All Up

CONTENTS

Prelude

ACT I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

ACT II

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

ACT III

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

ACT IV

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

ACT V

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Epilogue

End Quote

Acknowledgments

PRINCIPAL PLAYERS

(In alphabetical order; title, rank, or affiliation usually corresponds to the player’s first appearance)

The Americans

Quincy Adams, agent, Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)

Buzz Aldrin, astronaut, National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA)

James Jesus Angleton, Associate Deputy Director of Operations for Counterintelligence, CIA

Neil Armstrong, test pilot, National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA)

Henry Harley Hap Arnold, General, Chief of the Air Corps

Frank Borman, astronaut, NASA

Vannevar Bush, Chairman of the Joint Research and Development Board of the Army and Navy

Michael Collins, astronaut, NASA

Calvin Cory, Major, Army Ordnance

Walt Disney, cofounder of the Walt Disney Studio

Allen Dulles, Director, CIA

John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State

Frederick Durant III, President of the International Astronautical Federation

Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces

James Forrestal, Secretary of the Navy

Robert Gilruth, Director, Space Task Group

Robert Goddard, professor, physicist, and inventor/rocketeer

Lyndon B. Johnson, Senator

Theodore von Kármán, aerospace engineer, professor, Director of the California Institute of Technology, cofounder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL)

John F. Kennedy, Congressman

Robert F. Kennedy, Attorney General

Chris Kraft, Flight Director, Space Task Group

George Mueller, Director, Apollo Program, NASA

Marvel Whiteside Jack Parsons, explosives expert, cofounder of JPL

Al Shepard, astronaut, NASA

Bruce Staftoy, Major, Army Ordnance

Harry S. Truman, President

James Webb, Chief Administrator, NASA

The British

Winston Churchill, Prime Minister

Reginald V. Jones, Assistant Director of Intelligence, Chief of Air Scientific Intelligence, MI6

Frederick the Prof Lindemann, Lord Cherwell, physicist, head of S Branch, science advisor to Winston Churchill

Cornelius Connie Ryan, journalist

Duncan Sands Sandys, Chairman of the War Cabinet Committee for Defense, Churchill’s son-in-law

The Germans and Austrians

Karl Heinrich Emil Becker, Lieutenant Colonel, Head of the Ballistics and Munitions Section of the HWA Weapons Testing Division

Magnus von Braun, chemical engineer, Wernher von Braun’s younger brother

Maria von Braun, Wernher von Braun’s wife

Sigismund von Braun, diplomat, Wernher von Braun’s older brother

Wernher von Braun, engineer/rocketeer

Kurt Debus, Flight Test Director/rocketeer

Arthur Dieter, Electrical and Guidance Systems/rocketeer

Walter Dornberger, Captain, Germany Army, rocketeer

Helmut Gröttrup, electrical engineer/rocketeer

Irmgard Gröttrup, Helmut Gröttrup’s wife

Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS

Adolf Hitler, Führer

Hans Kammler, Brigadeführer-SS

Fritz Lang, film director

Willy Ley, rocket and space travel enthusiast/writer

Hermann Oberth, physicist, engineer/rocketeer

Ernst Rees, Electrical and Engines, Fabrication and Assembly/rocketeer

Viktor Schomberger, inventor

Albert Speer, Minister of Armaments

Johannes Winkler, member of the Verein für Raumschiffahrt (early German rocket club)

The Russians

Boris Evseyevich Chertok, communications expert/rocketeer

Yuri Gagarin, cosmonaut

Mikhail Klavdievich Glushko, Engine Designer/rocketeer

Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev, Soviet Union Premier

Kseniya Maximilianovna Vincentini Korolev (Lyalya), doctor, Korolev’s first wife, Natasha’s mother

Natasha Korolev, daughter of Sergei Pavlovich and Kseniya Maximilianovna

Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, Chief Designer/rocketeer

Nina Ivanovna Kotenkova, translator, mistress to Korolev, his second wife

Vasily Pavlovich Mishin, engineer/rocketeer

Joseph Stalin, Soviet Union Premier

Dmitriy Fyodorovich Ustinov, People’s Commissar of Armaments

Leonid Alexandrovich Voskresenskiy, engineer

A note to readers of All Up: Newspaper headlines preceding each chapter did not occur on the exact date of the chapter’s events (except for a few instances); the headlines usually occurred days, weeks, or, more rarely, months before the chapter date. However, in all cases the headlines were taken from the newspapers as indicated.

Prelude

The Free Imperial City of Nuremberg

Friday, April 4, 1561

The little boy backed away from his mother, but she jabbed him in the stomach with a thick wooden cane and he doubled over.

With both hands she swung her heavy stick onto the boy’s back and flattened him to the threshing-room floor.

Do not smile at him, do not relent, growled the boy’s uncle from a stool not far from them. If you are weak in little things, you will suffer in great ones.

The mother screwed up her face in righteous anger and, stained gown fluttering, booted her son in the ribs. The seven-year-old rolled over and blinked at the wooden rafters in the farmhouse ceiling. He gasped for air. In the hazy morning light, he saw dancing dust motes.

