“Is he always so?”
“Today was better than most. Sometimes I cannot stop his weeping.”
“I have never heard him talk so long without mentioning his Rosa.”
“Ah, you noticed that, too. But three days ago he was completely lucid and calculated columns of figures. Settings, he said, for his machine. They take into account, ah … ‘many-valued inverse functions.’” Vonderberge smiled. “Whatever that means. And, if he ever sees his machine again.”
“His machine,” said Knecht. “Has anyone handled it?”
“No,” said Vonderberge. “Ochsenfuss doesn’t think it matters. It’s just a collection of knobs and wires.”
“And you?”
“Me?” Vonderberge looked at him. “I’m afraid to.”
“Yet, its study could be most rewarding.”
“A true scout. But if we try, four things could happen and none of them good.”
Knecht tugged on his moustaches. “We could open it up and find that it is an obvious fake, that it couldn’t possibly work.”
“Could we? How would it be obvious? We would still wonder whether the science were so advanced that we simply did not understand how it did work. Like a savage with a steam engine.” The Kommandant was silent for a moment.
“That’s one. You said four things could happen.”
“The other three assume the machine works.” He held up his fingers to count off his points. “Two: In our ignorance, we damage it irreparably, marooning Kelly forever. Three: We injure ourselves by some sort of shock or explosion.”
“And four?”
“Four: We transport ourselves unwittingly to another world.”
“A slim possibility, that.”
Vonderberge shrugged. “Perhaps. But the penalty for being wrong is…”
“Excessive,” agreed Knecht dryly.
“I did examine his ‘calculator,’ you know.”
Knecht smiled to himself. He had wondered if the Kommandant had done that, too. Knecht had learned little from it, himself.
“It was fine work: the molded plastic, the tiny buttons, the intricate circuits and parts.”
“Not beyond the capabilities of any competent electrosmith.”
“What! Did you see how small the batteries were? And the, what did he call them? The chips? How can you say that?”
“I didn’t mean we could build a calculating engine so small. But, is it a calculating engine? Did you see it function? No. Kelly says the batteries have gone dead. Which is convenient for him. Our regimental electrosmith could easily construct a copy that does the same thing: mainly, nothing.”
Vonderberge stopped and held him by the arm. “Tell me, Rudi. Do you believe Kelly or not?”
“I…” Well, did he? The business with the cigar was too pat. It seemed important only because of Kelly’s toying with another cigar a few weeks before. Otherwise, he would never have noticed, or thought nothing even if he had. Like the prophetic dream: It seems to be more than it is because we only remember them when they come true. “I … have no convincing evidence.”
“Evidence?” asked Vonderberge harshly. “What more evidence do you need?”
“Something solid,” Knecht snapped back. Something more than that I like the prisoner and the Kommandant and I dislike the Hexmajor. “Something more than a prisoner’s tale,” he said. “That becomes more confused as time goes on.”
“That is Ochsenfuss’ bungling!”
“Or his success! Have you thought that perhaps the Hexmajor is curing Kelly of a long-standing delusion?”
Vonderberge turned to go. “No.”
Knecht stopped him. “Heinrich,” he said.
“What?”
Knecht looked past the Kommandant. He could see the sentries where they paced the walls, and the cannons in their redoubts, and the gangways to the underground tunnels that led to the big guns fortified into the mountainside. “Real or fantasy, you’ve learned a lot about the prisoner’s technology.”
“Enough to want to learn more.”
“Tell me, Henrich. Do you want to learn to make nuclear bombs?”
Vonderberge followed Knecht’s gaze. A troubled look crossed his face and he bit his lower lip. “No. I do not. But the same force can produce electricity. And the medical science that produces the miracle drugs can tailor-make horrible plagues. The jets that fly bombs can just as easily fly people or food or trade goods.” He sighed. “What can I say, Rudi. It is not the tool, but the tool-user who creates the problems. Nature keeps no secrets. If something can be done, someone will find a way to do it.”
Knecht made no reply. He didn’t know if a reply was even possible. Certainly none that Vonderberge would understand.
