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His name fell on him like a thunderclap, and of course it wasn't Prof.-Dr. Jamf after all, but a colleague from down the hall who had pulled reveille duty that morning. Ilse was brushing her hair, and smiling at him.

His daytime work had started to go better. Others were not so distant, and more apt to look in his eyes. They'd met Use, and been charmed. If he saw anything else in their faces, he ignored it.

Then one evening he returned from the Oie, a little drunk, a little anxious-elated over a firing the next day, and found his cubicle empty. Use, her flowered bag, the clothing she usually left strewn on the cot, had all vanished. Nothing left but a wretched sheet of log paper (which Pokier found so useful for taming the terror of exponential curves into the linear, the safe), the same kind she'd drawn pictures of her Moonhouse on. "Papi, they want me back. Maybe they'll let me see you again. I hope so. I love you. Use."

Kurt Mondaugen found Pokier lying on her cot breathing what he imagined were odors of her hair on the pillow. For a while then he went a little insane, talked of killing Weissmann, sabotaging the rocket program, quitting his job and seeking asylum in England. . . . Mondaugen sat, and listened to all of it, touched Pokier once or twice, smoked his pipe, till at last, at two or three in the morning, Pokier had talked through a number of unreal options, cried, cursed, punched a hole into his neighbor's cubicle, through which he heard the man snoring on oblivious. Cooled by then to a vexed engineer-elitism— "They are fools, they don't even know what sine and cosine are and they're trying to tell me"—he agreed that yes, he must wait, and let them do what they would do. . . .

"If I set up a meeting with Weissmann," Mondaugen did suggest, "could you be graceful? calm?"

"No. Not with him. . . . Not yet."

"When you think you are ready, let me know. When you're ready, you'll know how to handle it." Had he allowed himself a tone of command? He must have seen how much Pokier needed to be at someone's command. Leni had learned to subdue her husband with her face, knew what cruel lines he expected of her mouth, what tones of voice he needed . . . when she left him she left an unemployed servant who'd go with the first master that called, just a

victim in a vacuum!

Nur . . . ein . . . Op-fer!

Sehr ins Vakuuni, ("Won't somebody take advantage of me?")

Wird niemand ausnut-zen mich, auch? ("Just a slave with nobody to slave for,")

Nur ein Sklave, ohne Her-rin, (ya-ta ta-fez) ("A-and who th' heck wants ta be, free?")

Wer zum Teufel die Freiheit, braucht?

(All together now, all you masochists out there, specially those of you don't have a partner tonight, alone with those fantasies that don't look like they'll ever come true—want you just to join in here with your brothers and sisters, let each other know you're alive and sincere, try to break through the silences, try to reach through and connect. . . .)

Aw, the sodium lights-aren't, so bright in Berlin,

I go to the bars dear, but nobody's in!

Oh, I'd much rather bee

In a Greek trage-dee,

Than be a VICTIM IN A VACUUM to-nite!

Days passed, much like one another to Polder. Identical morning plunges into a routine dreary as winter now. He learned to keep an outward calm, at least. Learned to feel the gathering, the moving toward war that is unique to weapons programs. At first it simulates depression or non-specific anxiety. There may be esophagal spasms and unrecoverable dreams. You find you are writing notes to yourself, first thing in the morning: calm, reasoned assurances to the screaming mental case inside—1. It is a combination. 1.1 It is a scalar quantity. 1.2. Its negative aspects are distributed isotropically. 2. It is not a conspiracy. 2.1 It is not a vector. 2.11 It is not aimed at anybody. 2.12 It is not aimed at me . . . u.s.w. The coffee begins to taste more and more metallic. Each deadline is now a crisis, each is more intense than the last. Behind this job-like-any-other-job seems to lie something void, something terminal, something growing closer, each day, to manifestation. . . . ("The new planet Pluto," she had whispered long ago, lying in the smelly dark, her long Asta Nielsen upper lip gibbous that night as the moon that ruled her, "Pluto is in my sign now, held tight in its claws. It moves slowly, so slowly and so far away . . . but it will burst out. It is the grim phoenix which creates its own holocaust. . . deliberate resurrection. Staged. Under control. No grace, no interventions by God. Some are calling it the planet of National Socialism, Brunhüb-ner and that crowd, all trying to suck up to Hitler now. They don't know they are telling the literal truth. . . . Are you awake? Franz. . . .")