You dare not spare your child this beating. His uncle shoved a poker at red coals in a brazier. He was shaping a metal lamp, and his other hand clenched a small hammer. The rod will not kill him but will do him good.

The boy tried to rise to his knees, so she smacked him on the side of his head and he tottered over again.

When you strike the sinful body, you save the soul, his uncle declared, bloodshot eyes rolling upward in a disfigured face. You must raise your child in fear if you wish to find a blessing in him. You must crush his ribs before he is grown, or he will cease to obey.

The mother grabbed her son by his short brown hair, she yanked and shook him—Runt! she shrieked—and flung him into a side stall usually reserved for cattle.

She slammed the wooden door and clapped down its bar.

Inside the dark pen, the boy put three fingers to his head and touched blood. He crawled deep into a corner, accustomed to the odor of piss and manure, and curled up in a pile of hay. His rags couldn’t keep him warm, so he held his bent legs close. He lay that way for long minutes, whimpering softly. His body shook with a jolt—his crying might be heard—and a wall shot up in his mind to cut off the pain.

He closed his eyes.

It was quiet when the little boy opened them and he was hungry. He stared at the intricate coiled patterns in the wood slats for a long while, until shafts of light shot through the seams, sheets of orange, yellow, and red. Strange sounds seeped in from the outside—deep rumblings, then a high-pitched whine.

He sat up, wild and desperate.

The Last Judgment?

Curiosity replaced misery.

He recalled that the stall had been left empty because it wasn’t sound. He burrowed through the straw and found a small hole. He kicked at the rotting boards to loosen them, then rammed through with his good shoulder. Once through the opening, he ran in the direction of the flashes and booms.

At the top of a neighboring hill, he gazed above him in astonishment.

On the same mound of the Reichsstadt Nürnberg, merchants and farmers had already assembled, and a number of wealthy men and women dismounted from horses held by liveried servants. Behind them the walled city with its many towers straddled the river. From its eastern gate, others hurried to join them. They, too, looked up at the sky. Their place afforded an unblocked view of the extraordinary sight: white lights and large globes as big as a rich man’s house. The undersides of the globes glowed a dark crimson red, their tops shimmered blue and black. They dived and swooped like falcons before the afternoon sun.

The boy marveled at the appearance of two great silver tubes. Their noise grew louder, more threatening, and he looked to his betters for guidance.

Tricks and illusions! murmured a learned craftsman.

Blood-colored crosses, said a lean candlemaker.

Like floating cannons, another remarked. They come arrayed for battle.

The boy glanced back at his thatched farmhouse, afraid he might be missed and pursued, but no one stirred.

He moved closer to one of the finely dressed gentry, who had a black stiletto beard and a twisted stance. He’d never come so close to a rich man, and admired the man’s clothes nearly as much as the strange objects cartwheeling above. Surely the aristocrat descended from the ancient nobility, with his crimson cloak, black vest, and puffed sleeves. A gold band hung around his neck, with a circular gem, a crooked golden spiral set in red clay.

Feeling the boy’s eyes, the bearded man cocked his head sideways. Perhaps I’ve arranged this whole theater, he said.

The boy’s blue eyes widened, but a bright yellow flash made him look to the west.

One of the globes disappeared! someone shouted.

Seven more pale-blue orbs sprinkled the sky, darting in and out of long white clouds. The bright lights of the strange objects reflected orange in the alabaster faces of the wealthier men and women. At least a hundred people had gathered.

It is a dreadful apparition! a peasant exclaimed.

It is a sign of rods and whips, moaned the candlemaker. The Last Judgment is upon us.

The candlemaker scurried off. Yet his words confirmed the boy’s secret desire, so he stayed and summoned the courage to request of the bearded man, If you arranged it, tell me what is happening.

Is it not a cavalry battle, or are you stupid? he answered. A skirmish between demons of warring factions, he sniffed. I smell yellow crystals…

Are we in danger?

The aristocrat didn’t say. He strutted away and took the reins from his groom, who inclined his head in deference. The rich man mounted his black steed and rode off. His retinue followed, and the child noted their foreign manner of dress, with knee-length heavy skirts of salmon and lemon. They, too, wore strange jewels.

When one of the globes split into flames, three women wailed. It dived silent and low over their heads, so closely pursued by a spear-like silver tube that the remaining men cowered. The boy stood fast and even reached up to try to touch its underbelly.

The orb crashed beyond the fields of planted barley. A cloud of steam-like vapor rose from the long gash it had made in the ground.

The sky flashed white and the remaining globes were catapulted toward the Sun. Fiery red, they disappeared in a burst of light that made the spectators shield their eyes. When the boy looked again, he saw the spear jump heavenward and shake the throne of earth with its thunder.

Then, silence, except for gusts of wind and prayers muttered in dread.

The more curious, or brave, trotted down the hill and across the pastures. The young boy ran ahead of them all.

