He kept his attention on the newspaper instead of the grinding, never-stopping environment which surrounded him, meditating on an article dealing with a further discovery of unicellular fossils on Ganymede.
Old-time civilization, Chic said to himself. The next layer down, just on the verge of being uncovered by the autoshovels operating in the airless, near-weightless void of midspace, of the big-planet moons.
We're being robbed, he decided. The next layer down will be comic books, contraceptives, empty Coke bottles. But they -- the authorities -- won't tell us. Who wants to find out that the entire solar system has been exposed to Coca Cola over a period of two million years? It was, for him, impossible to imagine a civilization -- of any kind of life form that had not contrived Coke. Otherwise, how could if authentically be called a 'civilization'? But then he thought, I'm letting my bitterness get the better of me. Maury won't like it; better curb it before I arrive. Bad for business. And we must have business as usual. That's the watchword of the day -- if not of the century. After all, that's really ail that separates me from my younger brother: my ability to face fundamentals and not get lost in the maze of external rituals.
If Vince could do that then he'd be me.
And he'd perhaps have his wife back.
And Vince would have been in on Maury Frauenzimmer's scheme, put by Maury to Sepp von Lessinger in person at a conference of ersatz engineers in New York in 2023, to make use of von Lessinger's time travel experiments to send a psychiatrist back to 1925 to cure Fuhrer Hitler of his paranoia. As a matter of fact, von Lessinger had made some attempt in that direction, apparently, but the Ges kept the results to themselves -- of course. Leave it to the Ges to protect their privileged status, Chic thought to himself. And now von Lessinger was dead.
Something sizzled to the right of him. A commercial, made by Theodorus Nitz, the worst house of all, had attached itself to his car.
'Get off,' he warned it. But the commercial, well-adhered, began to crawl, buffeted by the wind, towards the door and the entrance crack. It would soon have squeezed in and would be haranguing him in the cranky, garbagey fashion of the Nitz advertisements.
He could, as it came through the crack, kill it. It was alive, terribly mortal; the ad agencies, like nature, squandered hordes of them.
The commercial, fly-sized, began to buzz out its message as soon as it managed to force entry. 'Say! Haven't you sometimes said to yourself, I'll bet other people in restaurants can see me! And you're puzzled as to what to do about this serious, baffling problem of being conspicuous, especially -- '
Chic crushed it with his foot.
The card told Nicole Thibodeaux that the Prime Minister of Israel had arrived at the White House and now waited in the Camellia Room. Emil Stark, slender, tall, always knowing the latest Jewish joke ('One day God met Jesus and Jesus was wearing -- ' or however it went; she could not remember -- she was too sleepy). Anyhow, today she had a joke for him. The Wolff Commission had brought in its report.
Later, in a robe and slippers, she drank coffee, read the morning Times, then pushed the paper away and picked up the document which the Wolff Commission had presented her. Whom had they selected? Hermann Goering; she leafed through the pages and wished she could fire General Wolff.
The army brass had picked the man in the Age of Barbarism to deal with; she knew that, but the Washington authorities had agreed to follow General Wolff's recommendation, not realizing at the time what a typical military fathead he was.
It demonstrated the power of the army's GHQ within purely political areas, these days.
She called to Leonore, her secretary, 'Tell Emil Stark to come on in.' No use delaying it; anyhow Stark probably would be pleased. Like so many others, the Israeli Prune Minister no doubt imagined that Goering had been a simple clown. Nicole laughed sharply. They hadn't digested the War Crimes Trial documents of World War Two, if they believed that.
'Mrs Thibodeaux,' Stark said, appearing, smiling.
'It's Goering,' Nicole said.
'Of course.' Stark continued to smile.
'You damn fool,' she said. 'He's too smart for any of us -- don't you know that? If we try to do business with him -- '
'But towards the end of the war Goering lost favour,' Stark said urbanely, seating himself at the table facing her. 'He was involved in the losing military campaign, whereas the Gestapo people and those close to Hitler gained in power, Bormann and Himmler and Eichmann, the blackshirts. Goering would understand -- did understand -- what losing the military part of the Party's campaign meant.'
Nicole was silent. She felt irritable.
