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then to keep up as they stalked over the asphalt and through the labs and offices, Enzian dominating every room and landscape of those early Rocket days. . . . Pökler's clearest memory of him is his first, in the testing room at Kummersdorf, surrounded by electric colors— green nitrogen bottles, a thick tangle of red, yellow and blue plumbing, Enzian's own copper face with the same kind of serenity that now and then drifted into Mondaugen's—watching in one of the mirrors the image of a rocket engine beyond the safety partition: in the stale air of that room snapping with last-minute anxieties, nicotine craving, unreasonable prayer, Enzian was at peace. . . .

Pokier moved to Peenemünde in 1937, along with some 90 others. They were invading Gravity itself, and a beachhead had to be laid down. Never in his life, not even as a laborer in Berlin, did Pokier work so hard. The vanguard spent the spring and summer converting a little island, the Greifswalder Oie, into a testing station: resurfacing road, stringing cable and telephone line, putting up living quarters, latrines and storage sheds, excavating bunkers, mixing concrete, endlessly stevedoring in crates of tools, bags of cement, drums of fuel. They used an ancient ferryboat for cargo runs between the mainland and the Oie. Pokier remembers the worn red plush and scratched lacquer inside the dim cabins, the neglected brightwork, the asthmatic cry of her steam-whistle, odors of sweat, cigarette smoke and Diesel fuel, the trembling of arm and leg muscles, the tired joking, the exhaustion toward the end of each day, his own new calluses struck to gold by the late sun. . . .

The sea was mostly calm and blue that summer, but in the autumn the weather turned. Rain swept in from the north, the temperature plunged, wind tore into storage tents, giant waves boomed all night long. The water was white for fifty meters out from shore. Spray feathered landward off the curls of the big breakers. Pokier, billeted at a fisherman's cottage, came in from his evening walks behind a fine mask of salt. Lot's wife. What disaster had he dared to look back on? He knew.

He reverted that season to childhood, to the wounded dog. During those wet and solitary walks he brooded about Leni: he concocted scenarios in which they would meet again, in some elegant or dramatic setting—ministry, theatre lobby—two or three jeweled and beautiful women hanging to him, generals and industrialists springing to light his American cigarettes and listening to his offhand solutions to problems Leni would only vaguely understand. The most satisfying of

these fantasies would come while Pokier was on the toilet—he'd tap his feet, fanfares would whisper through his lips as he felt that pleasant anticipation. . . .

But the burden of his poor Berlin self lingered. He had spoken to it, listened, probed, and yet it would not dissolve or flee, it persisted, beggar in all the doorways of his life, beseeching silently with eyes, with hands quite sure of their guiltmaking craft. Busywork at Peene-münde and good company at Herr Halliger's inn on the Oie—all marking time till good firing weather—and Pokier more vulnerable than he'd ever been. His cold and wornanless nights, the card and chess games, the all-male beer-drinking sessions, the nightmares he had to find his own way up out of because there was no other hand now to shake him awake, nobody to hold him when the shadows came on the window shade—all caught up with him that November, and maybe he allowed it to. A protective reflex. Because something scary was happening. Because once or twice, deep in the ephedrine pre-dawns nodding ja, ja, stimmt, ja, for some design you were carrying not in but on your head and could feel bobbing, out past your side-vision, bobbing and balanced almost—he would become aware of a drifting-away . . . some assumption of Pokier into the calculations, drawings, graphs, and even what raw hardware there was . . . each rime, soon as it happened, he would panic, and draw back into the redoubt of waking Pokier, heart pounding, hands and feet aching, his breath catching in a small voiced hunh— Something was out to get him, something here, among the paper. The fear of extinction named Pokier knew it was the Rocket, beckoning him in. If he also knew that in something like this extinction he could be free of his loneliness and his failure, still he wasn't quite convinced. ... So he hunted, as a servo valve with a noisy input will, across the Zero, between the two desires, personal identity and impersonal salvation. Mondaugen saw it all. He could see into Pökler's heart. In his compassion, not surprisingly, he had no free advice for his friend. Pokier would have to find his own way to his zero signal, his true course.