On a berm of upturned dirt, he gawked at the half-buried smoking globe; its surface shone to him like a giant’s glistening armor. He’d forgotten his beating and the blows he’d receive for leaving home without permission.

In the years afterward, he made charcoal drawings of the flying ships without fins that could churn away whole hillsides. At thirteen, he left home to learn how to read so he could study in the great libraries.

But no one, not the church fathers nor the wise scholars, ever said or wrote anything that satisfied him. His scars unhealed, he died at the age of twenty-two. The violence he’d experienced went on, wreaked on a vast multitude of children on the hour, if not every minute, throughout that troubled land, throughout that continent, overseas, on both sides of the equator and across the whole surface of planet Earth.

During that little boy’s short, painful life, however, his fervent desires had migrated to invisible fields radiating around the planet and fused with those of others who had beheld similar wonders. There, in the cyclic depository of time, their kindred yearnings for love and knowledge waited with patience to be acted upon by souls with similar dreams.

Chapter 1

Russian Social Democratic Party Looks to the Destruction of the Czar and His Political System

—The New York Times

Nizhniy, the Russian Empire

Saturday, March 25, 1911

Sergei Pavlovich Korolev was punched and scolded by a cousin bigger and stronger than he. Although Sergei Pavlovich’s nose was bleeding, his nurse sent him to the attic of his grandparents’ tilted house, where he plopped down on a dusty floor to watch the other children in the wide street below. The four-year-old had golden hair to his shoulders and round, abnormally black eyes. He didn’t have any friends. His parents had separated. His mother, Mariya Nikolaevna, had told him that his father had since died. The intelligent child suspected that she lied, for his grandparents always kept the front gate locked in case an ogre came to steal him away.

One night in the attic, looking up instead of down, he saw seven stars floating like sky wagons. Strange lights, they darted sideways, this way and that. The bright amber dots went higher and higher, so high he thought they would fly over the tallest mountains, and vanished.

He wished he could follow.

Berlin, Germany

Saturday, March 22, 1924

Twelve-year-old Wernher von Braun lashed long cylindrical fireworks securely to the rear of his red wagon.

His four-year-old brother, Magnus, snuggled into its midsection.

Wernher struck a match, lit the wicks, and straddled the front. Holding on tight, they blasted down a cobblestone street—in their minds, faster than Odin’s eight-legged fiery steed—jostled and jerked as they careened into a narrow lane and saw shoppers leap out of their way. They sped by shaken fists and outraged shouts.

Clattering into a town square, they cut off the legs of a fruit stand before swerving out of control, tumbling out and skinning their knees in short pants.

Magnus wasn’t held in custody, but, as the elder, Wernher was hauled in front of the local constable. At day’s end the constable took the lad’s hand and walked him home. Two large ink-black ravens watched them from high atop an oak tree.

The constable and his charge were greeted at the magnificent double doors of an aristocratic chateau by Wernher’s father, Baron Magnus Freiherr von Braun. The constable sported a fine mustache and had been in the service long enough to know it wasn’t his place to lecture the baron on childrearing. He politely handed over the youth, whose slicked blond hair was still tousled from the breakneck flight.

The constable started back down the path.

Go to your room, the baron told Wernher.

His son nodded and obeyed. He knew the drill.

When his father arrived with the switch, he was bent over the foot of his bed, pants down, bare buttocks exposed.

"Am Anfang war Erziehung," the baron said.

After all, it will only help the rambunctious boy, he thought to himself.

A few hard strokes; the youth held back his tears.

"Please, my dear Wernher, do not pull any more verrückte stunts, his father respectfully asked. Think of our family’s honor. Think of your mother."

"Ja, mein Vater."

The baron clicked the door shut and, undeterred, Wernher promptly pulled out of a trunk the telescope his mother had given him. He trained it on the darkening sky. While waiting for the stars to appear, he thought about how he might make his next vehicle so powerful that he would one day visit the planet Mars.

Chapter 2

Europe Solves Her Greatest Problem—Germany Will Pay Through an International Bank War Debts to America

—The New York Times

Berlin, Germany

Tuesday, October 15, 1929

Five years later, perched on its four fins, a rocket three stories high towered over a crowd. Searchlights strafed it, attracting a steady stream of passersby who gathered round, all bundled up against the chill of a fall evening. They pondered the glistening silver obelisk made of wood, concrete, and steel, and debated its purpose.

Silent-film director Fritz Lang, the brains behind the spectacle, adjusted his monocle on a fourth-floor balcony. Above the Romanisches Café, across from the Ufa-Palast am Zoo cinema, he looked through the skeletal limbs of autumn trees in the plaza and could make out the title of his latest film, Frau im Mond, lit in garish yellow bulbs. Next to Lang stood his imperious wife, Thea, with the rocket’s architect, Hermann Oberth, who had traveled far since leaving his native land of the seven castles. She sipped her aperitif.

We are getting a large audience, Lang remarked. Too bad your space train will not work as you had promised, Herr Oberth.

