“So you're finally calling it by its name.”
Several technicians walked over and shook her hand. Each of them offered her a derivative of, “Good luck.” Today was the fourth hot-fire test of the new propellant. Ironically, they had been having more problems with hardware than with the new fuel. So far, not a single test had managed to get a burn longer than thirty seconds without being shut down. The good news was that all the data they collected in the first three tests showed the specific impulse was above the contract specs, averaging out at a respectable 309.3 But since the army contract required that North American demonstrate three successful full-length static tests of one hundred fifty-five seconds each, they were still at it.4
The robotic announcer again held forth. “Lox and hydyne tank regulators set to fifteen psi. Ninety seconds.”
The surrounding hills were not high enough to capture such sounds and bounce them back, so the announcement, though loud and firm, landed like a thud, more absorbed than echoed. Irving Kanarek, sitting just outside the blockhouse with three technicians, took a last sip of his coffee, stood up, then added his paper cup to a hundred others nesting inside a fifty-gallon steel barrel.
Bill Webber appeared in the doorway to check for stragglers.
“You guys better get inside.”
Irving nodded, then he and the technicians entered the blockhouse.
In the control room, Mary had a pair of binoculars pressed against her eye sockets. She could see the white oxygen vapors venting from the LOX tank, whispering around the steel girders until a Santa Ana gust stole them away. In a little over a minute, a couple of monster turbopumps would mix thousands of gallons of liquid oxygen with a like amount of hydyne to create a hurricane of boiling fire. A 4,000-degree flame would pour from the nozzle and roar from the engine to form a violent pressure wave of quake-like sound.
“Fire ex system pressurized. Main valve closed. Pump on. Sixty seconds.”
Mary adjusted the focus on the binoculars. There was something moving on the road between the second test stand, VTS-2, and VTS-1 where the A-7 engine was mounted. It looked like a man, and he was staggering. Then suddenly he fell to the pavement and rolled downhill for about ten feet.
“There's somebody out by the test stands!” she shouted.
“We see him. Looks like Toumey's drunk again. We're gonna hold the count at fifty-three seconds.”
Mary was incredulous. “Is he a technician?”
“Yes.”
“And you let him drink on duty?”
“Not exactly.”
Bill grabbed a set of keys hanging by the door. “Let's go get him.”
Mary took the keys from his hand and led the way outside. She jumped into the company-owned Jeep parked next to the blockhouse. Bill followed right behind, taking the second seat. As Mary started the engine, Bill looked at Irving, who was standing at the open door.
“Coming?”
Irving shook his head. “You two can handle it.”
As Mary made a U-turn with the Jeep and accelerated toward the test stand, the loudspeaker blared. “We have personnel in the firing area; holding at fifty-three seconds.”
The Jeep engine was loud, and Mary had to shout over it.
“Who is this guy?”
Bill shouted back. “George Toumey. He likes to drink the rocket fuel.”
Irving watched as the Jeep bounced over the fresh black-asphalt road leading to VTS-2. An engine using LOX/ethyl alcohol was scheduled to be fired from that stand later in the day. Holding his hand to shade his eyes, he could see the technician lying and rolling on the ground. George Toumey was one of the equipment specialists in charge of plumbing the fuel lines from the propellant tanks to the rocket engines. As such, he knew how to tap the fuel lines and drip out a pint or two of alcohol, ostensibly for purity tests. Unfortunately, he kept testing it on himself. George Toumey had been warned many times by management not to drink the rocket fuel, but he just couldn't help himself. Once in a while, when he thought no one was looking, George would tap out a small amount of the propellant, drink it, check for witnesses, then repeat the procedure. Several times. More than once he had gotten so drunk he had to be carried away. Never, however, had it happened so close to a test-firing.
Joe Friedman—one of the engineering supervisors—stepped out of the blockhouse to watch. Several others soon joined him.
