“Not a chance.” Santangelo stood. “I haven’t figured out yet why arcs matter so much, but you’re the only guy working on them. If they heave you, no more arc math.”
“Please.” Charlie pointed at his full in-box. “I really have to finish today’s pile.”
“Well, excuse me,” he said, hands in the air as if Charlie held a gun. “I forgot. Director’s nephew, no time to talk.” Santangelo turned away, feigning hurt. But he brightened at a new boy’s desk.
“Hi there. What are you working on today?”
Charlie bent over his arc problem. He’d already calculated the falling time from thirty-five thousand feet to one thousand: forty-three seconds. But the object couldn’t be a bomb, or his task would have ended with an impact on the ground.
Meanwhile two more assignments sat in his in-box, and it was already a quarter till four. If he skipped dinner again, he might get to see Brenda for an hour—assuming he could solve the problem on his desk at all. Charlie drew an arc from the top corner of a sheet of paper to an inch above the bottom. Everything else was a mystery.
By the time he finished for the day, he was alone. Cohen had popped his head in at seven to announce that he was heading home, and told Charlie to put finished papers in Simmons’s in-box. Now Charlie gathered his things, pulling on his new coat before switching off the lights. Again the hall was dark except for the office at the far end. Charlie assumed it was the custodial staff, until he heard a cough from within.
“Uncle John?”
“Charlie? Is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy stood in the outer room beside the secretary’s desk, wondering whether or not he should leave his work there and hurry along.
“Come on in,” the professor said. “You may as well.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” Charlie said, inching into the office.
“No, it’s good timing. Are those today’s calculations?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie held them forward. “All three trajectories.”
Simmons took them, opening the folder and flipping through the pages. “Any idea what you are working on, Charlie?”
“None at all, sir.”
He waved the papers that concerned the object stopping its fall at one thousand feet. “None at all? Such discretion becomes you.”
“Oh.” Charlie realized he was being credited with understanding something, when he actually had no idea. “Thank you, sir.”
“What strikes you as meaningful, in this calculation?”
Charlie felt a small rise of panic. Glancing around, he noticed the rough drawing of a catapult still on the blackboard. “I suppose the question is how to stop the rock from hitting the ground, so it will cause even more damage.”
“Exactly.” Simmons clapped his hands together. “You understand completely.”
Charlie shuffled his feet. “Sir, I don’t mean to—”
“It’s all right.” The professor held his hands up as if in protest. “I’ve been saying it all along. No matter how much work you give them, bright boys’ minds will not sit still all day.”
Charlie had no idea what his uncle meant. “I suppose not, sir.”
“You suppose not.” Simmons returned to his desk, gathering a sheaf of papers. “Well, let’s get down to business.” He tossed down a folder an inch thick. “Charlie, here are the results from your first six weeks here. See for yourself how many substantive errors you made in that time.”
He read the upside-down cover and saw three red checks. “Wow. Sorry, Uncle John. I had no idea you all were keeping track of that sort of thing.”
“Who do you think we work for here? We keep track of everything.”
Charlie shifted his weight from foot to foot. Warm with his coat unbuttoned, he realized he had not been invited to sit this time. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Here is your second six weeks.” The professor tossed another folder on the desk. It was thinner, but with only one check on top. “More accurate, but less work completed. That period ended in December, about the time we had our last chat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here—” He took the papers Charlie had just brought, added them to a third folder, and dropped it on top of the other two. “Well, you can see for yourself.”
It was thicker than the other two combined. But the cover had so many red checks, Charlie had to lean closer to count. “Nine?”
“That’s right, Charlie. Nine substantive errors. Each one of which, if we didn’t catch it, would cost equipment, or money, or lives.” He flattened his palm on the stack of folders and sighed. “You did what I asked you to do, you sped up. But your accuracy went all to hell. And that’s assuming today’s pieces are correct.”
Charlie stood straight. He found himself looking out the window: an early February night in Chicago, cold rain angling across the glass. He realized he did not know what day it was. He had not seen Brenda in weeks. The window also contained the reflection of his uncle’s back, which was ramrod upright.
“I’m not good enough,” Charlie said.
“‘Good’ is the wrong word,” Simmons said. “You are a good person, a good citizen, and you have an excellent work ethic. But when it comes to arcs, Charlie Fish can be accurate, or he can be fast. But not both.” He let that sink in. “Bear in mind, I am not showing you any other fellows’ folders, and none of them looks perfect either. Because you have worked on trajectories, however, you are not someone I can simply let go.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle John. I don’t follow you.”
“You know things about our special catapult. I can’t send you off to the army now, or turn you loose on the streets of Chicago when there are spies everywhere. Some Kraut might capture you, and learn what we’re doing here.”
“I can keep a secret—”
“Don’t be naive, Charlie. These people will cut off your fingers one at a time until you spill. They will drug you and ruin your mind, purely for sport. There is no shame in saying that you could not withstand their torments. No one could.”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“The question is what to do with you now.” He stood and went to the window, surveying the street below. Half a minute passed. “How are you liking Chicago, son?”
“I like it well enough, Uncle John.”
“I love it here. This city is full of vitality and muscle, without all the pretentiousness and self-importance you find on the East and West coasts. I prefer Chicago to pretty much everywhere else.” A bit of moisture had fogged the lower part of the window, and Simmons rubbed it clear with his thumb. “My superiors want to move me, this whole kit and caboodle, to a more secure location.”
“New Mexico?”
“What?” Simmons whirled to face him, then checked himself. That easy smile came back to his face. “Charlie Fish. In a world where everyone is bragging about themselves all day long, you are much smarter than you let on.”
“I don’t know about that, sir.”
“Don’t be humble with me. I’ve got your number. But here’s the wrinkle.” Wiping his wet finger on his pants, the professor returned to his desk. He stacked the three collections of Charlie’s calculations together. “I can’t have folders with more red on them than all the Valentines you and I will get next week. It stands out. And trust me, Charlie, certain kinds of standing out are not good.”