Oberth frowned. He had a high forehead and a thin mouth so wide it seemed to cut the lower part of his face in half. I told you from the start that launching a rocket of this size and complication had never been done before. I told you it would be a case of trial and error.

He rubbed his aching head, the result of a test fire gone wrong.

It’s not my fault you almost lost an eye! cried Lang, who removed his monocle and stiffened. What about my eyes, eh?

For a film director, your eyes see very little.

Oberth delivered his sarcastic barbs in a thick Transylvanian accent, which made them all the more irritating to Lang.

Below the trio on the balcony, two members of the German rocket club—Verein für Raumschiffahrt, of which Oberth was president—examined the tall missile. The club’s vice president, Willy Ley, held a letter in his hand. Johannes Winkler drew near, not as tall, wearing a straw hat and a long, thick double-breasted black coat with a fur collar.

Good news, Willy? he asked. A response to your endless grasping letters?

"Nein. Only a polite note of no consequence from the American inventor Goddard," replied Willy, reading through wire-rimmed glasses.

I hear Wernher even placed a long-distance call to the other American rocketeer, that crazy Jack Parsons.

"Ja, but he is not giving away anything either." He put the letter into a deep pocket.

Never mind that, Willy. The missile you constructed with Professor Oberth is a wonder. We are all impressed. But will it fly?

You’ll see.

They surveyed the crowd that had filled the plaza, searching for their friend. New arrivals climbed the steps of a church for a better view. Hundreds of hats of many kinds bobbed up and down in the searchlights.

I see a banker or two, Willy noted.

What we need is an eccentric millionaire banker who wants to go to Mars.

More Berliners in fashionable attire and sables queued up on a red carpet that led to the ticket booth. Some of them stared at the film’s stars who lingered beneath the trees in tuxedos and top hats, sequined gowns and furs.

An usher placed a sign on the box office window announcing that the theater’s two thousand–plus seats and its proscenium boxes had sold out.

Wernher von Braun had purchased his ticket earlier. At seventeen, tall and athletic, he was unimpressed by the celebrities and didn’t feel the cold. The rocket, however, thrilled him. His rocket society associates had kept their work a secret, a surprise, until today. He was quite amazed to see it at last.

He moved in for a closer look, and one of the powerful searchlights caught him in its beam. Those nearest, struck by his polished demeanor and sure stride, mistook him for one of the film stars. With his slick blond hair and pronounced chin, he seemed to some a young avatar of the god Wotan.

On the top steps of the church, Captain Walter Dornberger, dressed in civilian clothes, eyed the rocket with envy; his two aides scanned the plaza.

Do you see them? Dornberger asked, his eyes fixed on the missile.

"Ja. His junior officer pointed in the direction of Willy Ley and Johannes Winkler. Over there."

They waded into the throng like starved wolves.

On the balcony, Fritz Lang welcomed Joseph Goebbels, an influential fixture in the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. How good of you to come.

Not at all, Herr Director. I would not miss for anything a premiere of Germany’s greatest filmmaker. Goebbels smiled at Thea. I believe you wrote the story yourself, my dear? Soon we may have to keep your stories of people flying on rockets to the Moon a secret, eh? Enemies of the fatherland might get ideas.

"Now that you are here, Herr Gauleiter, we may begin," Lang said, anxious to avoid a political discussion.

He nodded to Oberth, who waved to the technicians below.

Let the countdown commence! an excited alto voice blared from loudspeakers placed in trees along the perimeter of the plaza. "Noch zehn Sekunden!"

Searchlights crisscrossed the rocket and the crowd, crowd and rocket.

"Zehn, neun…"

Von Braun approached Willy and Johannes.

Eight, seven…

The crowd, not sure what the rocket had in store for them, fell back, then surged forward.

"Sechs, fünf…"

Dornberger, flanked by his two aides, shook Johannes’s hand. Something in the older man’s bearing, a hint of the Reichswehr, caught Willy’s eye.

Four, three…

Von Braun joined them. He smiled an irresistible smile backlit by a searchlight that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

"Zwei, eins…"

The balcony quartet leaned out from their perch as far as they dared, to almost float in space.

Jetzt!

White sparks erupted from under the rocket. The crowd gasped.

Start-Rakete ausgebrannt! Vollgas auf Mittel-Rakete!

Orange and yellow particles zigged and zagged among the four fins. They popped and crackled, reflected in the faces of those closest to the spectacle. Von Braun’s and Dornberger’s respiration quickened, but the sparks subsided and blinked out.

The rocket had never left the ground.

The fire marshals relaxed.

Pathetic, Lang mumbled on his balcony, loud enough for Oberth to hear.

Verwunderlich! von Braun laughed with Dornberger.

"Meine Damen und Herren, our exciting preshow is over! the loudspeaker announced. Ticket holders may now proceed into the foyer for the breathtaking premiere of Woman in the Moon! "

Berliners filed through theater doors.

