The Lightning Keeper (27 page)

“There is a problem in the wording then?”

“Yes, originally. It seemed to me on first reading, and even more so after refreshing my memory in the Search Room, that there is a risk here of ambiguity vis-à-vis the Tesla Bladeless Turbine.”

“I have read about Tesla's machine, and it is entirely different to mine. And besides, it doesn't work. The metal, at such a rate of revolution, becomes deformed.”

“My dear Mr. Peacock, Tesla's difficulty in fabrication, or in production and marketing, is no concern of ours. A patent is a patent is a patent. He owns the
idea
of his machine, whether or not he can build it, and it is my job to protect his idea, or his rights to it.”

“I tell you that my machine and his are different, which I can demonstrate with no difficulty. Is this the only problem?”

Flaten cleared his throat behind his hand, and was about to answer when he glanced down at the drawing of the wheel. “A very beautiful drawing, this. Somewhat unorthodox, but quite exquisitely done. It is the part of my job that I like best.”

“Thank you, but it is not my drawing. It was done by my friend.”

“Well, well. Yes, on the other matter, there is a more substantive problem, though the overlap with Tesla's design is hardly trivial.”

“And that would be?” Toma thought it curious that Flaten's letter had made no reference to a second difficulty.

“After I had written to you—the first action—it came to my attention…that is to say a colleague, my superior, had a word with me about your application.”

“Is this a normal procedure?”

“I cannot say that it is, though I have heard of precedents in other divisions.”

“And what are those things, those precedents?”

“They are matters pertaining to the national safety.”

“You mean the war?”

“Yes, my dear Mr. Peacock, the war.” There was no expansiveness about Flaten now, no smile or display of the handsome watch chain. He rubbed his hands together and gazed at Toma, or through him, without expression.

“Everyone I have met in Washington seems to think I have invented a new weapon and called it the Peacock Turbine.”

Flaten smiled weakly. “I'm afraid this is out of my hands. There are firm guidelines in these circumstances, and restrictions that apply so long as the application is placed under security.”

“This is ridiculous, a joke.”

“I assure you it is not.”

“Then I demand an explanation,” said Toma, his voice rising. “I shall appeal to your superior, who seems to have authority here.” He pushed back his chair and Flaten grasped his wrist.

“Please, I beg you, sit down. There is no right of appeal in these cases; in fact, you are forbidden to discuss your invention with anyone.”

“Forbidden to discuss it? How am I to work? How am I to live?”

Frederick Flaten's face registered an expression of such sympathetic distress that Toma could not doubt his sincerity. Flaten patted the back of Toma's hand reassuringly. “I think there is a way. But you must understand that anything I say now is in an unofficial capacity, because I am your friend.”

“Yes,” said Toma, as if he understood.

“There would be no objection to your carrying on the work, further experimentation and refinement, and so on.”

“But how will I…?”

“And if there were a coinventor, then you would be free to discuss with him the most intimate details of your work, but only with him.”

“There is no such person. You have read my application.”

Flaten paused and looked again, with uncomfortable emphasis, into Toma's eyes. “And if, either before or after the application, you had assigned your rights in the device to a third party, partially or entirely, then you would have free intercourse with the assignee, and the right to compensation. It would be better if the assignment predated the security intervention, but I think that can probably be arranged.”

Toma's anger drained away, and at ten-thirty in the morning he felt suddenly exhausted. Flaten looked anxiously at him, awaiting his response.

“As my friend, then, can you tell me where I should turn?”

A smile tugged at one side of Flaten's lip, as if they were playing a game; but he did not speak. So Toma took the pen from the holder on the desk and dipped it in the inkwell. His hand hovered over the blotter and Flaten quickly supplied a sheet of paper. Toma scrawled the ini
tials GE; Flaten's face was illuminated with relief and unfeigned happiness. It was really, thought Toma, a very nice smile.

