scoonts.theminotaur-第30部分

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　religion　or　changed　his　name　to　that　of　his　favorite　baseball　team。　He　grew　up　in　Brooklyn；　you　know。〃
　〃No；〃　said　Jake　Grafton　through　clenched　teeth。　〃I　didn't。〃
　〃Yeah。　Anyway；　he's　dabbled　in　puters　and　radar　for　years　and　patented　this　technology　for　suppressing　reflected　radiation。　He　came　to　me　with　some　technical　problems。　I　used　my　influence　with　the　navy　to　get　him　a　good　radar　to　work　with。　Had　it　delivered　in　a　moving　van。〃　He　chuckled。　〃I'll　tell　you　that　story　sometime。〃
　〃Henry　says　he's　a　genius。〃
　Fritsche　nodded　his　agreement　between　drags　on　his　cigar。　Smoke　filled　the　interior　of　the　car。　Jake　cracked　his　window　an　inch　to　exhaust　the　thick　fumes。　〃He'll　probably　be　in　the　running　for　a　Nobel　when　his　achievements　get　declassified。〃
　〃Somebody　said　he's　greedy。〃
　〃Samuel　wants　some　bucks；　all　right。　I　can't　condemn　him　for　that；　not　after　a　few　years　of　reading　about　the　pirates　of　Wall　Street。　Dodgers　is　the　founder　and　only　benefactor　of　his　church　and　he　wants　to　take　it　nationwide；　with　TV　and　radio　anil　a　hallelujah　choir；　the　whole　schema。　I　think　he　realizes　that　since　he's　so　heavy　into　hellfire　and　damnation；　contributions　are　going　to　be　light。　The　feel…good；　be…happy　ministries　are　the　ones　rolling　in　the　dough。　Dodgers　is　going　to　have　to　keep　his　afloat　out　of　his　own　pocket。〃
　Jake　Grafton　arranged　the　collar　of　his　civilian　jacket　around　his　neck　and　lowered　the　window　another　inch。　〃What　did　George　Ludlow　say　when　he　heard　about　Dr。　Dodgers？〃
　〃Amen；〃　Fritsche　said　lightly。
　〃I　believe　it；〃　Jake　muttered。　His　panion　tittered　good…naturedly。
　The　car　rolled　on　into　the　farm　district　south　of　San　Jose。　Eventually　Fritsche　turned　up　a　dirt　driveway　and　parked　in　front　of　a　ramshackle　wooden　structure。　A　large　sign　amid　the　weeds　proclaimed：　〃Faith　Apostolic　Gospel　Tabernacle。〃
　〃I　think　we　ought　to　get　down　on　our　knees　inside　and　pray　the　GAO　never　gets　wind　of　this；〃　Jake　said　as　he　surveyed　the　weeds　and　the　fading　whitewash　on　the　old　structure。　The　last　coat　of　thin　whitewash　had　been　applied　over　a　still　legible　Grange　hall　sign。
　〃You'll　see；〃　Fritsche　assured　him。
　Samuel　Dodgers　was　a　stringy　man　in　constant　motion。　He　stood　in　the　small；　dusty　chapel　and　tugged　at　this；　gestured　at　that；　reset　the　Dodgers　baseball　cap　on　his　balding　dome　for　the　hundredth　time；　pulled　at　his　trousers　or　ear　or　nose　or　lower　lip；　moving；　always　moving。　〃So　you　fellows　wanta　see　it　again；　huh；　and　see　what　progress　looks　like　in　the　late　twentieth　century？　When　do　I　get　some　money？〃
　〃You　got　your　last　check　two　weeks　ago。〃
　〃I　mean　the　next　one。〃　He　hitched　up　his　pants　and　reset　his　cap　and　looked　from　face　to　face　expectantly。　The　sunlight　ing　through　a　dirty　windowpane　fell　on　a　long；　lean　face。　His　chin　jutted　outward　from　almost　nonexistent　lips。　Above　the　grim　mouth　was　a　sharp　nose　and　two　restless　black　eyes。　〃The　next　check…when？〃
　〃I　think　it's　a　couple　months　away；〃　Fritsche　replied　gently。
　〃If　I　weren't　a　Christian　I'd　cuss　you　government　people。　Your　tax　people　squeeze　the　juice　right　out　of　a　man…a　man　who's　sitting　on　the　biggest　advancement　in　military　technology　since　the　horseshoe…but　the　giving　hand　is　so　all…fired　parsimonious；　stingy；　miserly。　You　people　are　just　cheap！〃
　〃You're　being　paid　according　to　the　contract　you　agreed　to；　Dr。　Dodgers。〃
　〃Get　a　man　over　a　barrel　and　squeeze　him。　It's　a　sin　to　take　advantage　of　a　man　trying　to　do　the　Lord's　work　like　I　am。　A　an。〃
　Jake　glanced　at　Helmut　Fritsche。　He　appeared　unperturbed。
　Dodgers　led　them　between　a　dozen　or　so　folding　chairs　toward　the　door　near　the　altar。　〃Praise　the　Lord　and　pass　the　ammunition；〃　Fritsche　muttered　just　loud　enough　for　Jake　to　hear　above　the　tramping　and　scraping　of　heavy　feet　on　the　wooden　floor。
　The　back　half　of　the　old　Grange　hall　was　a　well…lit　workshop。　Several　strings　of　naked　hundred…watt　bulbs　were　woven　through　the　joists　and　cast　their　light　on　a　crowded　jumble　of　workbenches；　tools　and　junk。　The　visitors　picked　their　way　through　it　behind　Dodgers；　who　approached　the　only　person　in　the　place；　a　young　roan　of　about　twenty　with　carrot…red　hair　and　acne　to　match。
