Wood was fifty-three, a warm and intelligent man with a family. He loved his new job, for he found “government work” exciting. He had missed out on military service because of a heart murmur and other indications of an unstable condition. An insensitive army doctor had told him that he wouldn’t live to see forty. He had fooled them all. Even though he was overweight, he felt great and was enthusiastic about the project. If tonight’s tests on the l\8-scale prototype were positive, and Skin 17 was indeed a success, he might be on his way to a Nobel Prize.
Skin 15 had almost worked. There were some minor flaws. The scalable autoclaved material showed possible defects in the built-in photo electrolysis that served to change the skin’s resistance to abuse. The impedance sensitivity was weak. When his assistant, Dr. Steven Harding, suggested that they keep trying, Wood concurred. That had been three months ago. What they thought would be a week’s tinkering resulted in a major overhaul, and out of the ashes rose Skin 16.
Wood considered that particular version of the formula to be his most brilliant creation. The team had almost declared themselves victorious; but the prototype skin failed one of several key tests. Despite the material’s radio frequency transparency, one sensor was unable to transmit and receive through an aperture. There were glitches, but they were closer than ever to the goal. The biggest hurdle was always how scalable the material could be so that prototype models might be built and tested in extreme conditions. Another month’s work perfected Skin 16 to Dr. Wood’s satisfaction. Today he was to see the results of the tests conducted on Skin 17’s prototype. If it worked, the carbon-fiber and silica ceramic that he and his small team had developed could change the world of aviation forever.
An admitted eccentric, Wood gave his team the day off so that he could work alone. He had, however, asked his second in command, Dr. Harding, to come in that evening.
Wood sat at a computer terminal, punching in data at a furious speed. Harding watched him from across the room near the autoclave, which contained a prototype of Skin 17.
“You didn’t say how your golf game was,” Wood remarked, still typing.
“It was lovely. We won,” Harding said. “I actually made a little money.”
“Splendid!” Wood said. “I hope you didn’t mind me kicking you out today. I just needed to work on these figures alone. You understand, don’t you, Steven?”
“Of course, Tom,” Harding said. “Don’t worry about it. I thoroughly enjoyed myself! Except for the bit of rain we got, it was a lovely day. I must admit that I found it difficult to concentrate on the golf. I kept thinking that you might finish it today.”
“Well, Steven,” Wood said as he clicked a button to execute a program that he had written himself, then sat back with his arms folded. “We’ll know in a few minutes, won’t we?”
Harding nervously tapped his fingers on the oval-shaped autoclave that looked like a pressure chamber used by divers. “The waiting is dreadful! I must say, this is very exciting.” He looked at his watch intently. The physicist’s birdlike qualities always seemed more pronounced when he was agitated or tense. His hair tended to stand up, and he involuntarily made jerking movements with his head. Wood presumed that Harding had some kind of tic.
“Staring at the minute hand on your watch will only make the time seem slower,” Wood said, laughing. “It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since we started.”
Harding got out of his seat, stepped over to Wood, and looked over his shoulder. They watched the figures appear on the monitor at an alarming rate.
“Steven, go over to the Mac and punch up the juice,” Wood ordered.
Harding adjusted the level of temperature in the autoclave’s chamber.
No one said anything for ten minutes as the printer began spewing out a long stream of perforated paper. It was filled with equations, letters, numbers, and symbols.
Skin 17.
When it was done, Wood peered at his monitor and a smile played on his lips. He took a deep breath, then swiveled around and faced his assistant.
“Dr. Harding, Skin 17 is a success. It’s passed every test.”
Harding beamed and said, “Congratulations! My God, this is bloody marvelous! I knew it, Tom, I knew you’d do it.” He clasped Wood’s shoulder.
“Oh, come now,” Wood said. “You and the others were a tremendous help, and so were the boys at Farnborough. I didn’t do it all alone.”
“But it’s in your contract that you get the credit,” Harding reminded him.
“Well, there is that!” Wood laughed. “Shall we have some wine? I think there’s still some in the refrigerator. Now I’m sorry I sent everyone home today. I feel our entire team should have been here.”
“We were all grateful for the holiday, Tom. Jenny and Carol were both going away for the weekend, and Spencer and John had family coming to London. But they’ll hear about it soon enough.”
Wood got up from the desk and started to walk toward the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t we save it to disk?” Harding asked.
“You’re right,” Wood said. “I’ll burn a disk. It’ll be the gold master.”
Wood placed a blank compact disk into the recorder and punched the computer keypad. The entire Skin 17 formula was saved on the disk. He removed the disk and placed it in an unmarked jewel box. Wood found a red marker on the desk and wrote “Skin 17 Gold Master” on the cover.
“I better put this in the safe so it won’t get lost,” Wood said. “I’ll make some more copies later.”
“Nonsense, Tom, go and get the wine!” Harding said, laughing. “There’s no one else here! Put it in the safe later.”
Wood felt foolish for a few seconds, then his better judgment took over. “No, I’ll just put it in quickly,” he said.
He walked to a twenty-four-inch safe embedded in a wall and carefully turned the combination knob. The door swung open and Wood placed the jewel box inside.
“Now, about that wine,” Wood said, closing the safe and starting to move toward the kitchen again. He was stopped by the front office buzzer. Wood looked at Harding with a furrowed brow.
“Who in hell could that be?”
Harding punched the intercom and said, “Yes?”
A voice announced, “It’s Marquis. Code Clearance 1999 Skin.”
Wood was surprised. “He didn’t say he was coming by tonight. What does he want?”
“Shall I not let him in?” Harding asked.
“No, no, let him in. He’s the messenger boy from our employers, you know,” Wood said. “I just didn’t want to have to share our victory with him tonight, that’s all. I find him rather rude.”
Harding pushed the button and a portion of the building’s back wall opened just enough for a man to slip through. A passage led through a vacant ground floor that had been treated with dust and cobwebs, then up a flight of stairs to a false wall. By slightly rotating an electrical fixture hung there, a visitor could open the wall and get inside the DERA laboratory. Marquis had been there several times, so he knew the way. In a few moments Harding got up and went to the lab door to let their visitor in.
Group Captain Marquis was dressed in full uniform and was carrying a small black box. He was a physically imposing man in his own right—but when he wore his RAF uniform, he always com-manded attention. The epitome of a disciplined British officer, he looked sharp, stern, and efficient.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I have new orders. I’ll explain after you tell me about your test results, Dr. Wood.”
“New orders?” Wood asked. “What do you mean? How did you know we were testing tonight?” He looked at Harding.
Harding’s beady eyes widened as he shook his head.
“Dr. Harding didn’t tell me,” Marquis said. “I knew. It’s my job.” He placed the black box on a counter.