'Does this bother you?' Stark said smoothly. 'I know I find it difficult. But we have a simple enough proposition to put to the Reichsmarschall, don't we? It can be phrased in a single sentence, and he'll understand it.'
'Oh yes,' she agreed. 'Goering will understand. He'll also understand that if we're turned down we'll accept less, then even less that that, finally -- ' She broke off. 'Yes, this does bother me. I think that von Lessinger was right in his final summation: no one should go near the Third Reich. When you deal with psychotics you're drawn in; you become mentally ill yourself.'
Stark said quietly, 'There are six million Jewish lives to be saved, Mrs Thibodeaux.'
Sighing, Nicole said, 'All right!' She eyed him with harsh anger, but the Israeli Premier met her gaze; he was not afraid of her. It was not customary for him to cringe before anyone; he had come a long way to this post, and success for him would not have been possible if he had been made any other way but this. His was not a position for a coward; Israel was -- had always been -- a small nation, existing among huge blocks that could, at any given moment, efface her. Stark even smiled back slightly; or did she imagine it? Her anger increased. She felt impotent.
'We need not settle this matter right now,' Stark said, then. 'I'm sure you have other matters on your mind, Mrs Thibodeaux. Planning the evening White House entertainment, perhaps. I received an invitation,' Stark tapped his coat pocket, 'as I'm sure you're aware. We are promised a fine parade of talent, are we not? But that is always true.'
His voice was a murmur, gentle and soothing. 'May I smoke?' From his pocket he brought a little flat gold case from which he removed a cigar. 'I am trying these for the first time. Philippine cigars, made from Isabela leaf. Handmade, as a matter of fact.'
'Go ahead,' Nicole said grumpily.
'Does Herr Kalbfleisch smoke?' Stark inquired.
'No,' Nicole said.
'He does not enjoy your musical evenings either, does he? That is a bad sign. Recall Shakespeare, Julius Caesar. Something about "I distrust him for he hath no music." Recall? "He hath no music" Does this describe the present der Alte? I have never met him, unfortunately. In any case it is a pleasure to deal with you, Mrs Thibodeaux; believe me.' Emil Stark's eyes were grey, extremely bright.
'Thanks,' Nicole groaned, wishing he would leave. She felt his domination of their colloquy and it made her weary and restless.
'You know,' Stark continued, 'it is very difficult for us for us Israelis -- to deal with Germans; I would no doubt have difficulty with Herr Kalbfleisch.' He puffed cigar smoke; the smell made her wrinkle her nose with distaste.
'This one resembles the first der Alte, Herr Adenauer, or so I gather from history tapes shown me as a boy in school. It is interesting to realize that he ruled far longer than the entire period of the Third Reich ... which was intended to last a thousand years.'
'Yes,' she said, dully.
'And perhaps, if we assist it through von Lessinger's system, we will enable it to do so.' His eyes were oblique, now.
'You think so? And yet you're still willing to -- '
'I think,' Emil Stark said, 'that if the Third Reich is given the weapons it needs it will survive its victory by perhaps five years -- and very possibly not even that long. It's doomed by its very nature; there's absolutely no mechanism in the Nazi Party by which a successor to der Fuhrer can be produced. Germany wi
ll fragment, become a collection of small, nasty, quarrelling states as it was before Bismark. My government is convinced of this, Mrs Thibodeaux. Remember Hess's introduction of Hitler at one of the great Party rallies. "Hitler ist Deutschland." "Hitler is Germany." He was correct. Hence after Hitler what? The deluge. And Hitler knew it. As a matter of fact, there is some possibility that Hitler deliberately led his people to defeat. But that is a rather convoluted psychoanalytic theory. I personally find it too baroque for credence.'
Nicole said thoughtfully, 'If Hermann Goering is brought out of his period, here to us, do you want to confront him and participate in the discussions?'
'Yes,' Stark said. 'In fact I insist on it.'
'You -- ' She stared at him.
'Insist?'
Stark nodded.
'I suppose,' Nicole said, 'that's because you're the spiritual embodiment of World Jewry or of some such mystic entity as that.'
'Because I am an official,' Stark answered, 'of the State of Israel, its highest official, in fact.' He was silent then.
'Is it true,' Nicole asked, 'that your people are about to launch a probe to Mars?'