Bereft of sightseers, the tall rocket, its lower third singed and blackened by the small explosives, was encircled only by true believers, who saw in its silver-bullet Platonic form a transcendent future.

Chapter 3

Market Losses Reach New Level

—Harrisburg Telegraph

Roswell, New Mexico

Tuesday, December 30, 1930

Two day workers tramped along an unpaved road about a quarter mile outside the small town of Roswell. They were covered from head to shoe in a thin layer of dull gray dirt.

A cream-colored Ford Model A pulled up beside them, and its passenger window rolled down.

Ve are looking fur de Eden Valley, said a thin face behind green-lensed aviator sunglasses. It’s not on map. Can you help, please?

The driver, a fat man with a double chin, kept his eyes straight ahead.

Sure, mister, said the taller worker. Just keep going where you’re going, and at the crossroads take a hard right on One Horse Road. You’ll see Eden Valley soon enough.

Zank you.

The car sped away, trailing a yellow dust cloud.

You don’t approve of furreners, do ya? said the shorter worker in the yellow swirl.

I respect folk’s privacy. If they’d been invited by the professor, they woulda known the way. The tall man spit some tobacco, and they tramped on. Besides, the professor and his crew are up to something behind those cottonwood trees. And I’m pretty sure they don’t want anyone knowing what it is.

The two workers crossed a road and continued on their way.

Ten minutes later a lone motorcyclist roared past. The shorter man, waving another dirt cloud away, happened to notice long brown curls poking out between the rider’s black helmet and leather jacket.

* * *

In Eden Valley, three rickety Ford trucks rattled along in single file across a barren prairie floor. The lead truck towed a two-wheeled farm wagon, its cargo draped in heavy blankets.

They pulled up in a clearing among the dry shrubs, where Robert Goddard’s rocket testing tower stood sixty feet above the dirt, secured by guy wires anchored in concrete slabs.

The vehicles’ occupants climbed out and began unloading their equipment. The winter morning air stung their cheeks. The six men sported berets or straw hats and jackets.

Easy with her, Goddard said.

It took two men to lift the thirty-three-pound, eleven-foot-long slender cylinder from the farm wagon.

Right, doc, said one of the men.

Professor Robert Goddard loved his handiwork, from glistening nose cone to flaring stabilizer vanes; he loved its tanks and tubing. He’d had one quadrant painted Chinese red. Goddard was bald, with dark eyebrows and intense eyes in a gentle sphere of a head. The inventor’s body was stooped over with age, his chest thin and hollow, racked from tuberculosis. The desert air was good for him. He and his wife, Esther, had moved from the East Coast to Mescalero Ranch for his health and his work.

Crew readied the rocket in the tower. A workman played out electric cable from the rear of a truck as it drove slowly from the tower a thousand feet to the control shelter, which they’d buttressed with sandbags. Two others assembled the controls.

Standing beside Esther, the professor supervised his assistants, bowlegged Henry Sachs and careful Larry, who fed gasoline into the tanks. This was followed by liquid oxygen, called lox, which they kept in a thermos. Henry had made the move out west with the Goddards. Larry studied engineering at a local college. Young and enthusiastic, he’d become the professor’s confidante.

If the combustion chamber holds, Goddard said, we might do well today.

Any word from the government? Larry asked, at his task.

None at all. There’s no public money for experiments nowadays, but—Goddard held up a finger and smiled—but in no case should we allow ourselves to be deterred. Test by test, step by step, until one day we may travel where we want in space, cost what it may. In the meantime, thank God for Guggenheim.

May his money last, Esther intoned. We received another letter from overseas this morning. Esther had wavy hair and a sturdy build under her warm coat, and she saw that the news irritated her husband. What should I say in return?

Let me think about it, he replied. I certainly wouldn’t mention what we’re doing today to that nosey German, Oberth.

Esther nodded. She considered Oberth a brilliant mathematician as well as an overweening pest.

After a final check-over, they all piled into the third truck and drove over uneven ground to the control shelter, scaring off a jackrabbit.

About six hundred yards away, the double-chinned driver and his partner with green sunglasses lay hidden in the shrubs. They’d found their way to Eden Valley and Goddard. The fat man looked through field binoculars at the launch tower and spoke in German while the other took notes.

Standing on the shelter’s roof, the professor observed his rocket through a telescope. When its pressure-generated tanks had built up to two hundred pounds, he said quietly, Fire the igniter, Larry.

Larry pressed control-key number one, and flame shot out of the rocket’s base. Goddard brought the second pressure gauge up on the fuel tank. The rocket strained at its cables. At 225 pounds, an automatic release allowed her to rise from the tower slowly until she shot up.

One thousand feet and still climbing! Larry shouted.

But the professor saw the rocket slanting. Henry timed her with a stopwatch. Larry observed its red quadrant and recorded its rotation; another technician with a telescope registered its time position.

With a shrill whistle, the projectile crashed down seconds later, about half a mile away.

Its parachute didn’t work, Goddard said to Esther. Something must have jammed.