As war drew closer, the game of priorities and politicking grew more earnest, Army vs. Luftwaffe, the Weapons Department vs. the Ministry of Munitions, the SS, given their aspirations, vs. everybody else, and even a simmering discontent that was to grow over the next few years into a palace revolt against von Braun, because of his youth and a number of test failures—though heaven knew, there were always enough of those, they were the raw material of all testing-station politics. ... In general, though, the test results grew more and more hopeful. It was impossible not to think of the Rocket without thinking of Schicksal, of growing toward a shape predestined and perhaps a little otherworldly. The crews launched an uncontrolled series of A5s, bringing some of them down by parachute, reaching a height of five

miles and nearly to the speed of sound. Though the guidance people had still a long way to go, they had by this point switched over to vanes made of graphite, brought the yaw oscillations down to five degrees or so, and grown measurably happier about the Rocket's stability.

At some point during the winter, Pokier came to feel that he could handle a meeting with Weissmann. He found the SS man on guard behind eyeglasses like Wagnerian shields, ready for unacceptable maxima—anger, accusation, a moment of office-violence. It was like meeting a stranger. They had not spoken since the days at Kummers-dorf, at the old Raketenflugplatz. In this quarter-hour at Peenemünde, Pokier smiled more than he had in the year previous: spoke of his admiration for Poehlmann's work in devising a cooling system for the propulsion.

"What about the hot spots?" Weissmann asked. It was a reasonable question, but also an intimacy.

It came to Pokier that the man didn't give a damn about heating problems. This was a game, as Mondaugen had warned—ritualized as jiu-jitsu. "We've got heat-flow densities," Pokier feeling as he usually did when he sang, "on the order of three million kcal/m²h °C. Regenerative cooling is the best interim solution right now, but Poehlmann has a new approach"—showing him with chalk and slate, trying for the professional manner—"he feels that if we use a film of alcohol on the inside of the chamber, we can reduce the heat transfer by a considerable amount."

"You'll be injecting it."

"Correct."

"How much fuel is that going to reroute? How's it going to affect the engine efficiency?"

Pokier had the figures. "Right now injection is a plumber's nightmare, but with the delivery schedules as they are—"

"What about the two-stage combustion process?"

"Gives us more volume, better turbulence, but there's also a non-isotropic pressure drop, which cuts into our efficiency. . . . We're trying any number of approaches. If we could depend on better funding—"

"Ah. Not my department. We could do with a more generous budget ourselves." They both laughed then, gentleman scientists under a stingy bureaucracy, suffering together.

Pokier understood that he had been negotiating for his child and for Leni: that the questions and answers were not exactly code for

something else, but in the way of an evaluation of Pokier personally. He was expected to behave a certain way—not just to play a role, but to live it. Any deviations into jealousy, metaphysics, vagueness would be picked up immediately: he would either be corrected back on course, or allowed to fall. Through winter and spring the sessions with Weissmann became routine. Polder grew into his new disguise—Prematurely Aged Adolescent Whiz—often finding that it could indeed take him over, keeping him longer at reference books and firing data, speaking lines for him he could never have planned in advance: gentle, scholarly, rocket-obsessed language that surprised him.

In late August he had his second visit. It should have been "Ilse returned," but Pokier wasn't sure. As before, she showed up alone, unannounced—ran to him, kissed him, called him Papi. But. . .

But her hair, for one thing, was definitely dark brown, and cut differently. Her eyes were longer, set differently, her complexion less fair. It seemed she'd grown a foot taller. But at that age, they shoot up overnight, don't they? If it was "that age. ..." Even as Pokier embraced her, the perverse whispering began. Is it the same one? Have they sent you a different child? Why didn't you look closer last time, Pokier?

This time he asked how long they were going to let her stay.

"They'll tell me. And I'll try to let you know." And would there be time for him to recalibrate from his little squirrel who dreamed of living on the Moon to this dark, long-legged, Southern creature, whose awkwardness and need of a father were so touching, so clear even to Pokier, at this their second (or was it first, or third?) meeting?

