INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1)

by W. A. Harbinson

  ‘No journalists are supposed to be here,’ he said. ‘Goddard’s not pleased to see you.’

  ‘Wilson told me I could come,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, did he, indeed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where’s Wilson?’

  ‘I was going to ask you that.’

  ‘I don't know,’ Mansur said. ‘I don't know anything about that damned Wilson. No one does, Gladys – except maybe you.’

  ‘And Goddard.’

  ‘Goddard swears he’s just an old friend.’

  ‘Then that's what he is.’

  ‘He sure has a lot of priority for someone who's just an old friend and claims to know nothing about aeronautics.’

  ‘So it goes,’ Gladys said.

  ‘You're a damned good journalist, Gladys. You've got eyes and ears. You know damned well we resent him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why ask, since you know?’

  ‘I only know what I’m told, so tell me.’

  Mansur shook his head from side to side, grinning sardonically. ‘All I can tell you is that I don’t know a damned thing about Wilson. I don’t, my brother doesn’t, neither do any of the crew members – and what Goddard knows, he’s not about to discuss. In other words, Wilson is a mystery – he’s just here as Goddard’s friend.’

  ‘Doing what? The cooking?’

  ‘Very smart, Miss Kinder.’

  ‘So, what?’

  Mansur shrugged. ‘Again, I don’t know. All I know is that Wilson appeared out of nowhere about six months ago, that he’s been tight as can be with Goddard since then, and that the two spend a lot of time in Goddard’s workshop, doing God knows what. According to Goddard, we’re not supposed to talk about Wilson. As far as the public’s concerned, Wilson doesn’t exist. And as far as we’re concerned – by which I mean Goddard’s crew – Wilson has a mysterious hold on Goddard, with the master doing what the student bids. And he also has you in his bed. So what else do you want to know?’

  Gladys smiled. ‘Wilson’s about sixty years old. Who the hell are you kidding?’

  ‘Well, Gladys, you’re thirty-five. And Wilson doesn’t look like a sixty-year-old. He looks about your age.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Charlie!’

  ‘Damn it, Gladys, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, Charlie, I do.’

  What Charlie meant was that while Wilson was at least twenty years older than Goddard and claimed to be working for him, the general feeling among the crew was that he had somehow, surreptitiously, taken charge of the rocket project and was pulling all the strings behind the scenes. Charlie believed that because Gladys slept with Wilson, she must know more about him than anyone else; but she didn’t.

  As a journalist for the Roswell Daily Record, as well as Wilson’s mistress, she had been unable to resist asking him more than once about his past. She’d learned only that he had an aeronautical background, had never been married, and was the least emotional man she had ever known.

  He was a mystery, all right – and most mysterious of all was the fact that although he laboured constantly in Goddard’s workshop, he had never once attended an actual rocket launching and had even insisted that if she, Gladys, wanted to keep seeing him, she had to ensure that his name was not mentioned in connection with Goddard’s work.

  And God knows, she did want to see him again. She needed to share his bed, was addicted, even against her better judgment, to what he could give her there. And what he gave her there was something that sometimes shamed her – a sexual heat in which love had no place because he could not conceive of it.

  He certainly wasn't a warm man, not impelled by finer feelings, but his very lack of emotion was what made him so good in bed, so patient and controlled, more exciting as a lover than most of those she had known.

  And he was sixty years old...

  ‘You’re not really involved when you do it,’ she’d once told him. ‘You treat it as a functional endeavour, a mere form of release. You’re not involved on any other level — least of all emotionally.’

  ‘Count your blessings,’ he’d replied with his familiar, slightly superior smile. ‘It’s because I’m not involved that I can control myself until you're satisfied.’

  ‘You make me feel like an instrument of masturbation.’ ‘That’s what sex is,’ he said.

