Polar Shift

Lab buildings where research is conducted into the maintenance of nuclear weapons are still off-limits to the public, hinting that the town is still very much in the business of nuclear war. Tourists who drop into the laboratory's museum can touch replicas of "Fat Man" and "Little Boy," the first A-bombs, view various types of warheads and cozy up to life-size statues of Robert Oppenheimer and General Groves, the binary stars of the ultrasecret alliance of military and science that created the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The Trouts stopped at the national laboratory's research library and talked to a research assistant they had contacted earlier. She had prepared a folder with information about Lazlo Kovacs, but most of it was biographical and offered nothing beyond what they already knew about the scientist. Kovacs, it seemed, was pretty much a footnote. Like Tesla, about whom more was known, Kovacs had become a cult figure, the assistant explained, and his theories belonged more in the area of science fiction than science.

"Maybe we'll learn more at the Kovacs Society," Gamay said.

The assistant gave the Trouts a blank look, and then she burst into laughter.

"What's wrong?" Gamay said.

The assistant blushed and said, "I'm sorry. It's just that-well, you'll see."

She was still laughing when she ushered them to the door.

The contact at the Kovacs Society was an ebullient-sounding man whose name was Ed Frobisher. When they called Frobisher, he said he'd be out and about doing errands and suggested that they meet him at a surplus store called the Black Hole.

The shop was on the edge of town next to an A-frame with a sign out front designating it as the omega peace institute, first church of high technology. The church and the Black Hole were owned by a local named Ed Grothus, who had bought up decades of lab surplus that went back to the Manhattan Project days. He called it "nuclear waste," and advertised his wares for mad scientists, artists and pack rats.

The yard around the store was cluttered with empty bomb casings, turrets, office furniture and electronic gear. Inside the big warehouse there was aisle after aisle of shelves, all piled high with obsolete electronic gear, such as Geiger counters, oscilloscopes and circuit boards. The Trouts asked the cashier if he knew Frobisher. He led them to an aisle where a man was talking to himself as he rummaged through a stack of control panels.

"Look at this stuff," Frobisher said after they had introduced themselves. "This board probably cost a month's wages of the average taxpayer back in the fifties. Now it's junk, except to a few tech nuts like me."

Frobisher was a big man, over six feet tall, with a barrel chest that flowed into a belly that hung over his wide, military belt. He wore a yellow plaid shirt that would have hurt the eyes even if it hadn't clashed with the red suspenders that struggled to hold his pants up under the weight of his belly. The pants were tucked into knee-high, rubber fisherman's boots, although the day was desert dry. His thick, pure white hair was cut in bangs that hung over rectangular, horn-rimmed glasses.

Frobisher paid for the control board, and led the way out of the store to a dusty and dented Chrysler K-car. He told the Trouts to call him "Froby," and suggested that they follow him to his house where the Kovacs Society had its headquarters. As the vehicles headed out of town, Gamay turned to Paul, who was at the wheel.

"Does our new friend Froby remind you of anyone?"

Trout nodded. "A tall and loud Captain Kangaroo."

"Kurt is going to owe us after this one," Gamay said with a sigh. "I'd rather get sucked down into a whirlpool."

The road went higher, winding through the hills above the town. Houses became fewer and farther between. The sedan turned up a short gravel drive, bouncing like a rubber ball on its worn-out shock absorbers, and parked in front of a doll-sized adobe house. The yard was filled with electronic junk, resembling a smaller version of the Black Hole.

As they walked the path between piles of rusting rocket casings and electronic housings, Froby waved his arm expansively.

"The labs have an auction every month to sell off their stuff. Guess I don't have to tell you that I'm at every sale," Froby said.

"Guess you don't," Gamay said with an indulgent smile.

They went into the house, which was surprisingly well ordered in contrast to the haphazard nature of its surplus landscaping. Frobisher ushered them into a compact living room furnished with institutional leather-and-chrome office furniture. A metal desk and two metal filing cabinets were pushed against a wall.

"Everything in this house comes from the national lab," Frobisher bragged. He noticed Trout looking at a radioactive warning sign on the wall and gave him a horsy grin. "Don't worry. That's there to cover a hole in the wall. As president of the Lazlo Kovacs Society, I'd like to welcome you to the world headquarters. Meet our founder." He pointed to an old photograph that hung on the wall next to the sign. It showed a fine-featured man in his forties with dark hair and intense eyes.

"How many members does the society have?" Gamay said.

"One. You're looking at him. As you can see, it's a very exclusive organization."

"I noticed," Gamay said with a sweet smile.

Trout gave his wife a look that said he was bolting for the door at the first opportunity. She was busy sca

"Please have a seat," Frobisher said. He sat in the desk chair and swiveled around to face his guests.

Trout sat down next to Gamay. He had already decided that the best way to end the conversation was to begin it. "Thank you for seeing us," he said as a prelude to saying good-bye.

"My pleasure," Froby beamed. "To be honest, I don't encounter much interest in the Kovacs Society these days. This is a big deal. Where are you folks from?"

"Washington," Trout said.

His baby blue eyes lit up. "An even bigger deal! You'll have to sign my guest book. Now, tell me, how did you come to be interested in Lazlo Kovacs?"

"We're both scientists with the National Underwater and Marine Agency," Camay said. "A colleague of ours at NUMA told us about Kovacs's work, and said there was a society here in Los Alamos that had the most complete files on the subject. The national lab's library has very little on Kovacs."

"That bunch over there thinks he was a quack," Frobisher said with disgust.

"We got that impression," Gamay said.

"Let me tell you about the society. I used to work as a physicist with the national laboratory. I played cards with a bunch of my fellow scientists, and invariably the work of Nikola Tesla came up. Some of us used to argue that Kovacs was overshadowed by Tesla's flamboyant style and deserved more credit for his discoveries than he had been given. We named our poker group the Kovacs Society."

Trout smiled, but he was groaning inwardly as he thought about the time being wasted. He cleared his throat.

"Your society was named after a poker group?"

"Yes. We thought about calling it Poker Flats. But some of the fellows were married and thought a discussion group would be good cover to put their wives off."