Absorption. That was the key word, the pot of gold, the holy grail, the buzz of the industry. Something was up, something big.

As Paul Owens drove home from work at the Lockheed Skunk Works in Burbank, California on a November day, a young man in a red Mustang convertible, the wind over the Southern California desert was cool as it ruffled his thick, dark-brown hair, which hung down to his shoulders.

He was anxious to get home because...because...what?

Absorption. No, not that. Something else. The other thing.

Paul was an expert in the obscure science of radomes--jet nose cones made of non-interfering composites that were transparent to radar; and inside the radomes was the jet's radar tracking system. Paul was the best there was at this arcane specialty.

The air was silent except for the droning of small aircraft taking off and landing at Burbank's airport. Paul listened to rock music until the news came on--more disaster 9,000 miles away--and then flicked the radio off.

He did nose cones.

He did radar.

The Government and Lockheed denied that the place where he worked even existed, and he had a clearance as high as almost any general's; though his need to know was narrowed down to the mathematics and physics of the field that was his passion.

From a distance, there was little to reflect the ugliness of the Vietnam War, which was beginning to wind down, or the growing boldness of the Soviet Union in challenging the U.S. and her allies everywhere around the world.

Burbank, home of Universal Studios and several other cinematic giants, might not exactly be Heartland, U.S.A., but there was a peacefulness in the air, an Americanness, a safeness from war and chaos. Slightly inland, irrigation machines turned slowly in desert oases where vegetables lushly bloomed. There was a plantation slowness about the valley as laborers moved slowly about the fields, picking lettuce or spinach or fat round red tomatoes by hand.

A sense of urgency propelled him along this evening, but he'd put the cause of that urgency someplace where he could retrieve it. His head was full of mathematical formulations as he drove slowly to the Burbank subsection of Madeira, population 4,500, a bucolic swath of country living amid the suburbs. Paul was one of the world's experts on airplane nose cone radars. It was his passion, and he worked on it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The subject was always in his mind, whether he was home or at the Skunk Works. Lately it was absorption. The Government was desperate to make nose cones and fuselages that would suck up radar signals, refusing to allow them to return to whoever had sent them, and thereby rendering an airplane invisible. Would a metal do it? A paint? A material? Though Paul worked on other things as well, this was lately his pet project. It was a problem worthy of him, though he did not think of it that way.

He nosed in to a parking spot in the Madeira strip mall on the main route.

He picked up a BLT with extra mayo at King's Deli. His stomach was rumbling, and he realized he'd forgotten that he was hungry. Packing the brown bag absently under one arm, he jogged lightly several doors down to the small post office. He entered its gloomy interior--the fluorescents were already on, and the counter was shuttered behind steel slats. Eagerly, he bent down and peered into the tiny glass window of Box 4509.

"Yes!" He dropped his bag on the floor and fumbled with the key.

"Oh no!" It was a yellow notice, saying that he had a registered flat--what did that mean?--a package or something to pick up, but the post office was closed, and he'd have to come back in the morning. Damn!

The ZIP Code of origin...He rushed to the table by the wall, flipped open the book there, thrashed his way through the pages, and traced down the blinding rows of tiny numbers...MIT! Yes! His precious translation of the Russian mathematical paper was there on the other side of this damn wall, and he touched the wall with both hands as if he could somehow make it go away. But reality intervened. He'd be back when this place opened in the morning. He could wait one more night! He'd take it to work and work on it there! Unless his boss, Steve Rossi, who reported to Ben Rich, told him otherwise. Which was unlikely, since Paul usually worked many hours of overtime each week.

Minutes later, he pulled into his driveway, glad to be home while it was still daylight for a change. As he got out, the stillness and the smell of river reeds made him smile to himself. He walked through his old ramshackle house, picked up a can of cola on his way, and parked himself at the table on the back porch. As he devoured his sandwich, nearly groaning with the pleasure of not being in pain with hunger, he stared about his domain. He was paid well for what he did, and he'd chosen this quarter acre of delight because it reminded him of his farm origins in Ohio. His home was one of a string of quarter acre lots along Madeira Road. The neighbors were well separated, with huge old willow and pepper trees for added privacy. Running along the backs of the properties was a wide, shallow stream bed that was usually almost dry except for a trickle. Having that touch of wilderness added to the isolation and privacy he liked.

Much of Paul's backyard was waist deep in wild grass and oats. One day, he supposed, he'd have to get someone over to trim it. But what was the use, he thought, it would all grow back again. He thought again about his package. From the preliminary abstracts he'd read, he had a feeling that paper--by a Soviet professor, no less--might contain a clue in this maddening puzzle. Jeez, even the Nazis had toyed with the idea of radar-absorbent coatings during the last desperate days of World War II. They had designed and tested a remarkable V-shaped flying wing coated with materials that deadened the radar signal. Had the war continued a few more years, they might have found the complete answer, and then he, Paul Owens, would be chewing on some other problem today! He laughed to himself. Belching, he wandered over to the weather-beaten cupboard at the end of the porch, undid the padlock, and spread open the doors. There was his entire model airplane kit--enough to open a model airplane shop if he had time for such stuff. No, this was serious business. He'd loved these things since childhood--even had some engines dating back to his dad's fascination with the same hobby--but lately he'd been using his hobbies to help in his work.

