Part IV: More Oberth
    Professor Hermann Oberth was, maybe, a prototypical German theoretician. When I first talked with him, I thought he was senile--until I saw what he was writing. We were both writing contributions to Wernher von Braun's 50th anniversary volume. Professor Oberth had written a book called "The Moon Car" as his contribution. (I have an autographed, dedicated copy, together with the original manuscript in Oberth's handwriting.) He had then translated his book into English, which must have been no mean feat for a native Romanian. My job was to clean up his translation for publication, basically functioning as a technical editor. Oberth was quite absent-minded, dreamy, and not very practical. and he certainly fits the personality profile of one of the forgotten gifted. He had qualified as a high school teacher in Romania, but didn't earn a doctorate. But what dreams he dreamed! I think that he, more than any other space enthusiast, inspired the world's space programs. Robert Goddard did praiseworthy work, but it didn't ignite a major U. S. rocket program like Oberth's works. Oberth's "Wege zum Raumschiffart" inspired Wernher von Braun, Willy, Ley, and Max Valier to pitch Kummersdorf West and Peenemünde to Adolf Hitler. Incidentally, it was Hermann Oberth who triggered Wernher von Braun's interest in ionic propulsion. Oberth had described it in one of his books back in the 'teens. (Dr. Goddard investigated ionic propulsion back in 1908, before he invested his hopes in chemical propulsion.)
    There are funny stories told about Oberth. Bob Bruce, who was our Resources Coordinator in Space Sciences Lab, told me that one time he was driving through a heavy downpour when he spied Oberth walking along in the rain, spaced out and soaked to the skin. Bob stopped and offered him a ride.  Oberth said,
    "No thank you, Mr. Bruce. That is very kind of you but I am enjoying a little walk and doing a little thinking this sunny afternoon. Thank you, anyway."
    He had no grasp of, or interest in anything electrical. He designed mechanical contrivances to do whatever he wanted done.
    At work on the Arsenal, Oberth brought a packed sandwich along with china, silver, and linen napery. He would set his table, tuck his napkin in under his chin, unwrap his sandwich, and eat it off the china plate. Afterward, he would tear up his kraft-paper sandwich bag and use it in lieu of tablet paper. When you went in to see him, he would riffle through a stack of kraft-paper wrappers until he found what he was seeking. However, there's a poignant aspect to this. He and his wife nearly starved to death in Romania during the Depression. Those experiences were traumatically inscribed in his memory, and thereafter, he was extremely frugal and inclined to hoard against another famine.
    I think he went through life rarely touching the ground, while his mind soared in empyrean realms far removed from "the common carnival of passions and regrets". I suspect he depended upon his wife and later, upon his daughter, to take care of the practical aspects of life, while he dwelt elsewhere. The symphony of space flight was probably both a passion and an escape for him. It's also a mute testimonial regarding the cruel way that our system punishes genius--something that's pea-brained and must stop.