Hardly any news of Leni. They had been separated, Ilse said, during the winter. She'd heard a rumor that her mother had been moved to a different camp. So, so. Present a pawn, withdraw the queen: Weissmann, waiting to see how Pokier would react. This time he had gone too far: Pokier laced up his shoes and calmly enough went out looking for the SS man, cornered him in his office, denounced him before a panel of kindly, dim governmental figures, the speech eloquently climaxing as he threw chessboard and pieces all into Weissmann's arrogantly blinking face. . . . Polder's impetuous, yes, a rebel— but Generaldirektor it's his kind of fire and honesty we need—

The child had suddenly come into his arms, to kiss him again. For free. Pokier forgot his troubles and held her to his heart for a long time, without speaking. . . .

But that night in the cubicle, only breathing—no moon-wishes this

year—from her cot, he was awake wondering, one daughter one impostor? same daughter twice? two impostors? Beginning to work out the combinations for a third visit, a fourth. . . . Weissmann, those behind him, had thousands of these children available. As the years passed, as they grew more nubile, would Polder even come to fall in love with one—would she reach the king's row that way and become a queen-substitute for lost, for forgotten Leni? The Opponent knew that Pökler's suspicion would always be stronger than any fears about real incest. . . . They could make up new rules, to complicate the game indefinitely. How could any man as empty as Polder felt that night ever be flexible enough for that?

Kot—it was ridiculous—hadn't he seen her go by from every angle in their old city rooms? Carried, asleep, crying, crawling, laughing, hungry. Often he had come home too tired to make it to the bed, and had lain on the floor with his head under the one wood table, curled, beaten, wondering if he could even sleep. The first time Ilse noticed, she crawled over and sat staring at him for a long time. She had never seen him still, horizontal, with his eyes shut. . . . He drifted toward sleep. Ilse leaned over and bit him in the leg, as she bit crusts of bread, cigarettes, shoes, anything that might be food.—I'm your father.— You're inert and edible. Pokier screamed and rolled out of the way. Ilse began to cry. He was too tired to want to think about discipline. It was Leni finally who calmed her down.

He knew all Ilse’s cryings, her first attempts at words, the colors of her shit, the sounds and shapes that brought her tranquillity. He ought to know if this child was his own or not. But he didn't. Too much had happened between. Too much history and dream. . . .

Next morning his group leader handed Pokier a furlough chit, and a paycheck with a vacation bonus. No travel restrictions, but a time limit of two weeks. Translation: Will you come back? He packed some things, and they got on the train for Stettin. The sheds and assembly buildings, the concrete monoliths and steel gantries that were the map of his life flared backward, shadowing into great purplish chunks, isolated across the marshland one from another, in parallax away. Would he dare not to come back? Could he think so far ahead?

He'd left their destination up to Use. She chose Zwölfkinder. It was the end of summer, nearly the end of peacetime. The children knew what was coming. Playing refugee, they crowded the railway carriages, quieter, more solemn than Pokier had expected. He had to keep fighting an urge to start babbling each time Ilse’s eyes turned from the win-

dow toward his own. He saw the same thing in all their eyes: he was strange to them, to her, and growing stranger, and he knew of no way to reverse it. ...

In a corporate State, a place must be made for innocence, and its many uses. In developing an official version of innocence, the culture of childhood has proven invaluable. Games, fairy-tales, legends from history, all the paraphernalia of make-believe can be adapted and even embodied in a physical place, such as at Zwölfkinder. Over the years it had become a children's resort, almost a spa. If you were an adult, you couldn't get inside the city limits without a child escort. There was a child mayor, a child city council of twelve. Children picked up the papers, fruit peelings and bottles you left in the street, children gave you guided tours through the Tierpark, the Hoard of the Nibelungen, cautioning you to silence during the impressive re-enactment of Bismarck's elevation, at the spring equinox of 1871, to prince and imperial chancellor . . . child police reprimanded you if you were caught alone, without your child accompanying. Whoever carried on the real business of the town—it could not have been children—they were well hidden.

