we make carbon sixty?’
‘Nooooooo!’ Mayer contorted; stiffening his face, a trickle of blood issued from his nostril.
‘Herr Doctor, more mescaline for the patient if you please.’ Kessler smiled.
‘Commandant… please… ’
Kessler cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘Now! You can clearly see the patient is resisting! More!’
The doctor duly administered a third massive shot of the drug. Mayer relaxed back into the pillows with the sudden rush of euphoria. Kessler waited a few more seconds for the fresh dose of mescaline to penetrate.
‘Now, that’s better… ’ Kessler continued, ‘… how do we make carbon sixty?’
‘Nooooo… you… can’t… ’ Mayer gave a crooked smile, his head flopped uncontrollably. ‘Nooooo… not… possible… ’
‘Tell Steinhoff… tell Dr Steinhoff… how do we make carbon sixty?’ Kessler waved Steinhoff forward.
‘Gustav, it is me, Steinhoff. Please, how do we make carbon sixty? Please tell me, then you can rest.’
‘Burn… ’
‘Burn what Gustav?’
‘Burn… veeerrrry high… temperature… ’
‘Gustav, do you mean burn carbon at a very high temperature? How high? Gustav, how hot does it need to be?!’
‘Hot… veeerrrry hot… ’
Steinhoff leaned forward. ‘Tell me! Tell me! How hot?!’
‘Hot… hot… as… heeeelll!’ Blood flowed from both nostrils as Mayer went into a seizure.
‘Enough! Enough!’ The doctor pulled Steinhoff away, ‘Stop! Stop
! There is nothing more to be gained here today – look!’
Mayer gurgled blood from his mouth and nose, squirming with delirium; the smell of excrement penetrated the room.
‘Alright! Alright! I am sorry… I… we… just needed to know,’ Steinhoff shook his head.
‘Do you have enough to make the carbon structure?’ Kessler pressed.
‘It is possible, yes, I think I so.’ Steinhoff tried to clear his mind. ‘Mayer was into burning all sorts of materials at high temperature in his search for fuels and catalysts; perhaps he stumbled on something? I can try burning some ordinary carbon at very high temperatures. Yes, that would seem a good place to start.’
Kessler, satisfied with the plan, stayed to watch as Mayer went into another seizure.
Dr Steinhoff whistled a merry tune as he examined the latest carbon sample on his microscope. The idea of burning wood in a blast furnace at high temperature to create fine carbon particles had worked! The resulting soot contained a mixture of different types of carbon, including a small fraction of the ultrafine carbon nanoparticles that were needed for the device. But there was lots of crap in the sample. It needed cleaning up; what’s more, the process was very inefficient. Nonetheless, the principle was sound; but where could one find a bigger fire?
That’s it! Why make your own fire when Mother Nature has already done it for you? Fires! Forest fires!
It was just a question of locating regions where forest fires were common and digging up the ash containing the carbon. A little bit of cleaning and washing would soon yield the required volume of material. There were arid parts of Europe that sometimes suffered extensive natural fires: Greece, the Russian Steppe.
But why wait for a recent forest fire? What about carbon and charcoal deposits in the geological record? There had been vast global fires in the past. Perhaps ancient charcoal deposits could be mined for the all-important nano carbon?
Steinhoff grabbed the telephone.
‘Operator… yes, Dr Steinhoff… put me through to the Department of Geology at the Technical University of Berlin.’
The line cracked for a few seconds, then started ringing.
‘Hans, how are you? It’s Steinhoff… yes… yes… I am well, and you?’ A bit of small talk seemed only polite. ‘Listen, Hans, I need a small favour… some information. I am looking for high-quality carbon deposits that contain ultrafine material… ’ He checked his words carefully; there was no need to explain about the device. Steinhoff explained his requirements. ‘… You know the kind, very fine dust, burns cleanly.’
The Reich Device Page 24