Flaten crumpled the paper and threw it away. “That name did come up in my discussion with…” Here he inclined his head toward the frosted glass partition in the corner of the room. “They have a natural interest in such matters, of course, and their involvement may even smooth the way for the application.”

“It would seem I have no choice, if I want to eat. But tell me, if you can, what you know about Dr. Steinmetz, Dr. Charles Proteus Steinmetz.”

“Steinmetz? I should think that nearly everyone in this building knows Dr. Steinmetz.”

“And do you know him?”

“Yes. Well…in a way.” Flaten's face looked like pale wax. “No. I mean I have nothing against him, but he almost cost me my job.”

“You may tell me, if you will.”

“I am allergic to smoke, you see, always have been, and one day this cloud of smoke billows over the partition—this is when I was just an assistant examiner, and I was sitting right next to the chief's office—and I was trying not to make any noise coughing. Then this little man walks out of the chief's office smoking the most
enormous
cigar, and the chief shows him out. When he comes back I am literally weeping and struggling to control my breathing, and the chief is furious at me because he thinks I am laughing at Steinmetz.”

“And is Steinmetz funny, then?”

“No, I mean he is a genius, everybody knows that. But…” and here Frederick Flaten had to suppress a nervous giggle, “but he is a dwarf, so it could go either way. And the trouble was that as soon as I understood that the chief was angry, and why, I
did
start to laugh. It was awful. I was sick afterward in the wastebasket. Oh, you must think I am awful…I do apologize.”

Toma spoke carefully. “No, I do not think you are awful. It was a mistake, as the chief must realize, for you are no longer merely his assistant. Is this not so?”

The sun shone again on the assistant primary examiner of Division Eight. “Yes, that's true, though I thought it would never happen. I thought my chances here were finished.” He looked at Toma and sighed.
“I say, you're not by any chance free for lunch? I'd be very pleased…”

“Another time, perhaps. The rain…?”

“Check.”

“Yes, the raincheck. My mind is too full now of this other matter.” Toma rose and took his hat.

“Of course it is, and you must write to me if you need further advice. But will you tell me one thing—and perhaps this has a bearing on the Tesla design, perhaps not—but where did the idea of the multiple wheels come from?”

Nothing in Washington was what it seemed, and Toma looked carefully at Flaten, wondering what guile lay behind the question. None, he decided. “It is strange that Mr. Coffin asked me the same thing just last night. But if you will promise to keep the secret, I will show you. It began with one wheel, then it became two. How it happened is like a child's game, embarrassingly simple.”

He took the pen and dipped it again, and Flaten supplied the paper. “It was late at night and I was thinking about two matters at once: the mechanical features or design of my wheel, and the formula for determining the effects of turbulence and friction along these spiral grooves. I drew a wheel.” Toma drew a wheel. “And then I had an idea about the equation, so I folded my paper.” Toma folded the paper. Flaten followed these moves as he would a magician's. “And I wrote my equations on the back, like this.”

“And?”

“And in the morning…well, here, you open it.” Toma handed him the slip, and Flaten unfolded it to the two wheels.

“Really?”

“That's all there is to it, I'm afraid. The second wheel, mirror to the first, was a great step forward in the design, and if I had waited a few seconds before folding the paper, I might have missed it altogether.”

“May I keep this?”

“Of course. But it is our secret.”

 

T
OMA HAD INTENDED TO
leave the Patent Office and clear his head with a walk through the cherry trees and lawns near the great obelisk. But on his way down the stairs he saw an arrowed sign pointing to the
Search Room and the Library. Sooner or later he would have to do this. Why not now? He followed the arrows, thinking of the money he had wasted on that fool of a patent agent.

It was a pleasant room: long tables of inlaid wood, leather chairs, and high sunny windows. The clerk brought him the file on patent #1,061,206, the Tesla Bladeless Turbine, and Toma spread out on the table the description and the specifications and the drawings. Not only was the machine elegant and compact—so compact, he had heard it said, that it would fit in your hat—but there was the mystery, thrilling to him, that Tesla's own hand had written these words and drawn these lines. He laid his hands flat on the pages for a moment.