'Not a probe,' Stark said. 'A transport. We will set up our first kibbutz there, one of these days. Mars is, so to speak, one great Negev. We will have orange trees growing some day.'
'Lucky little people,' Nicole said, under her breath.
'Pardon?' Stark cupped his ear; he had not heard.
'You're lucky. You have aspirations. What we have in the USEA is -- ' She reflected. 'Norms. Standards. It's very mundane, and I don't mean that as a pun having to do with space travel. Damn you, Stark -- you rattle me. I don't know why.'
'You should visit Israel,' Stark said. 'It would interest you. For instance -- '
'For instance I could become converted,' Nicole said. 'Change my name to Rebecca. Listen, Stark; I've talked long enough with you. I don't enjoy this Wolff Report business -- I think it's too risky, this idea of tinkering with the past on a grand scale, even if it might mean saving six or eight or even ten million innocent human lives. Look what happened when we tried to send assassins back to kill Adolf Hitler in the early days of his career; something or someone baulked us every time, and we tried seven times! I know I'm convinced -- that it was agents from the future, from our time or past our time. If one can play with von Lessinger's system, two can. The bomb in the beerhall, the bomb in the prop plane -- '
'But this attempt,' Stark said, 'will delight neo-Nazi elements. You will have their co-operation.'
Nicole said bitterly, 'And that's supposed to ease my worry? You, of all people, should see what a malign harbinger that is.'
For an interval Stark said nothing; he smoked his Philippine handmade cigar and regarded her sombrely. Then he shrugged. 'I will bow out. I think, Mrs Thibodeaux, at this point. Perhaps you are right. I'd like to ponder this and also confer with other members on my staff. I'll see you at the musicale tonight, here at the White house then. Will there be any Bach or Handel? I enjoy both composers.'
'We'll have an all-Israeli night, just for you,' Nicole said.
'Mendelssohn, Mahler, Bloch, Copeland; all right?' She smiled, and Emil Stark smiled back.
'Is there a copy of General Wolff's report which I can take?' Stark asked.
'No.' She shook her head. 'It's Geheimnis -- top secret.'
Stark raised an eyebrow. And ceased smiling.
'Even Kalbfleisch is not going to see it,' Nicole said.
She did not intend to budge in her position, and Emil Stark could undoubtedly perceive that. After all, the man was professionally astute. Going to her desk she seated herself. Waiting for him to go, expecting him to, she sat examining a folio of abstracts which had been placed for her attention by her secretary, Leonore. They were boring -- or were they? She read the top abstract once more, carefully.
It informed her that White House talent scout Janet Raimer had been unable to sign the great morbidly-neurotic concert pianist Richard Kongrosian for tonight after all, because Kongrosian had suddenly left his summer home at Jenner and gone voluntarily into a sanatorium for electron-shock therapy. And no one was supposed to know.
Goddam, Nicole said to herself, bitterly. Well, that puts an end to this evening; I might as well go to bed right after dinner. For Kongrosian was not only the foremost interpreter of Brahms and Chopin but was in addition an eccentric flashing, colossal wit.
Emil Stark puffed on his cigar, regarding her with curiosity.
'Does the name "Richard Kongrosian" mean anything to you?' she demanded, looking up.
'Certainly. For certain Romantic composers -- '
'He's sick again. Mentally. For the hundredth time. Or didn't you know about that? Hadn't you heard the rumours?' Furiously she spun the abstract away from her; it slipped to the floor. 'Sometimes I wish he would finally kill himself or die from a perforated colon or whatever it is he's really got. This week.'
'Kongrosian is a major artist.' Stark nodded. 'I can appreciate your concern. And in these chaotic times, with such elements as the Sons of Job parading in the streets, and all the vulgarity and mediocrity which seems ready to rise up and reassert itself -- '
'Those creatures,' Nicole said quietly, 'will not last long. So worry about something else.'
'You believe you understand the situation, then. And have it firmly under control.' Stark permitted himself a brief, cold grimace.
'Bertold Goltz is as Be as it's possible to be. Out, un and Be; he's all three. He's a joke. A clown.'
'Like Goering, perhaps?'
Nicole said nothing. But her eyes flickered; Stark saw that, the sudden, temporary doubt. He grimaced again, this time involuntarily. A grimace of concern. Nicole shuddered.