I’d say the apex of the flight was about two thousan’ feet, Henry reported, and goin’ about five hundred miles an hour.

Goddard went with the others to retrieve the remnants.

First we have to reconfigure that parachute release, he told them, then we better start retesting our gyroscopic controls.

Hey, doc. Henry pointed southwest. Who’s that over there?

They saw two men hurrying to a car.

Think they’re spies? asked Larry.

Could be, Goddard said. Let’s go after them.

Their overloaded truck rumbled slowly forward, however, while the Germans in a more powerful vehicle plowed back onto the road with a good lead. The fat man lost sight of the Americans, but his thin-faced companion with green sunglasses pivoted and squinted hard at a motorcycle that had come into view behind them.

Mach schnell! he cried.

The double-chinned man pressed the accelerator down to the floor; through the rear window his partner saw the cycle close.

About two hundred yards behind them, the rider removed a revolver from a side holster as the bike hit eighty miles per hour.

The thin-faced man leaned out, aimed, and fired his Luger twice as the rider swerved right to left. The biker fired and the car’s left rear tire exploded. The automobile zigzagged into the prairie and skidded sideways to a stop.

The fat driver climbed out and the motorcyclist slowed before putting two bullets through his chest. The thin-faced man threw himself to the ground, tried to roll away, and screamed when the motorcycle wheels sped over him, crushing his calves.

His cries of agony stopped short—his green glasses shattered, pierced by a bullet through his eye.

The rider put the Harley-Davidson on its kickstand and took off her helmet in order to rummage through the car. The dead men couldn’t see that the cyclist was a woman with a pale face who gathered up their notes and passports. She stowed them in her vehicle’s rear compartment.

Back astride her bike, she pulled at a brown curl, tossed a hand grenade into their Model A, then peeled out and away.

Still more than a mile behind, Goddard cried, Look at that!

A fireball had erupted where the spies had been heading.

The professor reported the whole incident to a local sheriff, but it remained a mystery for years to come.

From that day on, however, Goddard became even more secretive, for he knew what only a few others scattered across the globe suspected: the country that solved the problems and harnessed the fearsome power of the fledgling rocket would dominate the world.

Chapter 4

Chancellor Von Papen Lifts Ban on Nazi Party Paramilitary Group—Over 400,000 Strong

—The Times, London

Berlin, Germany

Wednesday, June 22, 1932

A thick morning fog north of the city caused the few automobilists on the road to drive slowly.

A black sedan, yellow headlights on, turned off the main thoroughfare onto an unpaved side path. A few hundred meters later it stopped with a jerk, brakes squeaking. Its yellow beams illuminated a weathered wooden sign nailed to a post that read, through dripping water: Raketenflugplatz Berlin.

Four men dressed in civilian greatcoats stepped out of the vehicle and proceeded silently on foot across a barren field spotted with clumps of dwarf trees and derelict shacks.

Our agents continue to have bad luck in New Mexico, Colonel Karl Becker said to Captain Walter Dornberger as they crossed a rivulet. That American professor Goddard seems to have guardian angels who protect his work from prying eyes.

Herr Colonel, I have good news on that subject. Lucky for us, the Americans are stupid. While they protect the man, his patents are easily bought for a pittance. As we speak they are being translated and analyzed.

"Gut! When one door is closed, another is opened. They passed a large mound of gravel. Now let us see what these young madmen of the Berlin Rocket Club have to show us."

Becker, Dornberger, and their two officers marched into the fog.

About 150 meters away, beyond the marshes, three shabbier dressed fellows struggled to detach from a car roof their four-meter-long pencil-thin rocket.

Hurry! urged Johannes Winkler. They will be here any minute.

Don’t rush me, said Willy Ley.

Friends, let’s not bicker, said Wernher von Braun, who wore the white, dirty long-coat of a workman. They are probably near even if we cannot see them.

Who is going to do the talking? Johannes panicked.

Their mentor, Herr Oberth, had returned home to teach.

We will play it by ear, said Wernher.

Johannes whispered, They’re here! when the four men emerged from the ground mists, the bronze buttons on their greatcoats wet and sparkling.

I’m glad we found you in this pea soup! Becker called out.

He had brown eyes and a cleft chin. His head of short-cropped auburn and gray hair was uncovered, and he looked at the young men paternally.

The two groups faced each other in semicircles and introductions were made. Dornberger announced that he had recently been appointed to the ballistics council of the German Army, responsible for the development of secret weapons. Becker was his superior. "I said goodbye to my old department, the Wa Prüf 11. To be honest, Colonel Becker and I—we are presently in search of talent."

We are honored, Wernher spoke in his best upper-class cadence, that such distinguished guests from the ballistics section would attend one of our club’s test launches. He had a high voice, but instead of sounding girlish, it made him seem more intelligent to others.

So Wernher will lead. Willy was relieved.

It was not the army’s first visit, yet it promised to be their last if things didn’t go well. Their rocket club needed cash badly.

Tell me, Colonel Becker inquired, how did you get your start?

