CHAPTER 17
This was Blake’s first visit to the professor’s Malibu home since his wife had passed. The security gate surprised him. He couldn’t believe the way the professor had imprisoned himself by having ten-foot fences installed around the property. The house appeared to have deteriorated step for step with the professor: the flowers and colorful plants were dead; bushes needed trimming; the lawn begged for a mow; and a good spray from the hose would rejuvenate the slate courtyard.
The professor answered the front door in a withered T-shirt and boxers that struggled to stay above his waist. Blake suspected the pair had fit well a few months ago, before the professor started losing weight.
“I’m not ready for you,” the professor admitted. “I was jotting down some notes this morning, and one thing led to another, and now you’re here.” Looking at his underclothes, “And if I don’t get some clothes on, you’ll see a few more objects than you bargained for.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Blake said. “Take your time getting ready. I’ll mow the lawn. Looks like you can use a gardener around here.”
“Ooo! That’s not a bad idea. I’ll pay you. Fifty bucks is what that crook gardener used to steal from me. When he insisted on knowing the code to my gate, I told him to go to hell.” Paying attention to his yard for the first time in a long time, he noted, “Looks like he took my yard to hell with him, but I don’t care. I’ve got too much on my mind to worry about trivial things.” Trivial things, as the professor put it, included anything not concerning his research. He had concluded that professors like himself who lost track of time, made socially unacceptable mistakes by dressing funny or not combing their hair, were not nutty or absentminded, but mentally preoccupied. If he were an athlete, some might say he was in a zone. Being in a zone with his research meant everything else was a distraction — dressing, eating, haircuts, housework, the yard — only his research mattered.
After struggling under the high-noon sun to cut the shin-high grass, Blake pushed the lawnmower back to the garage before returning to the front door, which he found locked. For a few minutes he knocked, pounded and waited.
“Oo! Ooo! Good timing,” the professor said when he finally answered.
Blake was glad to see signs of the professor’s childlike giddiness return to his voice.
“Look at those muscles,” the professor gawked, staring at Blake’s shirtless, tan and sweaty body. “Come in, we’ll get you cleaned up and hydrated.”
“I told you I’ve had too much time on my hands,” Blake replied, following him to the kitchen. “Working out helps me pass the days.” He noticed along the way that the house’s interior was as neglected as the exterior. The living and dining rooms were filled with dust-gathering furniture, and dismal rays of sunshine fought to sneak past closed curtains.
The south end of the house was where the professor spent most of his time, in a sprawling area shared by the kitchen and family room that featured an arched ceiling and expansive picturesque windows that offered inspiring views down the mountainside with the vast ocean in the distance, when the curtains weren’t closed. Large warehouse club packages of plastic cups, flatware and plates cluttered the kitchen counter. Their used counterparts filled the trashcan; the professor had phased out dishwashing.
“Are you still jogging?” the professor asked, offering Blake a cold can of iced tea from the fridge.
“At least 20-miles a week. I’ve never seen a plump astronaut.”
“I like the optimism. Soon NASA won’t be the only group sending people into space.”
“You mentioned that at dinner the other night.”
“Do you believe in flying saucers, Blake?”
“Extraterrestrials?”
“People associate the two, but I plan on building a saucer of my own — terrestrial, no extras on board. The other day I mentioned the science of controlling gravity. I was involved in the field decades ago.”
“I’ve heard of anti-gravity, but never from your mouth.”
“My silence related to those ghosts from my past that I told you about. For a while anti-gravity looked as though it would become as promising a field as computer technology is today. From 1947 until about 1952, UFO’s were a hot topic — thousands of reported sightings. The scientific community began analyzing eyewitness reports and theorizing about the technical aspects of such craft. Anti-gravity was believed to be the basis behind their propulsion systems.
“I was about your age at the time,” he continued. “Just finished graduate school, and instead of looking for a job I built a model flying saucer. The local paper snapped my picture with it and ran a story on my anti-gravity research. Two weeks later I was working for the government at Los Alamos.
“One scientist in our group had immigrated from Germany after World War II, which wasn’t uncommon. We took many of their top scientists. Fritz something. I forget his last name. Maybe I never knew it. We called him Fritzy. One day we arrived at the lab and everything was missing. All our notes, test results, models — gone. Fritzy too.”
“What happened?”
“Russia ended up with some of Germany’s scientists as well. The government claimed Fritzy had close friends in the Soviet Union and sold us out. It seemed logical at the time, but reflecting back, I wouldn’t be surprised if our own government took everything and blamed it on Fritz and the Russians. Primarily because I see signs and hear rumors about anti-gravity type designs in our high tech programs, not Russia’s.”
“What happened to your research program?”
“Anti-gravity research became top secret.” The professor answered Blake’s questions about a part of his life on which he rarely spoke. He told him how the government had black-listed him. His bitterness. His fears. How he put everything behind him and moved on. Until now.
“What caused the change of heart?” Blake asked.
“A need to do something with my life … unresolved questions … and anger that something with so much potential and positive implications is kept secret.”
“So how do I fit in?”
“Obviously I’ve started my research again. I have a few old friends sponsoring me. Corporate people. They want to make commercial uses for the technology.” The professor did not like having to fabricate a story, but gave his word he would not divulge the FBI’s involvement in his research.
“Aren’t you being paranoid by keeping it such a secret?”
“Think about it, Blake. If the government has anti-gravity powered craft, it means they never stopped the research. Someone went through great lengths to keep me out of a loop that’s been around fifty years, with very few knowing about it.” The professor knew he had sparked Blake’s interest. “There’s a lot more to the research, Blake. But you have to be committed to the project before I open up. I already explained how it would be good for you in the short run. The long-term possibilities will be what you make of them. But you must be aware that sending ripples through the wrong puddle could tarnish your future.”
“If I understand you, I don’t need the government. We can build our own ship.”
“It’s easier said than done, but you’ve got the right idea. Now come on,” he motioned Blake into the family room. “You’re going to get a kick out of this.” Lifting a small crocheted sampler hanging on a wall, he revealed a keypad and pecked in a code. Several feet away, two ceiling-high bookshelves made a subtle click noise. Next the professor slid the shelves apart, exposing a small hallway. He smiled and swooped his hand toward the opening. “You have the grand distinction of being the first to see my new lab.”