The Methuselah Project (18 page)

“Sign up now!” urged Peachtree State Match & Mingles.

She tapped to register. The first three login names Katherine concocted for herself were rejected as already taken. Finally the system accepted “Paperdoll777.” Unlike the others, this moniker conveyed no direct connection with writing or editing, but at least it involved paper, which elicited a giggle. That, plus her favorite number in triplicate, should be impossible to forget.

Ha! I’m in.

She proceeded to fill registration blanks with her age, marital status, interests … “Headline for your profile?” asked the next line. What could she say? Seeking inspiration, Katherine reviewed sample headers: “I’m Your Fantasy Come True.” “One Hot Tamale!” “The Golden Haired Godiva of Your Dreams.”

Oh, good grief. Don’t make me throw up.

She lowered her fingertips to the keyboard and typed simply, “Trying Something New.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. Nothing wild or exotic. No promises. Just a down-to-earth girl crawling out from under her uncle’s thumb to breathe fresh air in a nice, controlled atmosphere.

Visiting a dating website wouldn’t fit most people’s definition of rebellion. But it was an option she’d never pursued before. She powered off the laptop. Would anything promising develop?

Time would tell.

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
5, 2014

T
HE
K
OSSLER ESTATE
, G
ERMANY

R
oger had long ago grown accustomed to the comings and goings of the three young scientists—Hans, Gerhard, and Martin—who had been assigned to the Methuselah Project nine years earlier. At first the trio, who looked to be in their late twenties, stared into Roger’s cage with awe when Kossler introduced them and pulled open the first drawer of bulging, photo-stuffed binders on Subject 7. As the months yielded to years, however, the new men took less interest in the prisoner. When they did acknowledge him, they regarded the American with almost mocking contempt. Although they never spoke of the war or the Nazi Party, each of them oozed the haughty ego that Roger concluded must be genetic among their breed.

Unlike Kossler, who now descended the steps primarily to bring meals or to chat in the evenings, the others rarely appeared after working hours. Evidently the younger men’s dedication to Methuselah screeched to a halt at 5:00 p.m.

Of course, the newcomers occasionally entered the bunker to track down some needed information—
data,
they called it—in one of the file cabinets lining a full wall. Usually, though, they confined themselves to laboring upstairs with whatever equipment had been installed there.

Judging by their appalled expressions, rolling eyes, and the snide remarks they dropped to each other, the younger men clearly regarded much of Kossler’s methodology to be as archaic as stone knives and bear skins. On the other hand, various aspects of Kossler’s findings prompted large eyes, exclamations, or fingers tapping on some particular page.

“Absolutely incredible,” Hans said to himself one day as he sat at Kossler’s desk and pored over a stack of hand-typed reports.

On rare occasions, one or two of the men would descend merely to spend a few minutes of conversation with “the subject.” Such conversations usually revolved around his sleeping habits or other biological functions. In these moments, Roger tried to pump them for information about the war and the outside world, but the new managers only grinned and shook their heads.

“Forbidden topics, Captain Greene.”

Roger had been tempted to boast that he already knew about the Nazi invasion of eastern Canada, the occupation of Africa, the Middle East, and other notable events. In the end, though, he’d decided to bite his tongue. After all, the trickle of information he received from Kossler might dry up completely if these others mentioned the American’s knowledge to their bosses in Berlin.

Still, through them Roger gained glimpses of changes in the outside world. The day the leader of the new team, the arrogant Hans, lugged several cardboard cartons downstairs and set to work assembling an apparatus on Werner’s old desk, Roger watched in fascination. What could it be?

Each of the components came with electrical cords, plus other wires Hans connected to the rear of a black rectangle on a stand. The rectangle sported a dark window to nowhere, and this, too, Hans connected to the box by a cable.

“What are those things?”

Hans smirked. “Watch.” He pressed a button, and soon the blackness of the little window yielded to words and pictures. Hans sat and began tapping a flattish typewriter. Roger watched in bewilderment as his own name appeared on the screen in bold, scarlet letters.

“This is a desktop computer,” Hans explained. “With it, we can do calculations and perform experiments without actually going through all of the physical motions. We ran out of room upstairs. Extra equipment comes down here now.”

Roger emitted an impressed whistle. “I suppose that’s another invention of your Nazi scientists?”

An especially peculiar grin stretched across Hans’s face. “Of course. Germany now uses computers for everything—in stores, businesses, the military, even in private homes. German technology on the march!”

Roger cast a fishhook to see if he could snare some
data
of his own: “I wonder if my side has anything like that.”

Hans permitted himself an indulgent smile. “Oh, I suppose it’s possible America has a few computers by now.” He reached into the desk drawer and withdrew a small, rectangular object. “Did Dr. Kossler ever show you this?”