  No, not an emotional man – certainly not a romantic one – yet it was true, as he had said, that his functional approach to the act of love was what made his loveless sex so exciting. He could keep going for hours – sometimes it seemed forever – and came to orgasm only when she begged him to do so. Thus his coldness, while depriving her of affection, made the sex something special.

  She had certainly needed it. Wilson had come to town at the right time. Gladys had been born and raised right here in Roswell, the only child of farming parents, and had married too young, to a man who, though decent in his way, had bored her to tears. The marriage had been a disaster, coming to grief on a bed of stone and producing no children. But when, five years ago, her husband had died of a heart attack, followed soon after by the death of both her parents, Gladys had felt that her life was falling to pieces and took refuge in drink. The drink had dulled her pain and shock, but also released her from inhibitions, and she had taken up with a string of different men, most of whom disappointed her. She toughened up pretty fast, developed a pragmatic outlook, and charmed the proprietor of the Roswell Daily Record into trying her out as a journalist. It was the best thing she’d ever done, giving her a sense of her own identity, and she’d buried the disappointments of her life in her work for the paper. She became a strong, independent woman easily bored, quick with her tongue, and discovered that a lot of men didn't like it and so shied away from her.

  Not that she gave a damn – she didn't want to marry again. But then Wilson had come to town, looking to work with Goddard. Gladys had met him through Goddard's assistant, Charlie Mansur, and when it soon became obvious that Wilson was intimidated by no one, Gladys had thought him a breath of fresh air and soon became involved with him.

  It was not a romantic relationship, but it certainly had its moments. Gladys enjoyed the sex and found Wilson intriguing – a real mystery man. So, she was well pleased.

  Returning to the present, she looked away from Mansur as another car pulled up and Goddard’s blonde wife, Esther, climbed out with her camera and equipment. Henry Sachs filled the rocket’s tanks with gasoline and ‘lox,’ or liquid oxygen, as Goddard greeted his wife. When Sachs had finished, Goddard checked the rocket’s controls, connections, pressure tanks, and aluminium-sheathed oxygen tank, waved to Larry Mansur in the distant observation post, then returned to the protected control shack with his wife and Sachs.

  ‘Do I have to join them?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘No,’ Charlie replied. ‘You’re far enough away to be safe, no matter what happens. But I have to join them.’

  ‘You don’t want me to get near Goddard, right?’

  ‘Right, Gladys. Goddard’s already mad that you’re here, so I won’t tempt the fates.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘Okay, then.’

  Charlie returned to the buttressed control shack as Esther Goddard put her camera on its tripod and pointed it through a hole in the shelter wall. Goddard looked at his watch and started counting off the seconds, letting the pressure-generating tanks build up to two hundred pounds. Eventually, after what seemed to Gladys to be an eternity, he gave the order for the ignition to be fired.

  Gladys knew he had done so when, from her vantage point well away from the launching tower, she heard a roaring and saw flames shooting out from the base of the rocket. The rocket shook violently as if about to blow apart, lifted up slowly, reluctantly, then gained speed and suddenly shot out of the tower and soared toward the sky.

  It climbed vertically, in a straight line, then veered south. It kept climbing as it headed south, at about a thousand feet, then ascended even higher, caugh
t the sun as it levelled out at two thousand feet, then curved down again and raced toward earth. Its parachute didn’t open, so it came down too fast, screeching and whistling, obviously out of control. It crashed into the sands of the desert about half a mile away, exploding in a great cloud of sand, its pieces scattering in all directions.

  One of the men whooped with excitement, another bawled, ‘The goddamned gyroscope!’ and Henry Sachs, who’d jumped into the touring sedan, was heading toward the scene of the crash even before the cloud of sand had settled down.

  Gladys looked at Goddard, where he stood behind the shelter, talking to his wife as she carefully checked her movie camera. The great scientist was actually smiling, which meant that most of the test had been successful – but then, when he glanced over his shoulder at Gladys, his mournful face registered disapproval that she was still present.