The cupboard was full of tools, wings, fuselages, repair patches, dopes and paints and glues, oil, screws, model railroad parts (his other hobby)--and two working, radio-controlled planes.

Idly, he picked up one of his airplanes. He opened the tiny engine screw, poked an oil can nozzle inside, and squeezed the little can until the see-through indicator on the engine showed full. The engine took about as much oil as a fountain pen held ink. He closed the screw and wiped the engine with a red mechanic's rag. Adjusting the choke, he gave the propeller a good flick. The engine gave a healthy sput!--good compression.

He picked up the control, pulled the antenna fully out, and checked the battery. The juice was fully recharged.

Moments later, he stood just away from his back porch, controls in hand, watching his two-foot wingspan Condor buzzing over the high grass like a strange white dragonfly with black lettering.

It took him a minute or two to become aware of a child's voice speaking excitedly nearby.

Marsha Kassner, 32, heard her son Peter, 9, yelling excitedly, and she heard a faint buzzing sound. They had moved in only a week ago, and she was still leery of who her neighbors might be. Wiping a glass with her dishcloth, she stepped onto the back porch. These houses were very old, and unlike most Southern California houses, they had front and back porches from the days when people were more sociable.

What an odd sight, she thought. There was Mr. Owens, the man next door, standing in his back yard with a hand control. He had a model airplane flying in circles over those horrid weeds of his. The real estate man had told her Owens was an okay guy--just really weird but harmless in the final analysis. The fact that he appeared to live alone and have no family or children did not quite sit well with Marsha, and she eyed the scene warily.

Peter, a solid little boy with straight dark-blond hair cut like a chestnut half on his sturdy head ran to her, pointing backwards. "Mom, look what that man's got. Can I go see?" He ran by her in a semicircle as if expecting to get her okay and continue in an unbroken path toward the mysterious Mr. Owens.

"Peter, you stop right there!"

"Aw Mom."

"We haven't met Mr. Owens yet. We don't want to annoy him." Inwardly, she thought--we don't trust him. We want to check him out and avoid that as long as possible. The real estate man said Owens worked at the big Lockheed plant, but that he never dressed up for work, and it wasn't clear what exactly he did. Wasn't an ordinary assembly line worker, far as he knew; made pretty solid money, from what he'd heard. Of course, real estate people would say anything to close a deal, she thought. Why did everything have to be so hard in life, she wondered.

Peter jumped up and down and cried: "Mo-o-om!" in a hoarse voice.

She understood his hunger; it scared her. Was it more for the magic of a motorized airplane, or the company of a man who might in some pale fashion imitate the wonder of the dad he'd lost? "Okay, honey," she said, setting the rag and glass down. She held out her hand and he took it eagerly. "Come on, let's go introduce ourselves."

She felt butterflies as she approached the end of her neatly clipped property. She halted at the rickety wooden picket fence--fresh white paint on her side, flaking ancient gray surface on his (she'd noticed the first day already, and it fit with the look of his house). "Hello!" she called.

Peter jumped up so his feet were on the 2-by-4 along the bottom of the fence. He leaned forward and hollered: "Hello, Mister!"

Paul shook his head lightly as he heard the voices coming toward him in a light wind. Seeing two figures out of the corner of his eye, he raised one finger to signal he'd be with them in a moment. Using both hands, he guided the plane in to a picture perfect landing near the fence, except that one wheel hopped into a gopher hole, and the plane tipped forward, its tail in the air.

Both persons by the fence clapped.

As he approached them, he saw that one was a little boy with excited eyes, and the other was a very attractive dark-haired woman who instantly made Paul feel awkward. "Thank you," he managed to stammer. He bowed slightly, as if he were in a ballet.

The woman and the boy laughed. She was tallish, with a nice figure. Her face attracted Paul the most--well proportioned, with a small gently ski-ramped nose, a lush sweet mouth still hinting of the day's red lipstick, dark eyes full of intelligence and mirth, and a high intelligent forehead. Her cheeks were wide and soft and rounded, her jaw line more squarish. Actually, he thought as he walked closer, she was knitting-magazine pretty.

They shook hands, and she had a dry, firm grip. Her fingers were soft, as if they were plump, which they weren't.

"I'm really sorry we're bothering you, Mr.--"

"Owens. Paul Owens. You're not bothering me at all."

"--My son--Peter--"

"--Call me Pete--"

"Okay, Pete."

"My son Peter loves things like airplanes and model trains and all. He just couldn't resist coming over. I'm sorry."

Paul lifted Pete over the fence. "No problem, Mrs.--"

"Kassner. I'm Marsha Kassner." She turned a little bit red. Her eyes followed her son in alarm as Paul set Pete down. The boy immediately ran over to the plane and started to pick it up. In the same moment, one of his fingers poked through the wing surface.

Marsha Kassner gasped.

Paul laughed quietly. "Easy, Pete."