* * *
When Ranger O Brien brought the news from the Nations, General Schneider was away from the fortress, inspecting the outposts on the forward slope. Knecht received O Brien’s report, ordered the man to take some rest, and decided the General should see it immediately. He telegraphed Outpost Three that he was coming and rode out.
The crest of Kittatinny Mountain and all the forward slope had been clear-cut the distance of a cannon shot. Beyond that was wilderness. Ridge and valley alternated into the distant north, dense with trees, before rising once more into the Pocono range, where Wyoming had her own fortress line. Legally, the border ran somewhere through the no-man’s-land between, but the main armies were entrenched in more easily defended terrain.
Knecht reined in at the crest of the Mountain and looked back. The valley of the Lehigh was checkerboarded with broad farms. Farther away, he could discern the smoke plumes of cities at the canal and rail heads. There was a speck in the air, most likely an airship sailing south.
When he turned, the contrast with the land north of the Mountain was jarring. He must have gazed upon that vista thousands of times over the years. Now, for just an instant, it looked wrong. It was said to be fertile land. Certainly, enough blood had manured it. And some said there was coal beneath it. He imagined the land filled with farms, mills, and mines.
At that moment of frisson he knew, irrationally, that Kelly had been telling the truth all along. Somewhere the barbed wire was used only to keep the milch cows safe.
And the bombs and missles? What if it were a rain of death from the other side of the world that we feared, and not a party of Mohawk bucks out to prove themselves to their elders? A slow explosion, Kelly had said. The inventions would come. Nature kept no secrets. The discoveries would be made and be given to the petty rulers of petty, quarreling states. Men with dreams of conquest, or revenge.
Knecht clucked to his horse and started downslope to the picket line. Give Konrad Schneider that, he thought. His only dream is survival, not conquest. Yet he is desperate; and desperate men do desperate things, not always wise things.
* * *
“Hah! Rudi!” General Schneider waved to him when he saw him coming. He was standing on the glacis of the outpost along with the Feldwebel and his men. The General’s staff was as large as the platoon stationed there, so the area seemed ludicrously crowded. The General stood in their midst, a portly, barrel-chested man with a large curved pipe clenched firmly in his teeth. He pointed.
“Do you think the field of fire is clear enough and wide enough?”
Knecht tethered his horse and walked to where the General stood. He had never known Schneider to ask an idle question. He decided the real question was whether Vonderberge was reliable. He gave the cleared area careful scrutiny. Not so much as a blade of grass. No force large enough to take the outpost could approach unseen. “It seems adequate,” he said.
“Hmph. High praise from you, Rudi.” The General sucked on his pipe, staring downslope, imagining ranks of yankees and knickerbockers charging up. “It had better be. But you did not ride out here from Fox Gap only to answer an old man’s foolish questions.”
“No, General.”
Schneider stared at him and the smile died on his face. He put his arm a
round Knecht’s shoulder and led him off to the side. The others eyed them nervously. When scouts and generals talked the result was often trouble.
“What is it?”
“Friedrich O Brien has returned from the Nations.”
“And?”
“The League has voted six to two to join the alliance against us.”
They paced together in silence. Then Schneider said, “So, who held out?”
“Huron and Wyandot.”
The General nodded. He released Knecht’s shoulder and walked off by himself. He turned and gave a hollow laugh. “Well, at least some of our money was well spent. In the old days, it would have been enough. League votes would have had to be unanimous. Do you think they will fight? The two holdouts, I mean.”
“Do you think they will split the League, General, over Pennsylvania?”
“Hmph. No. You are right again. They will go with the majority. But, perhaps, the fighting on the west will be less what? Enthusiastic?”
“At least it is too late in the year for an offensive.”
“Perhaps, Rudi. But the crops are in. If they think they can knock us out in a lightning-war before the snows, they may try anyway. How long can they hold their alliance together? It is unnatural. Yankees and knicks and longhousers side-by-side? Pfah! It cannot last. No, they must strike while they have Virginia with them, as well. What do you think? A holding action along the Fortress Line while the Lees strike up the Susquehannah and Shenandoah?”