By '38 the Peenemünde facility was taking shape, and Pokier moved over to the mainland. With hardly more to go on than Stod-da's treatise on steam turbines, and helpful data now and then from universities at Hannover, Darmstadt, Leipzig and Dresden, the propulsion group were testing a rocket engine of l'/2 tons' thrust, 10 atmospheres' combustion pressure, and 60 seconds' duration. They were getting exhaust velocities of 1800 meters per second, but the value they were aiming for was 2000. They called it the magic number,

and they meant it literally. As some gamblers on the stock market know when to place stop orders, feeling by instinct not the printed numbers but the rates of change, knowing from first and second derivatives in their skin when to come in, stay or go, so there are engineering reflexes tuned always to know, at any moment, what, given the resources, can be embodied in working hardware—what is "feasible." On the day that a 2000 m/sec exhaust became feasible, the A4 itself suddenly came in reach. The danger then lay in being seduced by approaches that were too sophisticated. No one was immune. Hardly a designer there, including Pokier, didn't come up with at least one monster rig, some Gorgon's head writhing with pipes, tubes, complicated folderol for controlling pressures, solenoids on top of pilot valves on auxiliary valves on backup valves—hundreds of pages on valve nomenclature were printed as appendices to these weird proposals, all promising huge pressure differences between the inside of the chamber and the nozzle exit—beautiful, as long as you didn't care much about those millions of moving parts behaving together too reliably. But to get a dependable working motor, one the military could use in the field to kill people, the real engineering problem now was to keep things as simple as possible.

The model currently being fired was the A3, christened not with champagne, but with flasks of liquid oxygen by the playful technicians. Emphasis had begun to shift from propulsion to guidance. Telemetry on the flight tests was still primitive. Thermometers and barometers were sealed in a watertight compartment with a movie camera. During flights the camera photographed the needles swinging on the gauges. After the flight the film was recovered, and the data played back. Engineers sat around looking at movies of dials. Meantime Heinkels were also dropping iron models of the Rocket from 20,000 feet. The fall was photographed by Askania cinetheodolite rigs on the ground. In the daily rushes you would watch the frames at around 3000 feet, where the model broke through the speed of sound. There has been this strange connection between the German mind and the rapid flashing of successive stills to counterfeit movement, for at least two centuries—since Leibniz, in the process of inventing calculus, used the same approach to break up the trajectories of cannonballs through the air. And now Pokier was about to be given proof that these techniques had been extended past images on film, to human lives.

He had returned to his quarters about sundown, too tired OF preoccupied to be much affected by the furnace of colors in the flower gardens, the daily changes to the skyline of the Station, even the ab-

sence of noise today from the testing stands. He smelled the ocean, and could almost imagine himself as someone who lives year-round at a seaside resort, but seldom gets to the beach. Now and then, over in Peenemünde-West, a fighter plane took off or landed, the motors softened by distance to tranquil purring. A late sea-breeze flickered. He had no warning other than a smile from a colleague who lived a few cubicles away and was coming down the barracks stairs as Pokier was going up. He entered his own cubicle and saw her sitting on the bed, her toes pointed in next to a flowered carpetbag, skirt pulled over her knees and eyes anxiously, fatally, looking into his.

"Herr Pokier? I am your—"

"Use. Use. . . ."

He must have picked her up, kissed her, drawn the curtain. Some reflex. She was wearing in her hair a ribbon of brown velvet. He remembered her hair as lighter, shorter—but then it does grow, and darken. He looked slantwise into her face, all his emptiness echoing. The vacuum of his life threatened to be broken in one strong inrush of love. He tried to maintain it with seals of suspicion, looking for resemblances to the face he'd last seen years ago over her mother's shoulder, eyes still puffy from sleep angled down across Leni's rain-coated back, going out a door he'd thought closed for good—pretending not to find resemblances. Perhaps pretending. Was it really the same face? he'd lost so much of it over the years, that fat, featureless child's face. . . . He was afraid now even to hold her, afraid his heart would burst. He said, "How long have you been waiting?"

"Since lunchtime." She'd eaten in the canteen. Major Weissmann had brought her up on the train from Stettin, and they had played chess. Major Weissmann was a slow player, and they hadn't finished the game. Major Weissman had bought her sweets, and had asked her to say hello and sorry he couldn't stay long enough to see Pokier—

Weissmann? What was this? A blinking, tentative fury grew in Polder. They must have known everything—all this time. His life was secretless as this mean cubicle, with its bed, commode and reading-light.