　〃My　boy　Harold；〃　Dodgers　said　to　Jake；　who　shook　the　offered　hand　and　introduced　himself。　〃Harold　was　at　Stanford；　but　they　weren't　teaching　him　anything；　so　he　came　back　here　to　work　with　me。　Learn　more　here　with　me　than　he　would　in　that　Sodom　of　little　minds。　Those　fools　with　their　calculators；　always　saying　that　something　won't　work。。。〃　He　continued　to　fulminate　as　he　opened　the　large　doors　at　the　back　end　of　the　building　and　began　stringing　electrical　cords。　〃Well；　Helmut；　you　seen　this　done　before。　Don't　just　stand　there　like　a　tourist。〃
　Dodgers　drew　Jake　aside　as　Fritsche　and　Harold　hooked　up　electrical　cords　and　moved　a　workbench　outside。　〃Okay。〃　He　cleared　his　throat　〃Over　there　on　that　little　bench　below　those　trees〃…he　pointed　at　the　side　of　a　hill　about　a　half　mile　away…〃is　the　radar。　Harold　will　run　that。　That's　the　radar　the　navy　loaned　me。　Got　it　up　there　in　an　old　two…holer　that　used　to　be　here　behind　the　tabernacle。〃　He　stopped　and　showed　Harold　exactly　how　he　wanted　the　power　cables　connected。
　Jake　joined　him　at　a　workbench。　〃Now　this　little　radar　suppressor…it　picks　up　the　ining　signal　on　these　three　antennas　here　and　feeds　it　into　this　puter　over　there。　Got　four　of　the　fastest　chips　made　in　this　thing…Harold　did　most　of　the　puter　design。　puters　are　his　bag。　Little　hobby　of　mine　too。　Anyway；　the　puter　analyzes　the　ining　signal：　strength；　frequency；　direction；　PRF…that's　Pulse　Repetition　Frequency…and　so　forth；　and　generates　a　signal　that　goes　out　through　these　panion　antennas　to　muffle　out　future　signals。　That's　why　these　antennas　are　twins。　You　have　a　receiver　and　a　transmitter。〃
　〃But　you　can't　suppress　the　first　signal　ing　in？〃
　〃Nope。　They　get　one　free　look。　The　very　first　ining　pulse　will　not　be　muffled。　Nor；　in　this　generation　of　this　device；　will　the　second。　See；　you　can't　get　a　pulse　repetition　frequency　until　you　have　received　at　least　two　pulses；　which　you　must　have　to　time　your　outgoing　pulses；　the　muffling　pulses。　But　with　existing　radars；　the　return　from　one　pulse　will　be　treated　like　static。　The　cathode…ray　tubes　need　a　lot　more　pulses　than　that。〃
　〃And　when　the　guy　painting　you　stops　transmitting；　you　beacon　one　more　time？〃
　〃That's　the　problem　Harold　and　I　are　working　on　right　now。　You　see；　after　the　first　pulse　es　in；　and　the　second；　the　puter　then　has　to　figure　it　all　out　and　start　transmitting。　Right　now　we've　got　the　puting　time　down　to　about　ten　billionths　of　a　second。　That's　not　enough　of　a　clean　chirp　to　let　any　existing　radar　get　a　definable　return。　If　the　next　pulse　doesn't　arrive　right　on　time；　we'll　stop　the　muffling　pulses　ten　nanoseconds　later。　Just　need　to　fix　the　software；　the　XY　dipole　and。。。〃　His　voice　fell　to　an　incoherent　mumble。
　〃Why　wouldn't　a　second　radar　that　is　in　a　receive…only　mode　see　you　beaconing　to　the　first　radar？〃
　〃Bistatic　radar？　It　would；〃　said　the　genius　in　jeans；　〃if　all　we　were　doing　was　pulsing　straight　back　at　the　transmitter。　But　we　aren't。　We're　pulsing　from　a　series　of　antennas　all　over　the　plane　to　neutralize　the　reflected　signal。　Knowing　how　much　to　radiate；　precisely　enough　yet　not　too　much；　that's　where　the　puter　really　makes　this　thing　work。　First　you　must　know　the　exact　reflective　characteristics　of　the　object　you　are　trying　to　protect…that's　your　airplane…and　put　that　data　into　the　puter's　memory。　Then　the　puter　calculates　the　scatter　characteristics　of　the　ining　signal　and　tells　each　of　the　two　hundred　transmitters　positioned　over　the　fuselage　and　wings　and　tail　just　how　much　to　radiate。　All　of　the　transmitters　have　to　radiate　in　all　directions。　And　this　whole　thing　has　to　work　very；　very　quickly。　No　puter　was　fast　enough　to　handle　this　until　superconductivity　came　along。　See；　to　make　the　electrical　signals　move　along　fast　enough　to　make　this　work；　I've　had　to　super…cool　my　puter　in　a　tank　of　liquid　hydrogen　and　encase　the　wires　to　each　of　the　antennas　in　this　special　sheathing。　That　lowers　the　resistance　just　enough。〃　He　gestured　to　a　row　of　pressure　bottles　that　stood　in　one　corner　of　his　worksho