A late summer, a late, retrospective blooming. . . . Birds flew everywhere, the sea warmed, the sun shone on into the evenings. Random children took your shirt cuff by mistake, and trudged along for minutes before discovering you were not their adult, and then wandered off with backward smiles. The Glass Mountain twinkled rose and white in the hot sun, the elf king and his queen made a royal progress every noon with a splendid retinue of dwarves and sprites, handing out cakes, ices and candies. At each intersection or square, bands played— marches, folk-dances, hot jazz, Hugo Wolf. Children went streaming like confetti. At the drinking fountains, where soda water sparkled deep inside the fanged mouths of dragons, of wild lions and tigers, the queues of children waited, each for his moment of danger, leaning halfway into the shadow, into the smell of wet cement and old water, into the mouth of the beast, to drink. In the sky, the tall ferris wheel spun. From Peenemünde they had come 280 kilometers, which was to be, coincidentally, the operational range of the A4.

Among all there was to choose from, Wheel, myths, jungle animals, clowns, Ilse found her way to the Antarctic Panorama. Two or three boys hardly older than she wandered through the imitation wilderness, bundled up in sealskins, constructing cairns and planting flags in the August humidity. Watching them made Pokier sweat. A few "sled dogs" lay suffering in the shade of the dirty papier-mâché

sastrugi, on plaster snow that had begun to crack. A hidden projector threw images of the aurora on a white scrim. Half a dozen stuffed penguins also dotted the landscape.

"So—you want to live at the South Pole. Have you given up so easily on"—Kot—idiot, that was a slip—"on the Moon?" He'd been good up till then about cross-examining. He couldn't afford to know who she was. In the false Antarctic, in ignorance of what had attracted her there, uneasy and dripping sweat, he waited for her answer.

She, or They, let him off. "Oh," with a shrug, "who wants to live on the Moon?" They never brought it up again.

Back at their hotel, they were handed the key by an eight-year-old desk clerk, rose in a whining elevator run by a uniformed child, to a room still warm from the day's heat. She closed the door, took off her hat and scaled it over to her bed. Pokier collapsed on his own bed. She came over to take off his shoes.

"Papi," gravely unlacing, "may I sleep next to you tonight?" One of her hands had come lightly to rest on the beginning of his bare calf. Their eyes met for half a second. A number of uncertainties shifted then for Pokier and locked into sense. To his shame, his first feeling was pride. He hadn't known he was so vital to the program. Even in this initial moment, he was seeing it from Their side—every quirk goes in the dossier, gambler, foot-fetishist or soccer fan, it's all important, it can all be used. Right now we have to keep them happy, or at least neutralize the foci of their unhappiness. You may not understand what their work really is, not at the level of the data, but you're an administrator after all, a leader, your job is to get results . . . Polder, now, has mentioned a "daughter." Yes, yes we know it's disgusting, one never can tell what they have locked up in there with those equations, but we must all put off our judgments for now, there'll be time after the war to get back to the Pöklers and their dirty little secrets. . . .

He hit her upside the head with his open hand, a loud and terrible blow. That took care of his anger. Then, before she could cry or speak, he had dragged her up on the bed next to him, her dazed little hands already at the buttons of his trousers, her white frock already pulled above her waist. She had been wearing nothing at all underneath, nothing all day . . . how I've wanted you, she whispered as paternal plow found its way into filial furrow . . . and after hours of amazing incest they dressed in silence, and crept out into the leading edge of faintest flesh dawn, everything they would ever need packed inside her flowered bag, past sleeping children doomed to the end of summer, past monitors and railway guards, down at last to the water and the fishing

boats, to a fatherly old sea-dog in a braided captain's hat, who welcomed them aboard and stashed them below decks, where she snuggled down in the bunk as they got under way and sucked him for hours while the engine pounded, till the Captain called, "Come on up, and take a look at your new home!" Gray and green, through the mist, it was Denmark. "Yes, they're a free people here. Good luck to both of you!" The three of them, there on deck, stood hugging. . . .

