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transatlantic cable. It is said the mockery about ‘Brunel’s Folly,’ as they called it, is what killed him. Fifty years later he was hailed as a visionary. I want you to learn that now.”
    “Is that what keeps you going, sir?” Gary ventured.
    Erich looked at him crossly and did not reply.
    “By the end of the week I want you up to speed on through Brunel; Eads; Ericsson; the Roeblings; Herman Haupt, a railroad engineer as important to the Union cause as Grant or Sherman; the private entrepreneur Hill, who built a transcontinental railroad on his own, the Great Northern, without a dime of government money only twenty-five years after the first transcontinental, which proved to be one of the great boondoggles of its time—names few know but you will know. Then we’ll start talking about space.”
    Gary was a bit surprised. He had come here to learn what was the cutting edge, not some darn boring history lessons.
    Erich smiled.
    “In time you will see why I make you learn the past, then learn how to shape the future and have the strength to do it.
    “So, I expect to see a book a day off that shelf. Don’t forget the book by de Camp on your way out. Have it read by tomorrow.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Erich looked down at the paper he had been reading and for several minutes focused on it, ignoring Gary, so that he wondered if he had been dismissed. Erich had a red pencil out and began scratching some notes along the margins, then folded it over.
    “This was given to me by the other new intern.” He looked up at the old-style clock hanging on the wall. “And in another minute that person will be late.”
    There was a knock on the door with thirty seconds to spare.
    “Enter.”
    Gary could not help but gaze in admiration. He had noticed her in the group orientation for new interns the day before. Blond; tall, at least for Gary, at about five feet ten inches; startling green eyes; and classic Slavic high cheekbones. She was tastefully dressed in a modest skirt and blouse—actually, rather formal for the facility, where “dressing down” to jeans and T-shirts had become the norm with the younger staff over the last few years, though the “old-timers” still wore white shirts and neckties.
    “Am I interrupting?” she asked politely. The accent revealed by those three words told Gary she was the Ukrainian exchange intern.
    “Not at all, young lady,” and Old World charm took hold of Erich as he stood, nodded slightly, and pointed to a chair next to Gary. Erich made a polite offer of tea, which she gracefully accepted. Gary, a bit flustered, because he hated tea, accepted a cup as well but was a bit chagrined that Erich had not offered him tea or coffee when he came in.
    Erich made the introductions, and Gary stood to shake Evgeniya Petrenko’s hand, unable to avoid those green eyes, which seemed to bore into him. He sensed that she was the type who on a daily basis brushed off the attention of fellow male grad students and perhaps many a professor as well. Then he nervously sat down again, self-consciously pushing his own glasses, which had slid down a bit, back up on his nose.
    “Your translation of this paper,” Erich said, holding up the printout. “May I ask, is it accurate?”
    Evgeniya seemed to bristle slightly at this question about her English ability.
    “I assure you, sir, it is accurate.”
    “I’ve not seen it before, though I’ve, of course, heard of the theory. Some years back Arthur C. Clarke even wrote a novel about the idea. But even he said when he wrote it he thought it would be two hundred years or more from now before we had the technology to do it.”
    “The paper was published in, of all places, a popular journal in Moscow in 1960. I am surprised your CIA did not grab it and rush it here.”
    Shadows of the Cold War still lingered in the way she had said “CIA.”
    “Perhaps the KGB blocked it,” Gary said softly.
    She looked at him crossly.
    “It was in a popular magazine like