He could still see Konrad's tired blue eyes, and the golden stubble on his chin, as they shook hands and parted in that ruined Prussian village, while the refugees streamed endlessly past. It was a parting that symbolized everything that had since happened to the world—the cleavage between East and West. For Konrad chose the road to Moscow. Reinhold had thought him a fool, but now he was not so sure.

For thirty years he had assumed that Konrad was dead. It was only a week ago that Colonel Sandmeyer, of Technical Intelligence, had given him the news. He didn't like Sandmeyer, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. But neither let that interfere with business.

“Mr. Hoffmann,” the Colonel had begun, in his best official manner, “I've just had some alarming information from Washington. It's top secret, of course, but we've decided to break it to the engineering staff so that they'll realize the necessity for speed.” He paused for effect, but the gesture was wasted on Reinhold. Somehow, he already knew what was coming.

“The Russians are nearly level with us. They've got some kind of atomic drive—it may even be more efficient than ours, and they're building a ship on the shores of Lake Baikal. We don't know how far they've got, but Intelligence believe it may be launched this year. You know what that means.”

Yes, thought Reinhold, I know. The race is on—and we may not win it.

“Do you know who's running their team?” he had asked, not really expecting an answer. To his surprise, Colonel Sandmeyer had pushed across a typewritten sheet—and there at its head was the name: Konrad Schneider.

“You knew a lot of these men at Peenemunde, didn't you?” said the Colonel.

“That may give us some insight into their methods. I'd like you to let me have notes on as many of them as you can—their specialities, the bright ideas they had, and so on. I know it's asking a lot after all this time—but see what you can do.”