As he began to read, awe and reverence gave way to a small sense of pride, and to hope. His wheel, his turbine, was indeed different from Tesla's design, and at one point he muttered aloud: “With all due respect, Mr. Tesla, you do not own these concepts.”

When he had finished reading Tesla's application, he turned to the official remarks on the folder itself. Someone had expressed doubt that it was really practical to run a turbine at such speeds. Still, the patent had been granted.

Toma, after consultation with the clerk, was soon hemmed in by a semicircle of folders, and he spent the afternoon reading through them, making notes to himself. He could tell at a glance which of these machines would work in a useful way. Some of what he read was nonsense cloaked in elegant expression. Occasionally there was an insight of startling purity and originality.

Near the end of the afternoon the words began to swim on the page, and he closed his eyes. He dozed, imagining himself in a forest of great trees. His feet knew the way and he was walking toward a light at the edge of the woods.

A bell rang and the clerk began collecting folders scattered on the long tables. It was a quarter to four. Toma stood and stretched, clearing his head with a mighty yawn. He was ready for Steinmetz. In fact, he looked forward to meeting him.

 

O
N THE LONG WALK
to Georgetown he stopped often to admire a building or a gated garden; he knew that he must not arrive before the
appointed hour, but also he was struggling to contain his excitement. He stopped on a certain corner where a colorfully dressed African man was selling bits of skewered meat that perfumed the whole block.

“Where are you from?”

“Nigeria, sah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just selling meat, sah. You like?” The meat was delicious, though it stung his mouth.

“Yes, I am very hungry, and I like. What is it?”

“Goat, sah. I de kill dis goat an' take he meat, den I pound 'im wi' de bottle an' put 'em some ground nut meal an pepe for hot. Goat meat make you very strong, sah, pass all strong for woman.” At this the man smiled so splendidly that Toma had to laugh.

“You go buy one more time?”

“Thank you, my friend. I will buy another. No, two more, and I will eat them on my way.”

He walked on, tearing at the meat on the bamboo sliver, taking care not to stain Mr. Coffin's fine shirt. When he had finished, he ducked into the next tavern and washed his hands and face with the strong brown soap. Standing at the urinal, glancing down at himself, he repeated, in the vendor's patois: Strong for woman…yes, I am very strong for woman. At the bar, after finishing his beer, he took a handful of peppermints to sweeten his breath.

The house was set back from the street and almost invisible for the hedge of candleberries and the yellow climbing roses that threaded their way through the wrought iron.

The gate was a puzzle to him: there was the bar, which rose from its catch when he lifted, and still it would not yield. He pulled on the bell, feeling foolish. Harriet herself answered and he had those few moments of her approach down the brick walk to observe her. She kept her eyes cast down to the path and seemed not to see him. The impatient quickness of her step was measured now, but he would recognize anywhere the carriage of her shoulders and those two bright spots of color in her cheeks that embarrassed her because she seemed to blush.

“Toma?” She tried to screen the sun's glare with her hand, and he had the sensation of being invisible to those familiar gray eyes, gray shading to green at the edge. “Is it really you?” The light glanced off the
many little diamonds at her wrist and filled the much larger stone on her finger. He had never seen these things before.

“Yes, it is Toma. You would think that a great inventor could open the gate without help.”

“I am sorry. It is only…well…” She took a large key from the folds of her skirt and inserted it into a mechanism hidden in the ivy on the gatepost. “Fowler does complain about this, and of course he won't carry such a key.”

“There are thiefs here?”

“No. There is the bolt on the door for them. It is Papa…he can't be trusted to stay.” She sighed and took his hands in hers. “You have come all this way, and I am so very glad to see you.”

He followed her up the path to her door. The calm of the evening was marred by a few clanging blows from the back of the house that sounded oddly familiar, though out of place on this quiet street.