“Old George would have gotten a four-thousand-degree ass-kick if somebody hadn't noticed.”
“Now that would have taught him a lesson.”
“If he survived.”
“Holding at fifty-three,” said the calm, emotionless announcer.
Several of George's fellow technicians had noticed he was missing, and it did not take them long to figure out where to find him. As Mary and Bill arrived at the spot just below VTS-2, three technicians joined them to help lift their sotted friend onto the Jeep. As the technicians ran for cover, Mary put the Jeep into gear, turned the car around, and headed back for the blockhouse.
“If he's done this before, I don't understand why this guy hasn't lost his job yet,” said Mary as she shifted to third.
Bill turned to look at the sleeping technician. “I suspect this will be his last day.”
The tires squealed as Mary pulled the Jeep up to the blockhouse. Irving and Joe were there to help, and the four of them managed to carry the groaning, moaning technician into the blockhouse.
“Resuming count at fifty-three seconds,” blared the loudspeaker.
As the countdown continued, Joe Friedman knelt down next to the sleeping George Toumey and slapped his face a few times to wake him up. It took a few moments, but George finally stirred, opening his eyes and looking into the face of his friend.
“Hi, Joe. Where am I?”
“You're fired.”
“Oh.”
George Toumey went back to sleep.
Mary was angry that her test had been interrupted by an act so unprofessional. Despite the fact that the test was imminent, she stood outside the blockhouse door with a cigarette, trying to calm her nerves. Bad enough that she was under so much pressure to get hydyne into the Redstone and help launch America's first satellite; the last thing she needed was the George Toumeys of the world slowing her down with their reprobate habits.
Standing beneath the “No Smoking” sign, Mary took another drag on her cigarette. Newton—the compound's adopted cat—appeared out of nowhere, brushed against Mary's calf, then darted off toward the brush to find mice. Mary's eyes followed where Newton had gone, and near that spot she noticed two deer were standing very still atop a boulder, watching her watch them.
Newton had shown up one day during the early construction of the Simi test facility. The construction workers had adopted him, sharing bites of their sandwiches and bits of cream meant for their coffee. Eventually the builders left, leaving the site well constructed, but cold and lonely. The cat had stuck around, though, showing canine-like instincts—a loyal puppy waiting for its master's return. Soon after California approved and issued Santa Susanna's operational permits and licenses, the engineers and techies moved in. The first group to arrive noticed the cat—how it would show up and beg for food each morning and afternoon. Like the construction workers before them, the engineers adopted him, naming him after their favorite scientist.
Newton returned, and once again ran its fur across Mary's calf. She bent over and gently petted his fur.
Mmeewwww.
Mary felt a cold Canadian wind—the kind that pulled with them the dreams of young girls. She was petting Missy, their calico cat, who was nuzzling her leg. Mary's eyes widened in shock, and her mouth opened in astonishment at the sight of the skinny feline. Missy was no longer pregnant; somewhere on the farm, a squeaky litter of kittens was battling for survival.
Mary would have to find the litter and hide the gunnysacks—and fast.
“Come here.”
Mary set down the milk pail and picked up the cat, looking around to mak
e sure no one was watching. There were only a couple of places Missy would feel confident about having her litter—either a dark, private corner of the barn, or the crawlspace under the house.
“If father finds out, it'll be the gunnysack for sure.”
Unlike their house, the barn was a relatively new and sturdy structure. Michael had built it with money earned from his second vocation as an amateur veterinarian. For reasons they never fully explained, the Norwegian and Danish farmers did not like to care for the medical needs of their own animals, always turning to Michael Sherman when a horse turned sick or a cow became bloated. In the off-season, Michael Sherman made more money as an untrained vet than he did as a farmer. The new lumber was testament to this. Mary lovingly petted the cat as she explored the barn's numerous nooks and crannies.
“Where are your babies, little mommy?”
As Mary explored the barn, she approached a far corner, where a small stack of hay was piled, Missy became fidgety, squirming nervously.