We formed our little society several years ago, Wernher said in an easy manner, after many good drinks in the back room of a very bad restaurant. The Golden Scepter, in Breslau, on July 5, 1927—I know the exact day because each year we celebrate the anniversary.

We are committed to spreading the idea of space flight, said Willy. Wait a few moments please and we will show you.

They excused themselves to make final adjustments to their rocket.

Dornberger, in his thirties, and Becker, in his fifties, traded amused glances.

Minutes later, the rocket blasted off.

Seconds later, flames shot through a crack in its cylinder. The projectile traveled horizontally rather than vertically and came to a fiery crash less than two kilometers away.

A pitiful display! Becker scolded them. You would do better to concentrate on scientific data rather than fire these toys. Captain Dornberger and I are interested in rocketry, but there are a number of obvious and glaring defects in your organization.

The officers saw that the three young men were embarrassed but the visitors did nothing to hide their disappointment. Willy and Johannes hung back, leaving Wernher to absorb the brunt of the colonel’s words.

You must strive to advance with more scientific thoroughness. On the occasions Captain Dornberger has paid you a visit, he has reported on boys at play. Now I have seen it with my own eyes. What we want are serious people. What we want to know is fuel consumption per second, what mixture is best, how to deal with extreme temperatures, what types of injection, combustion chamber shape, and exhaust nozzles yield the best performance. We are most concerned with a properly functioning propulsion unit.

I must agree with the colonel, Dornberger barked. Your operation is flimsy. With this kind of rinky-dink setup, how can you measure your propellant consumption or your combustion pressure?

Gentlemen, Wernher replied calmly, we would be pleased to satisfy each of your demands if you would only be so good enough to purchase for us the necessary instruments.

Ha! Becker made his laughter sharp. Bluster is fine in its place, yet there is far too much showmanship in your group’s theatrics. We may be pleased by your gumption, but if you want our guidance, you will also have to stop wasting energy on publicity articles in newspapers about fantastic stunts.

Gentlemen, you must not blame us for our approach. We have to use a certain amount of showmanship to keep our place going. As you can see for yourself, this forsaken spot and our meager tools—well, it’s not much to look at.

True. Dornberger lit an Atikah cigarette. Yet it is just this weakness for publicity that makes it difficult for us to do business with you. If we are going to make something of military value, it will have to be done under the strictest secrecy.

Of course.

The colonel glanced at Dornberger, who nodded.

Very well, Becker decided. We will consider giving your group an opportunity to continue with more adequate means—if you will work behind the fence of an army post. No more newspapers. No more stunts.

Becker and his two officers withdrew.

Herr von Braun, Dornberger said before joining them, why not discuss our offer with your associates? You have five minutes.

The three young men retreated behind one of the shacks and they, too, lit cigarettes.

The fog was lifting, and a hazy sun shone through it in spots.

I have a dread of ignorant bureaucrats, Johannes began. They will terribly hinder the free development of our brainchild.

"Ja, said Willy. Once we go behind that fence, the army will choke us with their red tape. And what about Hitler? What if he gets hold of the army?"

Hitler? asked Wernher. Hindenburg will trounce him.

How can you be so sure? Johannes blinked and rubbed his eye.

I am not sure. But if we do not move forward, we will never get anywhere. This won’t be a marriage, after all. It will be a business arrangement. The real question is, how can we milk this cash cow most effectively so they get what they want—and we get what we want.

Wernher is perhaps right, Johannes said, rubbing his other eye. The others didn’t even show up today, and our experiments are now too expensive for any organization except a millionaires’ club.

Or the army, I suppose. Willy sighed. "Wernher, your attitude is too Deutsche Adels Gesellschaft. Convenient for you, but nobody else…"

Out of earshot, Becker asked, Do you really think this young man can help us build a liquid-fuel rocket suitable for mass production?

I do. Dornberger took a drag on his Atikah. When I come here, I am struck pleasantly by this von Braun’s energy and his shrewdness. His knowledge is astonishing, though I admit far too theoretical. While the others make wild boasts, he lays bare the difficulties. In this respect he is a refreshing change; he is a realist and of superior character. If they agree, I will send him back to school and train him properly.

Becker nodded. Perhaps we should invite only this von Braun into our good graces?

An excellent idea, Herr Colonel. Dornberger clicked his heels.

Five minutes elapsed, and the last wisps of fog burned away.

The two groups faced each other once more, in the sun. Wernher opened his mouth to speak, but Dornberger cut him off. We have a different proposal. Herr von Braun will join us. We will bring in you others when our important work has progressed.

I would rather not leave my friends. Wernher exhaled smoke through his nose.

You will not leave them. Becker took the young man by the arm and led him away. They will join you—later.

Dornberger and the two soldiers followed, watched by Willy and Johannes, who weren’t sure what to do or say.

Two ravens fluttered out from the sunlight to perch atop a nearby tall fence. They watched the officers and the young man walk away.

If you cannot be a whole body unto yourself, Becker said to Wernher, why not join such a whole by serving as a mighty limb. That is wisdom from Schiller.

