My colleagues and I are far from ready to give up on the problem, but we must all be prepared to concede at some point that there is no solution. It certainly is conceivable that the Earth is doomed.”
The President absorbed the gloomy assessment. “Well, we can’t give up without a fight. You spoke of manpower and ingenuity, Professor. What can this office do to provide the resources necessary to find a solution to this problem, presuming one exists?”
“Just now the stress must be more on ingenuity than brute manpower,” replied Phillips. “At the present stage we need an idea, or set of ideas, some hint of a useful program. Then I imagine that a massive engineering program such as the Manhattan Project or the Apollo program would be called for.”
“From the scientific point of view,” the President rubbed a hand over tired eyes, “can we proceed without the Russians?”
Phillips pondered his answer. “I appreciate the dilemma you are in. You cannot lightly submit to coercion. We have many great scientists in this country, men and women who would gladly give up careers of research to work with you on this. Perhaps, no, we don’t need the Russians in that sense. But you ask me as a scientist. I will tell you this. I do not know the depth of Korolev’s political connections, although I have every reason to believe that he has great influence. But I do know that there is no brain on Earth that I would rather have working on this problem than that of Viktor Korolev.”
The President nodded, then spoke. “Gentlemen, I have much to think about. Please keep yourselves on call.”
They left the White House by a side exit and climbed into Drefke’s waiting limousine that whisked them away through the quiet Washington streets.
Chapter 19
On the evening of January 5th, a taxi made its way from Logan Airport, skirting the Charles River along the edge of Boston. Eventually, it came to Newton and slowed on the tortuous suburban streets. The air was noticeably colder outside the city, and the snowflakes fell more thickly. The passengers huddled in the corners of the flat Checker seat listening to the wheels plow through the slush. The smaller figure tried to ignore the stream of frigid air that came from his window that would not quite close. He wore a topcoat, but shivered from lack of natural insulation. The man was in his early forties, of average height, thin to the point of frailness. His head was round in profile, but thin so his face was a flattened oval. His sparse hair was combed straight back; a trim Vandyke adorned his chin. He wore old nondescript horn-rim glasses, the temples of which showed the grey corrosion of long exposure to facial grease.
The other passenger was a large, hulking man. His coarse slavic features were broken by a relaxed smile as he looked out at the snow. His bulky winter coat was undone to display a grey suit of plain utilitarian cut. His mind spun with the excitement of his first visit here, and his eyes had captured all the details—from the gross flashing signs atop Kenmore Square to the fine old houses with large yards they now passed by.
The taxi finally pulled up in front of a large white house on which the porch light signaled welcome. The cabbie flicked the plexiglass partition open without looking back, disgruntled at the thought of the long trip back to the airport without a fare and scheming for a way to cover that loss. The slim passenger grimaced at the figure on the meter despite it being covered by his expense account and shoved some bills through to the driver, waving for him to keep the change. The driver showed his gratitude by remaining immobile while his passengers worked the doors open and stepped out. The smaller man’s left foot landed ankle deep in water in the gutter. He uttered a quiet exclamation of dismay, shoved the door shut and stepped gingerly to the plowed walkway leading to the front door. He navigated the cleared path, waited for his companion, then pushed the button as he stomped his wet shoe.
Inside Wayne Phillips rose quickly from the couch and got to the door just before his wife who had come in from the kitchen. He opened the door and greeted the men on the stoop.
“Clarence! Viktor! Come in!”
He turned to his wife, “Betsy, you remember Clarence Humphreys from Princeton? And I would like you to meet my good friend and colleague, Viktor Korolev, from the Soviet Union. They’ve been working together in Moscow on our project.”
“Of course,” she nodded, “how are you? I’m afraid we’ve welcomed you with rather dismal weather.” She spoke with a British accent, being a lifelong cherished companion from Phillips’ youth at Oxford.
Helping Humphreys off with his topcoat, Phillips was too close to notice the soggy shoe. From her vantage point a few feet off and blessed with an eye for such things, his wife saw it and gave a small gasp.
“Oh, my! You’ve stepped in a puddle!”
Humphreys acknowledged this misfortune sheepishly.
Betsy Phillips immediately took complete control.
“Here. You sit down before the fire and get those wet, cold shoes off. Professor Korolev, won’t you sit here? I’ll fetch a pair of Wayne’s slippers and fix you both a nice hot toddy.” She guided her guests toward chairs in front of the fireplace. Alex Runyan arose from the couch, his right arm encased in a sling.
“Viktor, welcome to the United States.” He pumped the Russian’s hand awkwardly, backward, with his left hand. “After all these years—such a delight to have you here. When your name came up in La Jolla, I never actually thought I’d see you working with us.” He turned to the other scientist. “Clarence, how are things in Moscow?”
“Hello, Alex,” Humphreys returned the greeting. “Well, it’s snowing there too, but the rivers are still in their banks.” He lifted his wet foot and both men grinned.
Humphreys sat and with a disdain for propriety that belied his academic standing, quickly removed his shoes and socks. He extended white, blue-veined feet toward the fire and wiggled his toes. Korolev looked around the room. It was large and tastefully decorated, mostly in colonial, in keeping with the house that dated back to shortly after the Revolution. The floors were original, wide planks held down with wooden pegs. He was admiring a large heavily decorated Christmas tree in the corner when Betsy Phillips returned with a pair of faintly scruffy slippers and a tray upon which she balanced two steaming concoctions in tall glasses. Humphreys slid his feet into the slippers and smiled gratefully.
The Russian toasted her with his glass and smiled his broad smile.
“I’m glad you could stop over before we have to go to Washington,” Phillips said, after his wife had discreetly retired. “That is when the real work will begin, but Alex and I are anxious for a chance to hear your ideas while there is still a little peace and quiet. I understand Krone’s notes have been useful?”
“Absolutely! They’re invaluable,” said Humphreys enthusiastically. “The man understood an incredible amount, and there’s an even greater wealth of information implicit in the computer data that will require years to completely analyze. We’ve only had time to scratch the surface.”
Humphreys looked at his Russian colleague.
“Things have been so hectic. We’ve been under tremendous pressure to digest those notebooks.”
He spoke to Phillips and Runyan.
“I want both of you to know what an immense help Viktor has been. More than that, most of the time I have foundered in his wake.”
Korolev nodded in silent sober acquiescence at the praise.
“I don’t know what bolt of enlightenment hit the Soviet hierarchy,” Humphreys continued, “volunteering his services for this project when he was not even allowed to attend a conference before. Anyway, we should all be grateful.”
“Ho,” said the Russian in his deep rumbling baritone. “I explain certain facts to them. Sometimes they understand. But this is a complicated thing. Your government. My government.” He waved a hand in dismissal and tossed down a healthy slug of his drink.
“The fire was unfortunate,” Korolev said. “Some important things are missing.”
“Viktor has filled in most of the missing parts,” Humphreys explained, “but there are a couple of awkward gaps. The books weren’t the only casualty. I’d heard you’d been hurt, Alex. How’s the arm?”
Runyan flexed his fingers slowly. “I had surgery again a month ago,” he said. “Damn tendons are tough to heal.” He leaned back and fingered his beard to show the scar on his jaw. “Got me in the chin and arm with one
