to the tree, so close that the driver must have scraped his car
door on the trunk, just as I'd scraped against the wall of the Lincoln Tunnel.
And then, maybe because of the
Lincoln Tunnel, I had a brainstorm: I stood on the tire tracks, bent my knees
forward and stuck my ass out as if I were sitting down, and extended my arm out
of an imaginary car window. It reached straight into the notch.
I
still wasn't ready to admit what I knew. It took the entire trip on the
bus, the walk from Port Authority to the library, and standing behind my
counter until Ms. Yardley had tired of me, before I understood what anyone who
goes to see a c-movie understands without trying: Mom had put something in the
notch in the tree, the car had stopped there for a minute, and whoever had been
in it had reached out and taken that something.
*
What happened next had to do with Mr.
K. I don't know who -besides you - will see these pages, and I
wouldn't write it down unless I was certain that no one could do him any harm
any more.
At about nine he arrived at work and,
as usual, passed through the Catalog Room. He didn't say anything as he
walked past and didn't stare his usual straight-ahead absent stare; he looked
right at me and indicated with his head that I should come upstairs.
After a minute I found an excuse to
go up there. When I came in, he jumped up and turned the lock on the
door. This time it seemed that all his aches and pains had vanished.
He still had those circles under his eyes, but his movements were no
longer sluggish and the expression of pain his face usually wore had been
almost completely erased. On the desk in front of him was the envelope
with the slide. "How did you get involved in this?" he asked.
I could still permit myself to assume
that the word "involved" represented a kind of humor, and not danger.
I said: "I found it."
"Where?"
Now his voice sounded severe. I
was silent.
"Do you know what the letters
`T. S.' stand for?"
"No."
"Top Secret." He reached
inside his desk and deftly pulled out a piece of paper. "Here, this
is the system to which the diagram on the slide corresponds." It was
a quick and imprecise drawing of a large machine. "I copied it from
the description of a government requisition. The secret details had been
erased and I reconstructed them as best I could according to my
knowledge."
Together the lines formed a kind of
large turbine.
"An engine?" I asked.
"Of a missile."
"A missile?"
"Agitator. Actually, it's
called FM40, but `agitator' sounds better to the senators who have to ratify
budgets. You can read about the political debacle surrounding this
missile in any newspaper, but the technical details are an official United
States secret. I'm breaking the law by talking about it, you're breaking
the law by holding on to this slide, and whoever lost it was also breaking the
law...” He peered at it in front of the window. "The part
that's in your diagram is the one that draws in gases from the combustion
chamber and distributes them in four different directions. That's how you
get the revolutionary effect. The missile is projected as it revolves around
itself, like a giant screw. If you add a suitable warhead...”
"If the technical details are
secret, how do you know them?"
He wasn't insulted by my doubting
him, and I interpreted this to be some sort of credit I had with him.
"I dealt with this once," he said.
"Were you an engineer?"
"Not exactly."
For a moment I wondered whether he'd
tell me what brought him to a wooden cubicle in the corridor of a municipal
library in New York, but then I started thinking about the slide, which I now had to get back into my possession. Finally I just grabbed it, with the
envelope, and got up.
He didn't show any intent to stop me, but said,
"If I were in your shoes I'd burn it and forget the
door on the trunk, just as I'd scraped against the wall of the Lincoln Tunnel.
And then, maybe because of the
Lincoln Tunnel, I had a brainstorm: I stood on the tire tracks, bent my knees
forward and stuck my ass out as if I were sitting down, and extended my arm out
of an imaginary car window. It reached straight into the notch.
I
still wasn't ready to admit what I knew. It took the entire trip on the
bus, the walk from Port Authority to the library, and standing behind my
counter until Ms. Yardley had tired of me, before I understood what anyone who
goes to see a c-movie understands without trying: Mom had put something in the
notch in the tree, the car had stopped there for a minute, and whoever had been
in it had reached out and taken that something.
*
What happened next had to do with Mr.
K. I don't know who -besides you - will see these pages, and I
wouldn't write it down unless I was certain that no one could do him any harm
any more.
At about nine he arrived at work and,
as usual, passed through the Catalog Room. He didn't say anything as he
walked past and didn't stare his usual straight-ahead absent stare; he looked
right at me and indicated with his head that I should come upstairs.
After a minute I found an excuse to
go up there. When I came in, he jumped up and turned the lock on the
door. This time it seemed that all his aches and pains had vanished.
He still had those circles under his eyes, but his movements were no
longer sluggish and the expression of pain his face usually wore had been
almost completely erased. On the desk in front of him was the envelope
with the slide. "How did you get involved in this?" he asked.
I could still permit myself to assume
that the word "involved" represented a kind of humor, and not danger.
I said: "I found it."
"Where?"
Now his voice sounded severe. I
was silent.
"Do you know what the letters
`T. S.' stand for?"
"No."
"Top Secret." He reached
inside his desk and deftly pulled out a piece of paper. "Here, this
is the system to which the diagram on the slide corresponds." It was
a quick and imprecise drawing of a large machine. "I copied it from
the description of a government requisition. The secret details had been
erased and I reconstructed them as best I could according to my
knowledge."
Together the lines formed a kind of
large turbine.
"An engine?" I asked.
"Of a missile."
"A missile?"
"Agitator. Actually, it's
called FM40, but `agitator' sounds better to the senators who have to ratify
budgets. You can read about the political debacle surrounding this
missile in any newspaper, but the technical details are an official United
States secret. I'm breaking the law by talking about it, you're breaking
the law by holding on to this slide, and whoever lost it was also breaking the
law...” He peered at it in front of the window. "The part
that's in your diagram is the one that draws in gases from the combustion
chamber and distributes them in four different directions. That's how you
get the revolutionary effect. The missile is projected as it revolves around
itself, like a giant screw. If you add a suitable warhead...”
"If the technical details are
secret, how do you know them?"
He wasn't insulted by my doubting
him, and I interpreted this to be some sort of credit I had with him.
"I dealt with this once," he said.
"Were you an engineer?"
"Not exactly."
For a moment I wondered whether he'd
tell me what brought him to a wooden cubicle in the corridor of a municipal
library in New York, but then I started thinking about the slide, which I now had to get back into my possession. Finally I just grabbed it, with the
envelope, and got up.
He didn't show any intent to stop me, but said,
"If I were in your shoes I'd burn it and forget the
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