“Will Virginia bleed for New York’s benefit?”
Schneider nodded. “A two-front war, then.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, our strategy is clear. We must stir up problems behind them. In New England or Carolina or Pontiac. And perhaps we have a few surprises of our own.”
Knecht looked at him sharply. Schneider was smiling. It was a small smile, but it was a real one, not forced. “What are you talking about?”
Schneider pointed to the wires running from the outpost to the Fortress. “Suppose there were no wires to be cut or tapped. Suppose there were voices in the air, undetectable, sent from anywhere a man could carry an instrument. We would not need messengers or pigeons, either. Think how quickly we could learn of enemy formations and mobilize our own forces to meet them. The right force in the right time and place is worth regiments a mile away and a day late. Or airplanes, darting among the airships with machine guns and bombs. We could carry the fighting all the way to Wilkes Barre and Painted Post.”
“Kelly.”
“Ja.” The General chuckled. “Vonderberge tells me of these gadgets, like radio. Crazy notions. But I wonder. What if it were true? Kelly’s waking mind does not remember the details of the sort of, hmph, primitive inventions we could hope to copy. And from your report I suspect he would not help us willingly. Oh, he is friendly enough; but he does not like the military and would not help us prepare for war. Especially a war none of his concern. A problem. So, I seize the moment.” He clenched his fist and waved it.
“You pass along the information to Ochsenfuss and ask him to find the details by prying in his unconscious mind.”
Schneider looked at him. “You knew?”
“I guessed.”
“You never guess. You’re offended.”
“No.”
“You are. But I had to leave you out. You would have cut to the truth too quickly. I knew you. If you found that Kelly was mad, well, no harm done; but I was speculating that he was just what he said he was. If that were the case, I could not allow you to prove it.”
“Why not?”
“Ochsenfuss, that old plodder. He will not mesmerize except for medical reasons. If you had proven Kelly was, well, Kelly, our friend the Hexmajor would have bowed out and Kelly’s secrets would have remained secret. No. I needed Ochsenfuss’ skill at mesmerizing. I needed Vonderberge’s enthusiasm for technofiction, so he would know what questions to ask. And, for it to work, I needed Kelly’s status to remain ambiguous.”
“Then the Hexmajor does not know.”
“No. He is our protective plumage. I read his reports and send them to a secret team of scientists that OKP has assembled at Franklin University. Only a few people at OKP know anything. Only I, and now you, know everything.”
Knecht grunted. Ochsenfuss did know. At least he knew something. His remarks at the officers’ club had made that clear.
“Vonderberge said we lack the tools to make the tools to make the things Kelly described.”
“Then Vonderberge is short-sighted. Pfah! I am no fool. I don’t ask for the sophisticated developments. Those are years ahead. Decades. But the original, basic inventions, those are different. As Kelly described it, they came about in a world much like our own. And, Rudi?”
“Ja, Herr General?”
“This morning I received word from Franklin. They have sent telegraphic messages without wires between Germantown and Philadelphia. They used a special kind of crystal. The pulses travel through the air itself.” He grinned like a child with a new toy.
Knecht wondered how much difference such things would make in the coming war. There wasn’t time to make enough of them and learn how to use them. He also remembered what Ochsenfuss had said in the officers’ club. Something had to break. The question was what. Or who.
Knecht took a deep breath. “It’s over, then. You’ve learned how to make radio messages. Ochsenfuss can stop treating him.”
Schneider would not meet his eyes. “The mesmerization must continue. There are other inventions. We need to know about airframes. The details are sketchy yet. And napalm. And…”
“Between Ochsenfuss and Vonderberge, Kelly’s personality is being destroyed. He hardly remembers who he is, or which world is real.”
“This is war. In war there are casualties. Even innocent ones.”
“It is not Kelly’s war.”
“No. But it is yours.”
Knecht’s mouth set in a grim line. “Ja, Herr General.”
* * *
“You make it look so easy,” said Vonderberge.
