Free The Black Gate by Michael R. Hicks Page A

much.”  
    Hoth’s face reddened even more. “And you killed him before he could tell us what he had done!”
    “While I certainly can’t discount sabotage,” Peter said smoothly, keeping his attention focused on von Falkenstein, who seemed content to let the other two men wage their war of words, “I believe the root cause may very well be microphonics, subtle vibrations in the tubes that can lead them to fail. High frequency vibrations, or perhaps even the release of large quantities of energy in close proximity to the machine, might be the cause.”
    Hoth and von Falkenstein shared a look.  
    “The machine worked perfectly until the damnable British destroyed the Möhne Dam and flooded the cavern,” von Falkenstein said, his forehead creased in a display of concentration. “The computer was replaced with an identical unit, but it has never functioned reliably.”
    “There is nothing identical about these machines, sir,” Peter said, shaking his head. “From what I have read, they are, of necessity, hand crafted, each of them unique. If you’re subjecting it to unusual physical stresses, even subtle differences in its construction could make a difference. Vacuum tubes are delicate enough as it is. They do not tolerate undue stress very well. And in a machine as complex as this one…” He shrugged.
    “Model also redesigned the platform,” Hoth added in a thoughtful voice. “The original was badly damaged and had to be rebuilt.” He frowned at Baumann. “Perhaps there was no sabotage at all.”
    “But he confessed!” Baumann snapped.
    “Anyone would confess to any crime with you as an inquisitor,” Hoth said. “You had Kleist cut him to pieces! That hardly demonstrated his guilt.”
    Peter had no idea who Kleist might be, and he was now rather afraid to find out.
    “Perhaps I should interrogate you, Herr Doktor ,” Baumann said in a voice barely above a whisper.  
    Hoth blanched.
    “Gentlemen, please,” von Falkenstein told them. “Enough of this bickering.” Leaning back in his chair, he favored Peter with an approving nod. “Very good, Peter,” he said. “How would you suggest we proceed?”
    “I will need to verify my assessment, of course, but I suspect the problem may be corrected by shielding the computer from whatever external forces may be acting upon it.” One of the stewards set a bowl of thick potato soup in front of him. The aroma was heavenly, and his stomach let out an eager growl, which was met with laughter from around the table.  
    “That would be a most welcome development. Please, Peter, eat.” This time, von Falkenstein truly did smile. “Tell us,” he went on, changing the focus of the conversation, “how is Berlin faring in these troubled times?”
    Peter ate a spoonful of the excellent soup, which was every bit as good as his mother used to make, using his very real hunger as a cover to buy himself a little extra time to remember everything he could about the intelligence assessments he’d read about Berlin. Much of what he knew was useless to him now, focused as it was on the power infrastructure, so he would have to improvise with generalities. “There are many casualties from the Allied air raids, of course, but the people endure. They believe that despite the setbacks in the war effort, victory is still possible, but not through traditional force of arms. With the Anglo-Americans approaching from the west and the Red Army from the east, and the skies filled with Allied aircraft both day and night, it is impossible to believe otherwise.” He set down his spoon for a moment and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. Giving von Falkenstein what Peter hoped was a convincing look of guarded optimism, he said, “They look to those such as you and von Braun, the creators of our wonder weapons, for salvation.”  
    “And they shall have it,” von Falkenstein said in a tone of such utter conviction that the words sent a shiver down Peter’s spine. “What you