So, to stand between him and this impossible return, he had his anger—to preserve him from love he couldn't really risk. He could settle for interrogating his daughter. The shame he felt was acceptable, the shame and coldness. But she must have picked it up, for she sat now very still, except for nervous feet, her voice so subdued he missed parts of her answers.

They had sent her here from a place in the mountains, where it

was chilly even in summer—surrounded by barbed wire and bright hooded lights that burned all night long. There were no boys—only girls, mothers, old ladies living in barracks, stacked up in bunks, often two to a pallet. Leni was well. Sometimes a man in a black uniform came into the barracks and Mutti would go away with him, and stay away for several days. When she came back she didn't want to talk, or even to hug Ilsethe way she usually did. Sometimes she cried, and asked Ilse to leave her alone. Ilse would go off and play with Johanna and Lilli underneath the barracks next door. They had scooped a hideout there in the dirt, furnished with dolls, hats, dresses, shoes, old bottles, magazines with pictures, all found out near the barbed wire, the treasure pile, they called it, a huge refuse dump that always smoldered, day and night: you could see its red glow out the window from the top bunk where she slept with Lilli, nights when Leni was away. . . .

But Pokier was hardly listening, he had the only datum with any value: that she was somewhere definite, with a location on the map and authorities who might be contacted. Could he find her again? Fool. Could he somehow negotiate her release? Some man, some Red, must have got her into this. . . .

Kurt Mondaugen was the only one he could trust, though Pokier knew before they spoke that the role Mondaugen had chosen would keep him from helping. "They call them re-education camps. They're run by the SS. I could talk to Weissmann, but it might not work."

He had known Weissmann in Südwest. They had shared the months of siege inside Foppl's villa: Weissman was one of the people who had driven Mondaugen, finally, away to live in the bush. But they had found a rapprochement here, among the rockets, either for sun-blasted hob/man reasons it was not for Pokier to understand or because of some deeper connection which had always been there. . . .

They stood on the roof of one of the assembly buildings, the Oie across the water six miles away clearly visible, which meant a change in the weather tomorrow. Steel was being hammered somewhere out in the sunlight, hammered in cadences, purified as the song of some bird. Blue Peenemünde shivered around them in all directions, a dream of concrete and steel masses reflecting the noon heat. The air rippled like camouflage. Behind it something else seemed to carry on in secret. At any moment the illusion they stood on would dissolve and they would fall to earth. Pokier stared across the marshes, feeling helpless. "I have to do something. Don't I?"

"No. You have to wait."

"It's not right, Mondaugen."

"No."

"What about Use? Will she have to go back?"

"I don't know. But she's here now."

So, as usual, Pokier chose silence. Had he chosen something else, back while there was time, they all might have saved themselves. Even left the country. Now, too late, when at last he wanted to act, there was nothing to act on.

Well, to be honest, he didn't spend much time brooding about past neutralities. He wasn't that sure he'd outgrown them, anyway.

They took walks, he and Use, by the stormy shore—fed ducks, explored the pine forests. They even allowed her to watch a launching. It was a message to him, but he didn't understand till later what it meant. It meant that there was no violation of security: there was no one she could tell who mattered. The noise of the Rocket ripped at them. For the first time then she moved close, and held him. He felt that he was holding on to her. The motor cut off too soon, and the Rocket crashed somewhere over in Peenemünde-West, in Luftwaffe territory The dirty pillar of smoke drew the screaming fire engines and truckloads of workers by in a wild parade. She took in a deep breath, and squeezed his hand. "Did you make it do that, Papi?"

"No, it wasn't supposed to. It's supposed to fly in a big curve," motioning with his hand, the parabola trailing behind encompassing testing stands, assembly buildings, drawing them together as the crosses priests make in the air quarter and divide the staring congregations behind them. . . .

"Where does it go?"

"Wherever we tell it to."

"May I fly in it someday? I'd fit inside, wouldn't I?"

She asked impossible questions. "Someday," Pokier told her. "Perhaps someday to the Moon."

"The Moon ..." as if he were going to tell her a story. When none followed she made up her own. The engineer in the next cubicle had a map of the Moon tacked to his fiberboard wall, and she spent hours studying it, deciding where she wanted to live. Passing over the bright rays of Kepler, the rugged solitude of the Southern Highlands, the spectacular views at Copernicus and Eratosthenes, she chose a small pretty crater in the Sea of Tranquillity called Maskelyne B. They would build a house right on the rim, Mutti and she and Pokier, gold mountains out one window and the wide sea out the other. And Earth green and blue in the sky....