“Shh,” hissed Knecht. He twisted his probe once more and felt the bolt slide back. “These old style locks are easy, and I’ve had much practice.” He pulled the storeroom door open and they stepped inside.
“Schneider will know you did it. Who else has your skill with locks?”
Knecht scowled. “Every scout and ranger in the Corps. But, yes, Schneider will know it was me.”
Vonderberge began searching the shelves. “Does that bother you?”
Knecht shrugged. “I don’t know. It should. The General has been … like a father to me.”
“Here it is,” said Vonderberge. He stepped back, Kelly’s rucksack in his hands. He looked inside. “Yes, the belt controls are here also. I don’t think anyone has touched it. Schneider has the only key.”
“Do you suppose it still works?”
Vonderberge’s hands clenched around the straps. “It must.”
They crossed the parade ground to the brig. It was dark. Knecht felt that he should dart from cover to cover; but that was silly. They were officers and they belonged here. They took salutes from three passing soldiers. Everything was normal.
The night guard in the cell block shook his head sadly when he saw them coming. “In the middle of the night, sir?” he said to Vonderberge. “Hasn’t that poor bastard spilled his guts yet? Who is he, anyway?”
“As you said, soldier,” Vonderberge answered. “Some poor bastard.”
While the guard unlocked the cell door, Vonderberge hefted the rucksack, getting a better grip. He stroked the canvas nervously. Knecht could see beads of perspiration on his forehead.
Well, he’s risking his career, too, he thought.
“We will never have a better chance, Rudi,” Vonderberge whispered. “Kelly was very clear this morning when I told him what we proposed to do. He had already calculated settings several days ago, using his new ‘formula.’ He only needed to update them. I arranged a diversion to
keep Ochsenfuss away from him, so he has not been mesmerized in the meantime. Tomorrow and he may relapse into confusion once more.”
“As you say,” said Knecht shortly. He was not happy about this. For Knecht, his career was his life. He had been army since his teens. A scout, and a good one; perhaps the best. Now it was on the Line. A scout observes and listens and pieces things together. He does not initiate action. How many times had he said that over the years? He had said it to Kelly. Why should he break his code now, for a man he hardly knew?
Knecht didn’t know. He only knew that it would be worse to leave Kelly where he was. An obligation? Because I brought him here? Because of what we might learn from him?
Perhaps I could have argued Konrad into this, he thought. And perhaps not. And if not, there would have been a guard on that storeroom door, and restricted access to the prisoner, and so I have to do this by night and by stealth.
The guard came suddenly to attention. Knecht looked around and saw Ochsenfuss entering the corridor from the guardroom. Vonderberge, already stepping inside the cell, saw him, too. He grabbed Knecht’s shoulder. “Talk to him. Keep him out until it’s too late.”
Knecht nodded and Vonderberge pulled the door shut. Knecht had a momentary glimpse of Kelly, rising from his cot fully dressed. Then the door closed and Ochsenfuss was at his side. The guard looked at them and pretended to be somewhere else. Knecht wondered what he would say to the Hexmajor that would keep him out.
“Up late, Herr Doctor,” he said. Clever, Rudi. Very Clever.
“Insomnia,” was the reply. “A common malady, it seems. You might ask who is not up late, whiling away the hours in the guardhouse. Do you have a cigar?”
The request caught Knecht by surprise. Dumbly, he took out his pocket humidor. Ochsenfuss made a great show of selecting one of the cigars inside. Knecht took one also and offered one to the guard, who refused.
“Fire?” Ochsenfuss struck a match for Knect, then lit his own. After a moment or two, he blew a perfect smoke ring. “I had an interesting experience today.”
“Oh?” Knecht glanced at the guard, who decided this would be a good time to patrol the outside of the building.
“Ja. I had a message from Outpost 10. The farthest one. One of the men was behaving oddly. Confinement mania, perhaps. But when I arrived, no one knew about the message. Or, more precisely, no one acknowledged knowing about the message. Odd, don’t you think?”
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fifth Annual Collection Page 66