Free The First Casualty by Gregg Loomis Page B

“. . . invite the great inventors to construct something against which fleets and armies would be helpless and thus make war thenceforth impossible.”
    Twain went on to offer his services in marketing the patents to European powers and rulers he had met in his travels, including Emperor Wilhelm II of Germany, presumably on the theory that if all nations possessed such a weapon, war would be impossible. Exactly what the nature of this “destruc­tive terror” was is not mentioned, nor is the method by which Twain learned of it.
    A final and rather sad note to the relationship between sci­entist­ and writer: In 1942, shortly before his death, Tesla summoned a messenger, giving him a packet to be delivered to a Mr. Samuel Clemens at an address in Manhattan. When the messenger returned, unable to find either address or addressee­ (the street had changed names), Tesla flew into a rage.
    â€œMr. Clemens is a famous writer,” he howled. “He writes under the name Mark Twain. Someone will know where to find him!”
    The frustrated messenger returned a second time, informing Tesla that Mr. Clemens had been dead some time.
    â€œImpossible!” the scientist protested. “He was here last night.” He pointed. “He sat in that very chair! He is need of money, and I am sending it to him!”
    The author relates the above anecdote as possible evidence Nikola Tesla was ever delusional, or, at his age in 1943, suffering dementia. He was dead weeks later.

17
    Guernsey Airport
    Guernsey, Channel Islands
    The Same Day
    Day 1
    Jason knew the good people of the island were proud of their small airport. The terminal, a glass toadstool, had won a number of architectural awards upon its opening in 2004. Meaning, in that year, there had been a paucity of avant-garde or just plain ugly new buildings.
    But aesthetics were not his mind at the moment. He had barely had enough time to put funds in Mrs. Princes’s house account—to run the cottage; take care of Pangloss and Robespierre; and pay her wages for the next two weeks—and still have Momma and her borrowed yacht make the crossing from Sark to catch his flight to Heathrow. The BA CityFlyer Embraer 170 that would take him there was the only plane on the tarmac. At this time of year, the small but comfortable terminal was empty of tourists made cheerfully boisterous by the prospect of a fortnight of holidays on one of the islands. Instead, there was a handful of men, most in suits, whose interest in their watches and cell phones made Jason guess they were on various business missions.
    Arriving just in time to clear security and board the plane, he shoved his single bag into an overhead bin and squeezed himself into one of a pair of empty seats. Of the seventy-six available, barely half were occupied. Although he had seen it dozens of times, he watched the winter-browned grass along the pavement move in the wind, waving a final farewell as the aircraft trundled out to Runway 32. This departure was different; Jason had no plans to return.
    Now Sark, with its wind-bent fruit trees, rocky shores, and hardy cattle, was his most-recent former address. Maybe next time Jason would try a place on some mainland, someplace out of the way but not so remote as to make him conspicuous; someplace removed from civilization, but not too far removed; someplace that had nothing to attract anyone other than the residents.
    Kansas suggested itself.
    Thoughts for another day. He reached into a coat pocket and produced the book and envelope Momma had given him and began to read. He wouldn’t get a lot read in the eighteen-minute flight, but it was a start.
    He came awake with a start, unaware he had drifted off to sleep, as the aircraft lurched forward, its twin General Electric engines screaming in reverse thrust. The short duration of the trip had obviated any in-flight service that might have disturbed his brief nap. He barely had time to reflect