The success with the P-47's tail fin was a watershed moment. The whispered title of "dowsing rod" was replaced, in the hushed, respectful tones of the Wright Field engineers, with "the Intuitionist." Robert Vale was no longer a curious hobbyist; he was an asset. His annotated calculations were pored over not for their answers, but for their questions—the way they reframed problems, cutting through complex data to point at the simplest, most elegant solution.
John Albright's approach shifted accordingly. The velvet glove came off, revealing the iron hand within. Robert was given a higher security clearance, a private workspace, and a steady stream of "challenges." They were no longer tests. They were tasks. Problems pulled from active, urgent projects across the burgeoning American war machine.
A new bomber, the B-24 Liberator, was suffering from catastrophic fuel transfer issues between tanks, causing engines to flame out. Robert, after a day of "study," suggested a minor redesign of the valve and a different sequence for fuel pump engagement, a procedure he knew from a declassified post-war report.
A prototype tank engine was overheating in the Arizona desert tests. Robert, recalling the advanced cooling techniques that wouldn't be standard for a decade, proposed a revised coolant flow path and a specific fan blade angle, phrasing it as a "hunch" based on industrial radiator designs.
He was a ghost in the factory of war, his touch felt everywhere but his face seen nowhere. His ideas were filtered through Philip Lawson or other junior engineers, who now actively sought out his "peculiar perspective." He became a resource, a secret weapon. The pressure was immense and constant. He wasn't just preserving his secret anymore; he was actively using it to reshape technology, walking a knife's edge between being useful enough to be protected and so useful he became a subject of intense, dangerous study.
The strain began to show. He lost weight. The haunted look in his eyes, which Arthur had first mistaken for disorientation, now deepened into something more profound—the look of a man watching a tragedy in slow motion, compelled to whisper lines to the actors. He saw the blueprints for the planes that would firebomb Dresden and Tokyo. He reviewed the early concepts for the landing craft that would bleed onto the beaches of Normandy. His knowledge, once theoretical, was now being forged into the very instruments of destruction.
One evening, Albright entered his office without knocking. He carried a single folder, its cover stark and white, marked with a classification stamp Robert couldn't read.
"The P-47 is entering full production," Albright stated, dropping the folder on Robert's desk. "Your modification shaved months off the schedule. You've earned a look at the next frontier."
Robert opened the folder. Inside were not blueprints, but theoretical papers and wind-tunnel data. The headings made his blood run cold. "Laminar Flow Airfoils." "Jet Propulsion Studies." "Swept-Wing Theory for Transonic Flight."
This was no longer about refining existing technology. This was about leaping a generation ahead. They were asking him to help invent the future he came from.
"These are... highly theoretical," Robert managed to say, his throat tight.
"The Germans are working on jets," Albright said flatly. "The British have their own program. We are behind. We need to catch up, and we need to do it fast. Your mind... the way it connects disparate concepts... it's what we need."
He leaned on the desk, his presence overwhelming. "I've shielded you, Robert. I've let you play your game of being the humble savant. But the time for games is over. The world is on fire, and you have a bucket of water. I need you to start throwing it."
This was the precipice. Working on piston engines and airframe tweaks was one thing. Delivering the secrets of jet engines and swept-wing design years ahead of schedule was another. The potential for creating a temporal paradox, for altering the course of history in unimaginable ways, was catastrophic. He could hand the United States such an overwhelming technological advantage that the war would end differently. Or he could create a weapon so terrifying it would plunge the world into a darker abyss.
"I... I need time," Robert stammered, pushing the folder away as if it were radioactive.
"You don't have time," Albright's voice was cold, final. "None of us do. I will be back tomorrow for your initial assessment."
He left, closing the door with a soft, definitive click.
Robert was alone, the ghost in the machine confronted with the soul of the machine itself. The folder lay before him, a Pandora's Box of future knowledge. To open it was to unleash forces he could not control. To refuse was to mark himself as not just uncooperative, but as someone with something specific to hide—something far more dangerous than mere genius.
He stood and walked to the small window, looking out at the airfield where the prop-driven present was roaring into the night. Beyond it, in the darkness, was the jet-powered future. He held the keys to that future in his mind.
He thought of Arthur's warning, of the swallow carving tucked in his pocket. Find your way home. But this knowledge was the one thing that could forever bar him from any home, in any time. He was no longer just a castaway. He was a keeper of a terrible, world-altering flame. And the wind was rising, threatening to turn his silent vigil into a conflagration that would consume everything he knew. The ghost was being asked to become a god. And he was utterly, terrifyingly unprepared.