CHAPTER 5
In the little building at the back of Jalopy Jungle Number Three, Al Miller sat with his feet up on the desk, smoking an Upmann cigar and watching passers-by, the sidewalk and people and stores of downtown Reno, Nevada. Beyond the gleam of the new jalopies parked with flapping banners and streamers cascading from them he saw a shape waiting, hiding beneath the huge sign that spelled out LOONY LUKE.
And he was not the only person to see the shape; along the sidewalk came a man and woman with a small boy trotting ahead of them, and the boy, with an exclamation, hopped up and down, gesturing excitedly. 'Hey, Dad, look! You know what it is? Look, it's the papoola.'
'By golly,' the man said with a grin, 'so it is. Look, Marion, there's one of those Martian creatures hiding there under the sign. What do you say we go over and chat with it?' He started in that direction, along with the boy. The woman, however, continued along the sidewalk.
'Come on, Mom!' the boy urged.
In his office, Al Miller lightly touched the controls of the mechanism within his shirt. The papoola emerged from beneath the LOONY LUKE sign, and Al caused it to waddle on its six stubby legs towards the sidewalk, its round, silly hat slipping over one antenna, its eyes crossing and uncrossing as it made out the sight of the woman. The tropism being established, the papoola trudged after her, to the delight of the boy and his father.
'Look, Dad, it's following Mom! Hey Mom! Hey Mom, turn around and see!'
The woman glanced back, saw the platter-like organism with its orange bug-shaped body, and she laughed.
Everybody loves the papoola, Al thought to himself. See the funny Martian papoola. Speak, papoola; say hello to the nice lady who's laughing at you.
The thoughts of the papoola, directed at the woman, reached Al. It was greeting her, telling her how nice it was to meet her, soothing and coaxing her until she came back up the sidewalk towards it, joining her boy and husband so that now all three of them stood together, receiving the mental impulses emanating from the Martian creature which had come here to Earth with no hostile plans, no capacity to cause trouble. The papoola loved them, too, just as they loved it; it told them so right now -- it conveyed to them the gentleness, the warm hospitality which it was accustomed to on its own planet.
/> What a wonderful place Mars must be, the man and woman were no doubt thinking, as the papoola poured out its recollections, its attitude. Gosh, it's not cold and schizoid, like Earth society; nobody spies on anybody else, grades their endless relpol tests, reports on them to building Security Committees week in, week out. Think of it, the papoola was telling them as they stood rooted to the sidewalk, unable to pass on. You're your own boss, there, free to work your farm land, believe your own beliefs, become yourself.
Look at you, afraid even to stand here listening. Afraid to.
In a nervous voice the man said to his wife, 'We'd better ... go.'
'Oh no,' the boy said pleadingly. 'I mean, gee, how often do you get to talk to a papoola? It must belong to that jalopy jungle there.' The boy pointed, and Al found himself under the man's keen, observing scrutiny.
The man said, 'Of course. They brought it here to sell jalopies. It's working on us right now, softening us up.' The enchantment visibly faded from his face. 'There's the fellow sitting in there operating it.'
But the papoola thought, what I tell you is still true. Even if it is a sales pitch. You could go there, to Mars, yourself. You and your family can see with your own eyes -- if you have the courage to break free. Can you do it? Are you a real man? Buy a Loony Luke jalopy; buy it while you still have the chance, because you know that some day, maybe not so long from now, the NP is going to crack down. And there will be no more jalopy jungles. No more crack in the wall of the authoritarian society through which a few -- a few lucky people -- can escape.
Fiddling with the controls at his mid-section, Al turned up the gain. The force of the papoola's psyche increased, drawing the man in, taking control of him. You must buy a jalopy, the papoola urged. Easy payment plan, service warranty, many models to choose from. This is the time to sign; don't delay. The man took a step towards the lot. Hurry the papoola told him. Any second now the authorities may close down the lot and your opportunity will be gone forever.
'This -- is how they work it,' the man said with difficulty. 'The animal snares people. Hypnosis. We have to leave.' But he did not leave; it was too late: he was going to buy a jalopy, and Al, in the office with his control box, was reeling the man in.
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