“Is this where they are?”
Missy dug a claw into an arm, extricated herself from Mary's grasp, leaped into the air, and hit the ground running. To Mary's surprise, the cat sped into the field. She gave chase.
Missy had a single eye of bright amber, having lost her left eye years ago during an altercation with a young grey wolf that thought the cat might make good supper. Missy still held the scars from that fight: two long gouges traveled from her left eye socket down to her belly. Now, as she slowed to a careful walk, meandering through the tall stalks of bright-green field grass, she took the occasional furtive glance behind. The girl was following, Missy was sure, though she couldn't see. Instinct told her the girl was not a threat. Still, in the last three years, she had delivered four fine litters, and all of them had mysteriously disappeared soon after birth. Somewhere in the land, there was a monster.
Missy tilted her head and sniffed the air. She was close now. She pushed through the tight columns of grass, stopping briefly to scratch her ears on a sharp rock. There was a sound, and she turned to look.
The girl was close. Missy decided the risk was too great and ran off in another direction.
When Mary saw that Missy had abruptly changed her trajectory, she guessed it was a ruse and kept to the beeline her cat had been walking. Another minute, and the old tractor appeared—almost swallowed by the field grass. Only the torn leather seat and rusted exhaust pipe were visible.
And then the tiny cries became audible. Minute quasi-harmonies riding a high-octave wave, the chorus was both discordant and beautiful. Mary stood next to the tractor—a dead, unburied body of rusting steel wormed out by the elements of sun, wind, and rain.
“Where are you?”
Mary followed her ears and soon found them—six shapeless kits, squirming together like maggots on meat. Missy had nestled them atop a tuft of dried grass inside the engine cavity, where they would be somewhat protected from the weather. Their eyes were still shut, but their mouths had no problem with function. Mary reached in and was about to lift one out when suddenly Missy pounced—jumping out of nowhere onto the leather seat. In Missy's eye, Mary could see the deep concern of anxious motherhood and withdrew her empty hand.
“Don't worry, girl. Your secret's safe with me.”
Missy meowed loudly, then leaned in to check on her litter.
Mary placed several tufts of dried grass around the newborns to keep them warm and dry, and Missy did not seem to mind. Mary climbed atop the tractor and stood on the leather seat, surveying the farm in all directions. She could see no one and decided the kittens were safe where they were. Besides, Missy would throw a fit if she tried to move them.
Mary jumped to the ground and ran back toward the house.
As required, all Sherman family members were present at the supper table. Michael at one end, Dorothy at the other. Sisters Amy and Elaine sat on either side of Mary, while the boys—Clarence, Michael and Vernon—sat opposite. The table was set with homemade foods: farm-centric victuals that would be unrecognizable to more-processed generations yet to come. The lukewarm liquid with the unfiltered floaties was milk, the coagulated lump of malleable curd was cheese, the lumpy gobbet of slippery white pudding was butter.
Mary's father pointed a fork in her direction.
“The only homework you need to worry about is home work—milking the cows and shoveling their manure.” He stabbed the fork into a slice of carrot and delivered it to his mouth with purpose. “And don't forget to clean the creamer.”
Across the table, all three boys were stifling laughter. Mary turned to her mother but could see right away that sympathy was not on tonight's dinner menu.
“Listen to your father.”
“Tell Bowman your dog ate your homework,” said Clarence. “That's what I used to do.”
Mary turned to her mother. “My teacher assigned me the alphabet. I havta memorize it by tomorrow.”
“We all have chores to do.”
“All the other kids in my class know how to read. I don't even know the alphabet. I'm the only one! The kids think I'm stupid!”
Vernon could not resist. “You are stupid.”
Dorothy gave her son's head a swat, then turned back to her daughter.
“Obey your father like the Bible says, or I will give your dinner to the boys. Lord knows they need it, with all the work they do.” She changed the subject. “Father—we're almost out of lignite.”