No. What Polder did was choose to believe she wanted comfort that night, wanted not to be alone. Despite Their game, Their palpable evil, though he had no more reason to trust "Use" than he trusted Them, by an act not of faith, not of courage but of conservation, he chose to believe that. Even in peacetime, with unlimited resources, he couldn't have proven her identity, not beyond the knife-edge of zero tolerance his precision eye needed. The years Ilse would have spent between Berlin and Peenemünde were so hopelessly tangled, for all of Germany, that no real chain of events could have been established for sure, not even Pökler's hunch that somewhere in the State's oversize paper brain a specific perversity had been assigned him and dutifully stored. For every government agency, the Nazi Party set up a duplicate. Committees fissioned, merged, generated spontaneously, disappeared. No one would show a man his dossier—

It was not, in fact, even clear to him that he had made a choice. But it was in those humming moments in the room smelling of a summer day, whose light no one had lit yet, with her round straw hat a frail moon on the bedspread, lights of the Wheel slowly pouring red and green over and over outside in the dark, and a group of schoolboys singing in the street a refrain from before their time, their sold-out and cruelly handled time—Juch-heierasas-sa! o tempo-tempo-ra!— that board and pieces and patterns at least all did come clear for him, and Pokier knew that while he played, this would have to be Use— truly his child, truly as he could make her. It was the real moment of conception, in which, years too late, he became her father.

Through the rest of the furlough, they strolled about Zwölfkinder, always hand in hand. Lanterns swaying from the trunks of elephants' heads on top of tall pillars lit their way . . . over spidery bridges looking down at snow-leopards, apes, hyenas . . . along the miniature railway, between the corrugated pipe legs of steel-mesh dinosaurs, down to the patch of African desert where every two hours exactly the treacherous natives attacked an encampment of General von Trotha's brave men in blue, all the parts played by exuberant boys, and a great patriotic favorite with children of all ages ... up on the giant Wheel so

naked, so void of grace, there for only the clear mission: to lift and to frighten. . . .

On their last night—though he didn't know it, for they would take her as abruptly and invisibly as before—they stood looking in again at stuffed penguins and false snow, and around them the artificial aurora flickered.

"Next year," squeezing her hand, "we'll come back here, if you like."

"Oh yes. Every year, Papi."

Next day she was gone, taken back into the coming war, leaving Pokier alone in a country of children, to go back to Peenemünde after all, alone. . . .

So it has gone for the six years since. A daughter a year, each one about a year older, each time taking up nearly from scratch. The only continuity has been her name, and Zwölfkinder, and Pökler's love— love something like the persistence of vision, for They have used it to create for him the moving image of a daughter, flashing him only these summertime frames of her, leaving it to him to build the illusion of a single child . . . what would the time scale matter, a 24th of a second or a year (no more, the engineer thought, than in a wind-tunnel, or an oscillograph whose turning drum you could speed or slow at will. . .)?

Outside the Peenemünde wind-tunnel, Pokier has come to stand at night, next to the great sphere, 40 feet high, listening to the laboring pumps as they evacuate the air from the white sphere, five minutes of growing void—then one terrific gasp: 20 seconds of supersonic flow . . . then the fall of the shutter, and the pumps starting up again ... he has listened, and taken it to imply his own cycle of shuttered love, growing empty over the year for two weeks in August, engineered with the same care. He has smiled, and drunk toasts, and traded barracks humor with Major Weissmann, while all the time, behind the music and the giggling, he could hear the flesh of pieces moved in darkness and winter across the marshes and mountain chains of the board . . . watched run after run the Halbmodelle results out of the wind tunnel, showing how the net normal force would be distributed over the Rocket's length, for hundreds of different Mach numbers— seen the true profile of the Rocket warped and travestied, a rocket of wax, humped like a dolphin at around caliber 2, necking down toward the tail which was then stretched up, impossibly, in a high point with a lower shoulder aft of it—and seen how his own face might be plotted, not in light but in net forces acting upon it from the flow of Reich and

coercion and love it moved through . . . and known that it must suffer the same degradation, as death will warp face to skull. . . .

In '43, because he was away at Zwölfkinder, Pokier missed the British air raid on Peenemünde. Returning to the station, as soon as he came in sight of the "foreign workers' " quarters at Trassenheide razed and smashed, bodies still being dug from the wreckage, a terrible suspicion began, and would not be put down. Weissmann was saving him for something: some unique destiny. Somehow the man had known the British would bomb that night, known even in '39, and so arranged the tradition of an August furlough, year after year but all toward protecting Pokier from the one bad night. Not quite balanced ... a bit paranoid, yes, yes . . . but the thought purred on in his brain, and he felt himself turning to stone.