“He didn’t specifically show it to me, but I’ve seen him poke on it with his fingers. What is it?”

“We call it a calculator. Catch.”

Reaching between the bars of his cell, Roger caught the object Hans tossed to him. Rows of buttons with numbers and mathematical symbols filled its surface. “What does it do?”

“Press the On button. You can perform mathematical equations much faster than with pencil and paper.”

Roger multiplied two times two, then twelve times twelve, then larger and larger figures. Again, he whistled in admiration. “This thing is all right!”

He turned the object over and noticed miniature words stamped on the back:
Made in China.
The Japanese had occupied China. “This isn’t German technology. Your Axis friends in Japan must have dreamed this up.”

Hans grinned in an odd way that made Roger wonder what joke he’d missed, then nodded. “You are quite astute, Captain Greene. I can’t fool you, can I? Our Japanese partners invented that calculator. They are clever inventors, those Japanese.”

“Very slick. But I don’t need to perform much arithmetic in here.” Roger tossed the device back to Hans.

Out of nowhere, musical notes began playing a tune, the German national anthem. From his shirt pocket, Hans extracted another device, one even smaller than the calculator. “Hans here.” A pause. “Speak louder. The reception is very bad where I am.” A moment later, “I don’t care what her lawyer says. It’s all lies. The sooner this divorce is over, the better.”

The conversation continued, giving Roger his first peek inside Hans’s personal life. Since Hans wore no wedding band, Roger hadn’t realized the scientist had a wife. Even more surprising was the portable pocket telephone. Kossler had never used such a thing.

“Trouble on the home front?” Roger asked after Hans slid the portable phone back into his pocket.

Hans glared. “My personal life is no concern of yours.” He turned off the computer and stalked out the door.

Now that was an interesting glimpse of changes in the outside world.

But as Roger lay down to reread
The Story of the Wright Brothers,
he couldn’t shake one basic question: Why was
Made in China
printed in English instead of Japanese or Chinese? Even printing it in German would make more sense than using English, the language of an enemy nation. No amount of puzzling produced a satisfactory explanation.

That evening, when Kossler’s shaking hands slid the supper tray into the cell, Roger mentioned his conversation with Hans about the calculator. “Why would
Made in China
be in English, Doc?”

Otto Kossler evaded his eyes. His expression resembled that of a child caught with one hand in a cookie jar. Instead of answering, he turned and walked stiffly back to the exit. His arthritis must be getting worse. Over his shoulder he said, “It’s all very complicated. Politics, expediency, science … I haven’t tried to educate you concerning all that happens around the globe, Captain Greene.” He half opened the door. “You know, it’s possible that if you were suddenly to leave this place you would find modern society so confusing that you would end your own life. Please don’t concern yourself about such things. You will be cared for.”

The door clanged shut. He’d never seen Kossler react so oddly. Whatever it meant, Roger had stumbled onto a topic the man preferred to avoid. But why?

The next day, Roger still puzzled over Kossler’s reaction. And why hadn’t the old boy showed up with breakfast? The dusty mantel clock showed 10:37 a.m. Kossler often tottered in late, but never this late. When Hans, Gerhard, and Martin—the Three Musketeers, as Roger dubbed them—entered the bunker, Roger sensed something fishy. Rather than going about their work as usual, the three approached his cage with untranslatable expressions of amusement pasted across their faces.

Roger shifted his gaze from one pair of eyes to the next. “Okay. Something’s up. Spill it.”

“We have heard a colorful expression from your country,” said Martin in stilted English. “It is ‘red-blooded American.’ Would you consider yourself a normal, red-blooded American, Captain Greene?”

Of all the questions his German captors had ever asked, this won the prize for the screwiest. Was it a joke, or a threat? Were they planning to kill him after all these years?

Roger cleared his throat. “If you mean, am I a normal American male, the answer is yes. I might not look my real age, but that’s the only unusual thing about me. Why?”

The three exchanged schoolboy glances. Gerhard literally giggled. Hans strolled back to the steel entry door and placed his hand on the knob. “We just wanted to make sure before we introduce you to the newest member of the Methuselah Project.”

Hans cracked open the door and addressed some unseen person: “You may come in now.”

When the latest addition to the Methuselah team stepped through the doorway, Roger had no idea what emotion his face registered, but the reaction ignited a chorus of laughter from his three German captors. Roger simply stared. For the first time in seventy years, he found himself gazing into the lovely eyes of a living, breathing woman.

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
6, 2014

T
HE
K
OSSLER ESTATE
, G
ERMANY

H
ans led the woman into the bunker as if he were the host at a dinner party. “Captain Greene, allow me to introduce Sophie Gottschalk. I’m delighted to announce that
Fräulein
Gottschalk has received clearance to participate in our project. She’s now a permanent member of our elite Methuselah family.”