“I'll take a couple o’ the boys into town. Clarence—you stay here. Turkeys and hogs need feeding.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Mary's mother said something that made her freeze.
“After you're done with the feeding, I need you to fetch the gunnysack.”
“Missy have her kittens?” asked Michael.
“No she didn't! No!” But Mary knew her lie was of no use; somehow her mother had discovered Missy had given birth. The cat's diminished girth had not gone unnoticed.
“It has to be done,” her mother answered coldly. “Farm can't support any more pets. They have to go.”
Mary looked around the table for support. Even her little sister, Elaine, the one person she could sometimes count on for support, avoided her eyes. Mary teared up.
“May I be excused from the table?”
The ten-second warning siren blared, and Mary returned to the real world.
What am I doing out here?
She ran into the blockhouse and grabbed her binoculars.
At zero seconds on the count, the rocket engine came to life. A tempest of fire, a tornado of flame, roared from the rocket's nozzle at a speed greater than sound. A moment passed, then the shock wave collided with the blockhouse, pounding it like a 9.0 earthquake. Except for Mary, everyone watched the test without much emotion—they had experienced this a hundred times before. It was all very routine—science going about its daily tasks. Other than the ethyl alcohol–loving George Toumey, it was just another day at the office.
Thirty-seven seconds later, the rocket engine cut out.
Data reduction would show the engine was continuing to experience combustion instability. And when the engine was taken apart for examination, they would find part of the injector plate had melted. Still, at thirty-seven seconds, it was their longest and most successful test yet.
Within a minute, the all-clear siren sounded throughout the compound, and the test crew left the blockhouse for the test stand to inspect the results of their work. Except for George's sleeping form on the blockhouse floor, Mary was the only one left. She glanced at his rotund, snoring hulk, then shook her head.
“Drunks,” she whispered to herself.
The engineers had left the door open, and Newton ran in to stand next to Mary. But when he realized she had no food for him, he scooted off to destinations unknown, ostensibly to beg from someone else. She stepped to the doorway and watched Newton run into the sage-covered hills.
That's when Mary noticed that the two deer were still standing in the same
spot—they had fearlessly stuck around to watch the engine test.
But there was no time to worry about hungry cats, curious deer, or thirsty technicians—there were far too many specific impulse figures to calculate, mixture ratios to work on, test results to analyze. The engineers and technicians could afford the hierarchal employment luxury of hanging around the test stand all day, beating their chests over the latest combustion-chamber instability problem—Mary had work to do. Somewhere in all the data rolling out of the chart recorders were the answers. She would study them, and she would solve the problem.
Now, if only George Toumey would stop snoring.
“I never think of the future. It comes soon enough.”
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
Sergei Korolev had sacrificed everything for this day. His youth had been spent (wasted, many would say) daydreaming of space-travel glory. His education and employment had been focused on one course of action. His marriage to Ksenia was over before it started, the pursuit of wish fulfillment overriding any and all spousal affection. His intellect had made him a target of dictatorial purges. His six-year prison sentence in less than humane conditions had brought about a long string of debilitating health problems. Family, friends, freedom, relationships, social activities, vacations, both kidneys—all sacrificed on the altar of single-minded obsession. And every one of his sacrifices could have been so easily avoided if only Sergei had been a simple man with meager ambitions and unremarkable goals.
Of course, such people rarely make history.
The autumn of 1957 arrived, and along with it the International Geophysical Year. Extending from July 1957 through December 1958, the IGY was a one-and-a-half-year period of time in which sixty-seven countries would participate in observing and recording various geophysical phenomena around the world. One of the goals of the IGY was for both the Soviet Union and the United States to attempt the world's first launch of observational satellites. It was not a race or a competition, and in fact the expressed intention of the IGY was that all of its activities be purely scientific, washed pure and clean of all nationalistic and political dirt.
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