Should he have told her what the "seas" of the Moon really were?

Told her there was nothing to breathe? His ignorance frightened him, his ineptitude as a father. . . . Nights in the cubicle, with Ilse curled a few feet away in a canvas army cot, a little gray squirrel under her blanket, he'd wonder if she wasn't really better off as ward of the Reich. He'd heard there were camps, but saw nothing sinister in it: he took the Government at their word, "re-education." I've made such a mess of everything . . . they have qualified people there . . . trained personnel . . . they know what a child needs . . . staring up at the electric scatter from this part of Peenemünde mapping across his piece of ceiling priorities, abandoned dreams, favor in the eyes of the master fantasists in Berlin, while sometimes Ilse whispered to him bedtime stories about the moon she would live on, till he had transferred silently to a world that wasn't this one after all: a map without any national borders, insecure and exhilarating, in which flight was as natural as breathing—but I'll fall. . . no, rising, look down, nothing to be afraid of, this time it's good . . . yes, firmly in flight, it's working . . . yes. . . .

Pokier may be only witnessing tonight—or he may really be part of it. He hasn't been shown which it is. Look at this. There is about to be expedited, for Friedrich August Kekulé von Stradonitz, his dream of 1865, the great Dream that revolutionized chemistry and made the IG possible. So that the right material may find its way to the right dreamer, everyone, everything involved must be exactly in place in the pattern. It was nice of Jung to give us the idea of an ancestral pool in which everybody shares the same dream material. But how is it we are each visited as individuals, each by exactly and only what he needs? Doesn't that imply a switching-path of some kind? a bureaucracy? Why shouldn't the IG go to seances? They ought to be quite at home with the bureaucracies of the other side. Kekulé's dream here's being routed now past points which may arc through the silence, in bright reluctance to live inside the moving moment, an imperfect, a human light, over here interfering with the solemn binary decisions of these agents, who are now allowing the cosmic Serpent, in the violet splendor of its scales, shining that is definitely not human, to pass—without feeling, without wonder (after you get a little time in—whatever that means over here—one of these archetypes gets to look pretty much like any other, oh you hear some of these new hires, the seersucker crowd come in the first day, "Wow! Hey—that's th-th' Tree o' Creation! Huh? Ain't it! Je-eepers!" but they calm down fast enough, pick up the

reflexes for Intent to Gawk, you know self-criticism's an amazing technique, it shouldn't work but it does. . . . Here, here's the rundown on Kekulé's problem. Started out to become an architect, turned out in-

stead to be one of the Atlantes of chemistry, most of the organic wing of that useful edifice bearing down on top of his head forever—not just under the aspect of IG, but of World, assuming that's a distinction you observe, heh, heh. . . . Once again it was the influence of Liebig, the great professor of chemistry on whose name-street in Munich Pokier lived while he attended the T.H. Liebig was at the University of Giessen when Kekulé entered as a student. He inspired the young man to change his field. So Kekulé brought the mind's eye of an architect over into chemistry It was a critical switch. Liebig himself seems to have occupied the role of a gate, or sorting-demon such as his younger contemporary Clerk Maxwell once proposed, helping to concentrate energy into one favored room of the Creation at the expense of everything else (later witnesses have suggested that Clerk Maxwell intended his Demon not so much as a convenience in discussing a thermodynamic idea as a parable about the actual existence of personnel like Liebig . . . we may gain an indication of how far the repression had grown by that time, in the degree to which Clerk Maxwell felt obliged to code his warnings . . . indeed some theorists, usually the ones who find sinister meaning behind even Mrs. Clerk Maxwell's notorious "It is time to go home, James, you are beginning to enjoy yourself," have made the extreme suggestion that the Field Equations themselves contain an ominous forewarning—they cite as evidence the disturbing intimacy of the Equations with the behavior of the double-integrating circuit in the guidance system of the A4 rocket, the same double-summing of current densities that led architect Etzel Olsch to design for architect Albert Speer an underground factory at Nord-hausen with just that symbolic shape . . .). Young ex-architect Kekulé went looking among the molecules of the time for the hidden shapes he knew were there, shapes he did not like to think of as real physical structures, but as "rational formulas," showing the relationships that went on in "metamorphoses," his quaint 19th-century way of saying "chemical reactions." But he could visualize. He saw the four bonds of carbon, lying in a tetrahedron—he showed how carbon atoms could link up, one to another, into long chains. . . . But he was stumped when he got to benzene. He knew there were six carbon atoms with a hydrogen attached to each one—but he could not see the shape. Not until the dream: until he was made to see it, so that others might be seduced by its physical beauty, and begin to think of it as a blueprint, a basis for new compounds, new arrangements, so that there would be a field of aromatic chemistry to ally itself with secular power, and find