One of the ravens cawed. It had a powerful beak to tear flesh from bone, and its claws gripped the rotting wood like iron.

* * *

The following Saturday, Willy called on the von Braun family at their home in a lush park southeast of the Brandenburg Gate.

Wernher, dressed for dinner in a black evening jacket and pressed pants, greeted Willy at the door. He guided him through their luxurious rooms, by stained glass portraits of folklore heroes and art deco furnishings. Willy commented on it all with familiarity and expertise.

During an elegant repast, Baron Magnus Freiherr von Braun sat at the head of a long gilded mahogany table. His wife, Emmy von Quistorp, severe in manner and regard, her blonde hair in a bun and a pearl necklace round her rosy neck, reigned at the opposite end. Like their son, they were dressed formally. To the baron’s right dined twenty-year-old Wernher and his friend; to the baron’s left, his youngest son, thirteen-year-old Magnus Jr. His eldest, Sigismund, was not at home that day.

Donc, c’est officiel, père, Wernher announced. "Notre petite societé de la fusée va faire partie de l’Armée."

Et bien, mon fils, tout ça me semble un peu soudain, said the baron, who had a long, aquiline nose.

All this French is spoiling my appetite, Willy said in German. I cannot translate and eat.

The key is not to translate, Wernher said, wolfing down some boiled cabbage. At each dinner we speak another language—French, English, Portuguese—so they become second nature. Anyway, I said to my father that our rocket club has become part of the army. Officially. He addressed his mother. "Maintenant, chère mère, notre travail avancera plus rapidement."

Emmy glanced at her husband in a manner that sought his support.

The baron placed his silver mother-of-pearl fork and knife carefully to either side of his plate and spoke in German, out of politeness to Willy. Wernher, do you realize Hitler may soon be elected chancellor and that he will control the army of which you speak? At every turn he outsmarts the government.

Hitler will not last. Wernher pierced a Brussels sprout with his fork. Besides, has he not promised peace while he rebuilds the country?

His father stiffened.

Son, I have heard that an art gallery in Munich has recently acquired a large painting of Adolf Hitler in which he is plated in shining armor. Let me tell you something: men who wear armor intend to go to war.

That is my fear also, said Willy.

Well, if we are going to war, Wernher said, "we shall have to win it. Nous serons les vainqueurs! "

Chapter 5

Hitler Made Chancellor of Germany but Coalition Cabinet Limits Power; Centrists Hold Balance in Reichstag

—The San Francisco Chronicle

Nakhabino, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

Thursday, August 17, 1933

Put that book down! commanded Mikhail Klavdievich Glushko. How can you stomach such vile propaganda?

Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, stretched out on a fallen tree, raised his eyes from his novel and laughed. He thought it a good joke, for in truth they were both reading Red Star, whose young revolutionary is carried off by aliens to a Marxist paradise on Mars. There, to the young rocketeers’ delight, their countryman experiences the abolition of money (they had little), advanced technology (their dream), and free love (why not?).

Has our guest arrived? Sergei Pavlovich asked, putting his book into a satchel.

Yes.

Glushko had slicked-back hair, an ironed cotton shirt, tailored pants, and he nodded sideways at a tall elderly man in a forest clearing surrounded by an admiring group of GIRD members. The elderly man held a tin trumpet to his ear to hear their questions and compliments.

The legend: Konstantin Tsiolkovsky! thought Korolev.

In contrast to Glushko, Korolev appeared to have slept in his clothes. Yet it was he who had persuaded the revered father of Russian rocketry to come and witness the launch of GIRD-09.

You had better go greet him, Glushko advised. Introduce yourself. He may not remember you.

Yes, yes. Korolev stumbled to his feet. You’re right.

He overcame his lingering shyness and loped over, with Glushko, his chief engineer, right behind.

The basic drive to reach for the Sun, Tsiolkovsky was saying, to shed the cables of gravity, has been a dream of mine ever since as a young man I read Jules Verne. I would wander the streets of Moscow late at night trying to figure out how to make his fantasies a reality.

"Dobriy den, Kamrad!" Korolev shook the old man’s hand firmly and spoke into his hearing aid. "I am Sergei Pavlovich Korolev, director of the Gruppa izucheniya reaktivnogo dvizheniya—GIRD."

Of course you are, said Tsiolkovsky, and Sergei saw recognition in the old man’s clear eyes. In the years since we last met, your GIRD has come a long way.

I agree with Lenin, Korolev said. We are a backward country, and only the real applications of technology can save us. We must master the highest technology—or be crushed! He gestured toward the silver projectile being prepared by GIRD members. Your work has been my inspiration.

The modern age is a difficult business, young man. Tsiolkovsky still held onto the young man’s hand and peered into his face and dark eyes—Korolev had the confident shoulders of a bull. It will require knowledge, willpower, and many years—perhaps a lifetime of failures and difficulties.

"I am not afraid of difficulties. To be honest, we’ve already had our