  Not wanting to push her luck, and mystified by Wilson’s absence, Gladys started her car and drove back across Eden Valley, heading south, to Roswell.

  Goddard’s Mescalero Ranch was located on eight acres of land, three miles northeast of Roswell. As Gladys pulled up in front of the sprawling pueblo-style ranch house surrounded by scrubby trees and desert, she was struck again by the incongruity of Goddard and his rocket team being there, so close to the legendary Pecos River, where the men still wore blue jeans, high-heeled boots, and broad-brimmed hats, where the pioneer trails still cut through the nearby town to the borders of Mexico, and where the natives still talked about the exploits of Billy the Kid and other legendary, local desperadoes. She knew that Goddard had chosen this spot because he needed a relatively high region free from fog, and with a minimum of rain and snowfall — but even so, as she climbed down from her car and walked toward the house, the thought of rockets soaring over this barely modernized territory seemed slightly unreal to her.

  She didn't actually go to the house, but instead went to the frame machine shop near it, where she guessed Wilson would be, since that's where he had slept during his stay here. After glancing automatically at the small static frame and concrete trough, called 'the bathtub,' located a hundred feet away and used for testing the rockets, she entered the unlocked machine shop and found Wilson kneeling on the floor by the cot he slept on.

  He was packing his suitcase.

  Shocked and confused, Gladys sucked in her breath — a sound loud enough to make Wilson stop what he was doing and look up at her. His eyes were as blue as the sky above New Mexico, bright with an icy intelligence — and unnervingly steady.

  ‘Hello, Gladys,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re back earlier than I’d expected.’

  ‘So I see.’

  He glanced down at his suitcase, smiled thinly, then closed the case and stood up to gaze steadily at her.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ he said.

  Gladys closed her eyes, feeling sick to her stomach. Chilled by the flat tone of his voice, she knew he meant what he said.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he said. ‘Don’t be childish. You always knew this would come. How did the test go?’

  She opened her eyes and tried to see him for what he was.

  His hair was silvery, his face handsome but ascetic, and although he was sixty years old, he looked twenty years younger.

  She

  only knew what he looked like.

  ‘The test went okay,’ she said. There was some problem with the gyroscopic controls, but otherwise it was fine... You were going to run away without telling me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want any arguments. I told you that someday I’d be going – and today is the day.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d actually – ’

  ‘I’m not responsible for what you think — only for what I say. And I told you that one day I’d be leaving and going alone.’

  ‘God, Wilson, you’re hard.’

  ‘You’ve known that since you’ve known me.’

  ‘I think I’m going to have to sit down.’

  ‘Help yourself,’ Wilson said.

  She took the chair at Goddard's old writing desk, next to his lathe and workbench, lit a cigarette, exhaled a stream of smoke, and squinted through it at Wilson. He was a tall man, as thin as his smile, and his blue gaze was steady.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘so you always told me you’d leave someday. But I still didn’t think you’d go this way- deliberately sending me out where I’m not wanted and then sneaking away.’

  ‘I told you: I didn’t want any arguments.’

  ‘It’s human to argue.’

  ‘To be human is to err.’

  ‘We were lovers, Wilson. That must count for something.’

  But he merely shook his head, arguing an academic point. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t. At least, not for me. The only thing that matters to me is my work — as I’ve told you repeatedly.’

  ‘Yes, Wilson, you’ve told me repeatedly. I just happened to think you didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I always mean what I say.’

  Gladys’s heart was racing and she felt desolated, but when she saw the icy glint in his eyes, she knew her grief wouldn’t mean much to him. He would leave her as some people disown their pets – and he would never look back.

  Accepting this fact, she was able to protect herself by turning professional.

  ‘You’re an odd bird, Wilson.’

  ‘You’re free to think so.’

  ‘I’m not the only one who thinks so. Goddard’s men all think you’re strange.’

  Wilson smiled mockingly. ‘What can I say to that? I’m not responsible for the thoughts of petty minds. What they think is irrelevant.’