new methods of synthesis, so there would be a German dye industry to become the IG. . . .

Kekulé dreams the Great Serpent holding its own tail in its mouth, the dreaming Serpent which surrounds the World. But the meanness, the cynicism with which this dream is to be used. The Serpent that announces, "The World is a closed thing, cyclical, resonant, eternally-returning," is to be delivered into a system whose only aim is to violate the Cycle. Taking and not giving back, demanding that "productivity" and "earnings" keep on increasing with time, the System removing from the rest of the World these vast quantities of energy to keep its own tiny desperate fraction showing a profit: and not only most of humanity—most of the World, animal, vegetable and mineral, is laid waste in the process. The System may or may not understand that it's only buying time. And that time is an artificial resource to begin with, of no value to anyone or anything but the System, which sooner or later must crash to its death, when its addiction to energy has become more than the rest of the World can supply, dragging with it innocent souls all along the chain of life. Living inside the System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by a maniac bent on suicide . . . though he's amiable enough, keeps cracking jokes back through the loudspeaker, "Good morning folks, this is Heidelberg here we're coming into now, you know the old refrain, 'I lost my heart in Heidelberg,' well I have a friend who lost both his ears here! Don't get me wrong, it's really a nice town, the people are warm and wonderful—when they're not dueling. Seriously though, they treat you just fine, they don't just give you the key to the city, they give you the bung-starter!" u.s.w. On you roll, across a countryside whose light is forever changing—castles, heaps of rock, moons of different shapes and colors come and go. There are stops at odd hours of the mornings, for reasons that are not announced: you get out to stretch in lime-lit courtyards where the old men sit around the table under enormous eucalyptus trees you can smell in the night, shuffling the ancient decks oily and worn, throwing down swords and cups and trumps major in the tremor of light while behind them the bus is idling, waiting—passengers will now reclaim their seats and much as you'd like to stay, right here, learn the game, find your old age around this quiet table, it's no use: he is waiting beside the door of the bus in his pressed uniform, Lord of the Night he is checking your tickets, your ID and travel papers, and it's the wands of enterprise that dominate tonight... as he nods you by, you catch a glimpse of his face, his insane, committed eyes, and you

remember then, for a terrible few heartbeats, that of course it will end for you all in blood, in shock, without dignity—but there is meanwhile this trip to be on ... over your own seat, where there ought to be an advertising plaque, is instead a quote from Rilke: "Once, only once ..." One of Their favorite slogans. No return, no salvation, no Cycle— that's not what They, nor Their brilliant employee Kekulé, have taken the Serpent to mean. No: what the Serpent means is—how's this— that the six carbon atoms of benzene are in fact curled around into a closed ring, just like that snake •with its tail in its mouth, GET IT? "The aromatic Ring we know today," Pokier's old prof, Laszlo Jamf, at this point in the spiel removing from his fob a gold hexagon with the German formée cross in the center, a medal of honor from IG Farben, joking, in his lovable-old-fart manner, that he likes to think of the cross not as German so much as standing for the tetravalency of carbon— "but ivho," lifting his open hands on each beat, like a bandleader, "who, sent, the Dream?" It is never clear how rhetorical any of Jamf's questions are. "Who sent this new serpent to our ruinous garden, already too fouled, too crowded to qualify as any locus of innocence—unless innocence be our age's neutral, our silent passing into the machineries of indifference—something that Kekulé's Serpent had come to—not to destroy, but to define to us the loss of... we had been given certain molecules, certain combinations and not others . . . we used what we found in Nature, unquestioning, shamefully perhaps—but the Serpent whispered, 'They can be changed, and new molecules assembled from the debris of the given. . . .' Can anyone tell me what else he whispered to us? Come—who knows? You. Tell me, Pokier—"