The boy dropped the plane, hard, nose first, into the ground.

Marsha Kassner gasped again.

"It's okay," Paul said.

Pete sat by the plane, looking mortified. He looked at his mother for help, and at Paul to determine just how angry this new neighbor might be.

"I'll tell you what," Paul said. "For now, let me handle the plane. I'll teach you all about it as we go along, and pretty soon you'll be an expert. Okay?"

"I'll pay to get it fixed," Marsha Kassner said quickly. "Peter, you get over here right now!"

A tear dribbled down Pete's cheek as he hove himself upright.

"Easy does it," Paul said picking up the plane. "Tell you what. I have two of them. Mrs. Kassner, honest, it's nothing. I fix these things all the time. Let's get the other plane and I'll help you fly it for a few minutes." He took the wounded plane in both arms. "Wait here, okay?"

A few minutes later, Condor II circled in the air over the weeds.

Pete worked the controls, with Paul kneeling behind him, holding the box with the panel for him.

Marsha Kassner stood beside them, having stepped over the picket fence. She wore tight jeans, high tan suede boots, and a crisp cowboy shirt with pale, small blue checks. A nice looking lady, Paul thought; wow; ones like this were all taken; too bad.

"Easy," he told Pete. We don't want to crash in that tall grass.

"Why?" Pete asked.

"Because that's full of radar nodes."

"What?" Pete asked, and his mom laughed.

"Seriously," Paul told her. "I'm a radar specialist. I know" (he laughed suddenly) "I should cut the grass, and I guess now I will have to. I bring my work home with me."

"What's radar? What's a node?"

"I'll show you next time we see each other, maybe this weekend if I'm home and it's daylight."

"It's getting dark," Marsha Kassner said quickly, apparently taking it as a cue he wanted them to leave. Why did she keep doing that? He was enjoying himself. She smelled faintly of some citrusy perfume with violet and licorice in it or something.

"We'd better get home and let Mr. Owens put his plane away. I'm so sorry about the other one that he broke."

"No problem at all. I can dope that wing and have it fixed in no time."

Condor II came in to a smooth landing, guided by Paul. Marsha and her son clapped. She beamed. "That was magnificent."

He wanted to say something witty like "I'm generally thought of as magnificent" or maybe "that's as magnificent as I get, I'm afraid," but nothing came out.

He managed to stammer good-bye and shake Pete's hand as they left.

Thoughtfully, he rubbed his hand along the broken wing of Condor I. Funny how suddenly things happened. A stranger could come up and tear a hole in your wing or your heart and just not even realize what they'd done. For a few moments, he'd actually forgotten his Russian paper.

As Paul pulled out of his driveway, he spotted Marsha Kassner pulling out. Pete sat in the passenger seat, ready for school. They both waved, and Paul waved back. Marsha pulled away, and Paul sat for a moment enjoying the afterglow of the little smile she'd sent his way, the little flutter of fingers.

At 7:55 a.m., Paul stood outside the post office as Jane Hardiway, the postmistress, unlocked the doors. "Hello, Paul."

"Hello, Mrs. Hardiway." He waved the yellow slip. "You have a package for me."

An older lady, with gray hair and a round figure, she laughed. "Every time you get a package, you're here first thing in the morning like a schoolboy. You sure you're not getting some of those racy magazines?"

The several other persons present laughed.

He almost snapped, "No, I'd have that delivered to my house," but he realized then they'd laugh even more. Should he say "I don't read those magazines?"

She patted him on the shoulder. "You are as red as a tomato. I'm sorry. Come on, it's another one of those research thingies full of mathematical formulas. Might be alchemy, for all I know."

Too eager to drive to work immediately, Paul sat outside on the steps and tore open the wrapper. Out came his treasure--it still smelled of alcohol from the repro machine. He'd ordered this English translation from his old alma mater, knowing that if he ordered through Lockheed they'd hold it up for all sorts of security reasons, even though it was available in the narrow academic channels that understood this material.

There it was: "Method of Edge Waves in the Physical Theory of Diffraction."

Hmm, Paul thought, diffraction? Instead of absorption? Interesting.

"...by Pyotr Ufimtsev of Moscow." Translated by the U.S. Air Force Foreign Technology Division.

As he flipped through with trembling fingers, he quickly recognized familiar century old equations of Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell, which had then been worked on by German electromagnetics expert Arnold Johannes Sommerfeld. The body of these equations taken together would predict how the geometric configuration--the shape--of an object could affect--or deflect--electromagnetic radiation. Now Ufimtsev had taken these realizations a few steps further.

This wasn't what Paul had expected, but he was intrigued. Instead of absorption, diffraction? He frowned as he stared at the paper, beginning immediately to realize its implications. If you were trapped in a box, and the situation looked hopeless, perhaps you had to get out of the box completely and into another problem.

Diffraction, he thought as he drove to the Lockheed Advanced Development Projects division (the "Skunk Works").

Insistent squelches of a siren made Paul look into the rear view mirror. He saw the twirling red white and blue lights of a police car and frowned. He was doing 45 in a 50 mile and hour zone. What was going on?