  ‘They think you’re the genius behind Goddard.’

  ‘They’re wrong: I was learning from him.’

  ‘They think you know more about rockets than you let on – and that only Goddard is privy to exactly how much you know.’

  Wilson simply smiled again. ‘I have to go now, Gladys.’

  ‘Does Goddard know you’re going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this how you say goodbye to him? To a genius with whom you’ve worked for six months? Is this how you thank him?’

  ‘I thanked him by working for him for free. Now that I’ve learned what I need to know, I’ve no reason for staying here.’ Shocked again at how truly cold Wilson was, Gladys blew another cloud of smoke and watched it spiralling in front of her. ‘So what did you need to know?’ she asked him.

  ‘What Goddard could teach me.’

  ‘About rockets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why did you need to know about rockets?’

  ‘That’s not your concern,’ he said.

  She looked intently at his blue eyes, trying to find what she had missed, but saw only a luminous intelligence, beyond rancour or warmth.

  ‘If you’re so concerned with rocket technology,’ she said, ‘why not stay with Goddard?’

  ‘Because this country always betrays its greatest scientists and will soon betray Goddard.’

  ‘Does that mean you’re going abroad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where to?’

  Wilson smiled. ‘To where my own work will be appreciated.’

  ‘And where’s that?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘I’m a journalist. I can find out.’

  ‘It won’t help you.’

  ‘I can also find out just who you are.’

  ‘That won't help you either. Now I’ve got to be going.’

  He picked up his suitcase, gazed down at her, smiled thinly, then walked out, not even kissing her goodbye. She had pride, but her heart betrayed her, so she jumped out of Goddard's chair, then hurried to the doorway of the machine shop and looked into the morning sun.

  Wilson climbed into his battered Ford, turned on the ignition, waved at her as if he were just going for a short trip,
then drove in the direction of the town of Roswell, with its pioneer trails and stillburning legends, to disappear into his unknown future and leave her all alone again.

  'God damn you!' she whispered.

  CHAPTER TWO Ernst Stoll's heart was racing with anticipation when he saw his girlfriend, Ingrid, already seated at a table by a window in the Kranzier Cafe, Berlin. Feeling resplendent in his new SS uniform, almost like a film star, he leaned over to kiss Ingrid's cheek, lightly stroked her short-cropped blond hair, then sat facing her and took hold of her hand.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said, meaning it. His excitement was raised by the pale beauty of her face, which was emphasized by her widebrimmed black hat, black jumper, and string of pearls, all matching the new black coat she was wearing. ‘And that coat suits you perfectly,’ he added. ‘Did you get it in Paris?’

  ‘No,’ she said with a gentle smile. ‘Right here, in the Kurfürstendamm. Parisian fashions are frowned upon these days, so I made sure it was German. You look handsome in your brand-new uniform – black suits you as well – though I still wished you’d stayed with the Reichswehr, instead of joining the SS.’

  ‘Let’s have coffee and strudel,’ he suggested, deliberately changing the subject, not wanting this particular day to be spoiled with even a minor disagreement. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes, Ernst.’ He called the waitress, gave her the order, then glanced out at the busy corner of the Unter den Linden and the Friedrichstrasse, its snow turned to slush by the many cars and pedestrians. When he returned his attention to Ingrid's green gaze, he was overcome by his love for her.

  ‘You look excited,’ she told him.

  ‘It’s seeing you,’ he replied gallantly.

  ‘No, Ernst, I don’t think that’s what it is. We both know what it is.’ He was grateful that she realized and didn't mind too much. Today was January 30, 1933. It would soon be a memorable day for

  Germany and already the excitement was building. Right now, Hitler and Goring were in the Chancellery with von Papen and Hindenburg, and the street between the Kaiserhof and the Chancellery was crowded with people. Before the day was out, Hitler would be the Chancellor of the Third Reich. A new era was dawning.