The four of them sat in the small living room, an arrangement so domestic and yet so profoundly wrong. Eleanor had hastily made tea, her hands shaking so badly the cups rattled on their saucers. Councilman Thompson sat on the edge of the sofa, looking as if he wished he were anywhere else. Arthur occupied his armchair, a stoic, silent sentinel, his gaze fixed on the government man with open hostility.
John Albright, however, was the picture of calm. He sat opposite Robert, his posture relaxed but precise, his grey suit seeming to absorb the room's faint light. He took a polite sip of tea, complimented Eleanor on it, and then set the cup down with a soft click that sounded like a starting pistol.
"I'll come straight to the point, Mr. Vale," Albright began, his pale eyes locking onto Robert's. "The War Department received an anonymous communication several weeks ago. A schematic. Quite remarkable, really. It detailed a structural modification for the BT-9 that our own engineers had not yet formalized. It solved a problem we were only beginning to fully understand."
He paused, letting the weight of the statement settle. Robert said nothing. He kept his face a careful mask of polite confusion, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"The design principles were… elegant," Albright continued, a note of genuine professional admiration in his voice. "But the method of delivery was unconventional. We are a bureaucratic institution. We prefer our innovations to come through proper channels." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential tone. "It took some doing, but we traced the paper stock to a mill that supplies this county. And we learned of a certain… local reputation. A man who fixed a complex radio with wax paper. A man who offered insights on a county bridge. A man with a remarkable, almost intuitive, grasp of mechanics."
He was piecing it together. Not the whole truth, but a dangerously accurate profile.
"I am not that man," Robert said, the lie feeling flimsy on his tongue. "I'm a carpenter's assistant. I read Popular Mechanics. That's all."
Albright's thin smile returned. "Popular Mechanics is a fine publication. But it does not, as a rule, contain postgraduate-level stress analysis and metallurgical recommendations." He reached into his inner suit pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. It was Robert's schematic. "The handwriting is block-printed. Untraceable. But the mind behind it… the mind is unique. It sees connections others miss. It solves problems before they are widely known to exist."
He unfolded the schematic and laid it on the small table between them. "Tell me, Mr. Vale, as a reader of Popular Mechanics… what do you see here?"
It was a test. A trap. Robert looked down at his own work, the lines and angles he had drawn by moonlight. He could feign ignorance, but he sensed that Albright would see through it instantly. The man was a human lie detector. His only hope was to feed him just enough truth to be believable, but not enough to be catastrophic.
He pointed a finger at the diagram, careful to keep his hand from trembling. "It looks… like it's reinforcing a weak point. Here, where the wing meets the fuselage. That's a high-stress area. If the metal fatigues, it could…" He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
"It could fail," Albright finished for him, his eyes gleaming with interest. "Exactly. And how would you know to focus on that specific joint?"
Robert's mind raced. "The… the accident. Jimmy Miller. The paper said the wing came off. It got me thinking. I sketched some ideas. It was just a… a hobby."
"A hobby," Albright repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Mr. Vale, the nation is on the cusp of a new age in aviation. The world is changing. We need minds that can see around corners. Minds that aren't bound by conventional thinking." He gestured vaguely around the simple room. "This is a quiet life. A good life, I'm sure. But a mind like yours… it belongs to a larger project."
The offer was there, hanging in the air, veiled but unmistakable. Come work for us.
Arthur finally broke his silence, his voice a low rumble. "He's happy here. He has a job. He's no trouble."
"I'm sure he isn't," Albright said, his tone placating but his eyes never leaving Robert. "But talent like this is a national resource. It's not about causing trouble, Mr. Henderson. It's about serving your country." He turned his gaze fully to Robert. "This doesn't have to be a formal commitment. Think of it as a consultation. We have challenges. Problems that need fresh perspectives. Come to Dayton, Ohio. Visit Wright Field. See what we're working on. If it's not to your liking, you return to your… hobby."
It was a polite summons. A velvet-gloved command. To refuse would only heighten his suspicion. To accept was to walk directly into the lion's den.
Robert looked at Arthur, whose face was a stony mask of dread. He looked at Eleanor, who had tears in her eyes. He looked at the schematic, his tiny, desperate act of defiance that had now grown into a monster that threatened to consume him.
He was trapped. To protect the life he had built, he had to leave it. To preserve his secret, he had to step into the very heart of the system that could most easily expose it.
He took a slow, deep breath, meeting Albright's penetrating gaze.
"A consultation?" Robert said, forcing a note of cautious interest into his voice. "For how long?"
Albright's smile widened, a fraction of an inch. It was the coldest thing Robert had ever seen.
"That," the government man said softly, "depends entirely on you, Mr. Vale. Let's see how we get on."