Washington, D.C. — 1958
Ivan Glaskov waited outside the senior editor’s office with a notebook balanced on his knee. The newsroom behind him moved in steady patterns: phones ringing, typewriters striking, copy boys weaving between desks. No one addressed him. He was three days into the job.
Marshall opened the door. “Glaskov. Inside.”
Ivan followed him in.
Marshall sat, flipped through a stack of assignment sheets, and pulled one free. “Science and education. That’s you.”
Ivan nodded.
“You’re flying to Boston this afternoon.” Marshall slid the sheet across the desk. “MIT. Three researchers. Propulsion work. Early federal interest.”
Ivan read the names: Reece. Kessler. Hart.
Marshall continued. “They were involved in an incident last year. Lab fire. School nearly lost a building. They were expelled. Someone in Washington picked them up. Now they’re working under James Webb.”
Ivan stood still.
A voice came from the doorway. “That the new kid?”
Malcum Pipitts leaned against the frame, hands in his pockets, tie loose.
Marshall waved him off. “Not now.”
Pipitts stepped away.
Marshall returned to Ivan. “Flight’s at two. Pack light.”
Ivan stood. “Yes, sir.”
Cambridge, Massachusetts — MIT
The air outside Logan Airport carried the smell of jet fuel and cold wind. Ivan took a cab to campus. MIT’s buildings rose in clean lines, concrete and glass arranged without ornament.
Inside Building 7, a secretary pointed him down a hallway. “Third door.”
Ivan knocked.
“Come in,” a voice said.
He entered a lab filled with engine parts, chalkboards, and metal fixtures arranged in functional clusters. Three men stood around a workbench.
Reece — mid‑forties, glasses low on his nose. Kessler — younger, arms crossed. Hart — sleeves rolled, tightening a bolt on a cylindrical test core.
Reece spoke first. “You’re the reporter.”
“Ivan Glaskov. Washington Mirror.”
Kessler gestured to the engine. “This is the work.”
Ivan stepped closer. The metal housing showed scorch marks along one edge.
Hart straightened. “High‑energy propellant. New burn profile. If it stabilizes, it changes lift capability.”
Ivan wrote the words down.
Reece added, “We’re under review for integration into the new agency.”
“NASA?” Ivan asked.
“Name’s still being finalized,” Reece said. “But yes. Webb wants propulsion ready before the charter is complete.”
Ivan printed the line.
“You were all recruited after the fire?” he asked.
Kessler nodded once. “We were told to continue the work under federal oversight.”
Hart tightened another bolt. “We don’t talk about the fire.”
Reece turned toward him. Hart said nothing else.
Ivan wrote the exchange exactly as spoken.
A door opened behind him.
A man in a dark suit stepped inside. No introduction. No badge.
Reece and Kessler stopped talking. Hart set his tools down.
The man looked at Ivan. “You’re finished here.”
“I have a few more—”
“You’re finished.”
Reece stepped forward. “He’s cleared for—”
The man didn’t acknowledge him.
Ivan gathered his things and stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind him.
Washington, D.C. — Return
Ivan reached the newsroom before noon the next day. Marshall was at his desk, marking up a draft with a red pencil.
“You get anything?” Marshall asked.
“I got enough.”
“Good. Write it.”
Ivan sat at his desk. The typewriter waited, a fresh sheet rolled into place. He opened his notebook and reviewed the lines:
High‑energy propellant. Prototype unstable. Webb involvement. Fire. Expulsion. Federal recruitment. Unidentified official.
He began typing.
Straight facts. Clean sentences. No interpretation.
After a few paragraphs, he stopped and wrote one more line in the notebook margin:
Who was the man in the suit.
He underlined it once.
Marshall walked past, glanced at the page, and nodded. “You’ll go back next week. Follow‑up interviews.”
Ivan kept typing.
The newsroom moved around him in steady patterns.