“Wemher, this is beautiful, but…” He trailed off, not wishing to break the spell. Not yet. In his mind he oversaw the construction of a peaceful space fleet to carry the race beyond its confines of Earth out, out to the Solar System and beyond, exploring and learning, to the stars, to our manifest destiny in the Galaxy. He was young and optimistic again, confident in the goodness of humanity. Von Braun interrupted Goddard’s daydream.
“This portfolio details the development of the ‘Tsiolkovsky.’ We could practically build it today, but the message would be lost without assistance in the final design stages—from the great American rocket pioneer, you, Professor Goddard.”
“Who is ‘we’?”
“Ah…” von Braun’s voice hushed, “at last count, we were some Germans, a Pole, a Chinese, and a lot of Bolsheviks. Let us say, we are strong enough to undertake the work. You do not need to know our names for obvious reasons. This is very big. Will you join our movement into the future?”
Goddard coughed once, more from habit than necessity. The smoke in the room began to irritate his eyes, and he blinked several times in quick succession. He glanced down at a tag-board watercolor of a mighty rocket lifting off from an odd three-armed launch pad into a cloudless sky, toward a blue-washed Moon. He rubbed his bald forehead, excited but wary.
“Wernher,” he began hesitantly. “You still haven’t convinced me that you’re not mad. What you’ve shown me is a collection of artwork by dreamers, some of whom happen to be engineers. But—”
“Study the blueprints,” von Braun urged. “Would the rocket work? Are its designers sane?” Goddard had seen enough to prove that.
“Well, I’m sure they are, but—”
“Do you think twenty,” von Braun’s voice lowered again, “of the top German rocket engineers would get involved in insanity? What we are doing would be considered treason by the Reichcouncil. Our entire plan nearly failed before it started when an unfortunate Gestapo officer learned of our plans; here again, our preparations paid off. We have connections in the Gestapo, though I would not depend on them again.”
Goddard glanced around the room again. He so wanted to believe this could be true, yet he was a sixty-four-year-old man, deeply entrenched in the Allied war effort.
“What could I possibly do for you?” he asked.
Von Braun smiled, a glimmer of his old jovial self showing through in deep lines around his mouth.
“Mein lieber Freund, what can’t you do? I will say this: The Bolsheviks refuse to go along with the project unless we can get you to join. It might look as if they were allying with Europareich, and they don’t wish to start a war against the West. Zhukov is too rational a man. But if you join, well…
“A central aspect of the Bolshevik mentality is that Man will evolve toward a perfect society. They think space travel is a natural part of man’s evolution, where all will labor equally, and they are terrified by the atomic bomb. They think it is necessary to move us off this world before radiation poisoning destroys us. You have noticed the spectacular sunsets lately?”
“Listen,” Goddard interjected. “If I were to join such an effort, I would first have to inspect the facilities—”
“I have in my pocket,” von Braun began, tilting to one side and reaching into his vest, “two airplane tickets to Athens, Greece. We leave tomorrow at 9:30 in the evening.”
Goddard began to feel nervous, hurried. “Defense would never let me just take off like this. Even if they did, there are so many preparations I need to make.”
“What is so important that cannot be taken care of in one day? And, as for your other concern…” Von Braun nodded toward one of the marines at the bar and made a slight hand gesture. The marine returned the gesture, still nonchalantly pretending to ignore them.
Goddard was shocked to realize some kind of conspiracy had penetrated this deeply into the fabric of his everyday life, his neighborhood. This proved von Braun was, at least, not insane. Of course, maybe the soldier was only mimicking. No.
So—just maybe—some kind of multinational thrust into space was underway. Maybe. He wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or elated. He pondered the implications. If he decided to become part of this movement, his present life’s affairs would seem trifles. No, debasements.
“Listen, Wemher,” Goddard said. He suddenly felt very serious, this whole spaceship intrigue was very serious. If Wemher hadn’t been such a sincere friend, if he hadn’t openly expressed—in the international newspapers and in letters to Goddard—his disgust with being part of the atomic-bombing of London, Goddard would never have listened to this man. A German! But he had. Goddard realized friendship runs deeper than politics, and that politics, even in war, is petty compared to the future of humankind. If they could show the world this truth, if they could end the war…
“If what you are saying is true, it may be—no, it is the most important thing ever to happen to humanity. If it is all a delightful delusion… well, I am sorry for you, old friend.”
“I believe you will be delighted,” von Braun stated.
Ten minutes later, Robert Goddard found himself tooling along Sixth Street in his 1939 Chevrolet, head spinning, wondering what exactly he had gotten himself into, and how he would explain to Esther that he was leaving for Greece on a top-secret mission the next evening.
Naturally, he would say nothing of entering the movement’s pipeline of guards and ticket agents, forged documents and misdirection. He felt both tremendously alive and terrified.
They stepped off the Lockheed Constellation onto a neutral landing strip in Athens. His thoughts went back to Esther. Goddard had told his wife that he was going on an important, secret investigative mission to Greece. She was to tell anyone who asked that he had left for vacation, that his chest was bothering him again.
A man in civilian clothes but wearing a green Europareich armband checked the passengers’ papers. Goddard felt a moment of panic as the man looked over his passport: No longer was he Robert H. Goddard; now he was Johannes R. Luftkanal, travel inspector from Munich. Would this man believe the farce? Would his eyes travel to the American’s and see the man who designed rockets that sometimes hit Europareich territory from the hydroships? The man who designed the terrible Bellthunder? Who am I to believe I can be a spy? You old fool! You dreaming fool!
The civil servant absently handed back the passport. Goddard’s panic faded and fatigue set in. The Sun was hot. He began to sweat. He followed von Braun toward a chicken-wire fence overlooking a dusty hill.
Though the Germans controlled most of the Mediterranean, the Reichcouncil had reopened to tourism such historic places as this, and Paris, and Stockholm, after large-scale resistance in Europe had ended and the Europareich had formed. That had been in 1941, a year after the Dunkirk Massacre, a little over a year since a glass of poison had reduced Hitler to a mumbling idiot. But for the grey-uniformed Europareich soldiers hidden in shadows of trees and buildings, Goddard would not have known this wasn’t Athens as it once was.
“Herr Luftkanal, Herr Schwartz,” a black-haired youth said to Goddard and von Braun, “Diese Richting.” Goddard cast a glance at von Braun, who nodded slightly.
They followed the boy to an idling French car and climbed into the back seat. The boy glanced both ways and walked away. As soon as the doors closed, the driver, a slight man (or woman, Goddard couldn’t be sure) drove away from the landing field along a rugged road. No one spoke during the ten-minute drive to a warehouse district by the sea. Climbing out of the car, Goddard couldn’t recall seeing any scenery along the way. But the sea was beautiful, blue-green and textured with seemingly motionless waves, sprinkled with white fishing boats. Only grey warships marred the picture, and then a daydream that made Goddard wince as he imagined his LTS rockets punching holes in those hulls. The war seemed painfully different when viewed through such close perspective. People were on board those vessels.