The Bavarian Gate (the lion of farside)

by John Dalmas

  A large dog bounded toward the couple, but kept some distance, not threatening, or even barking after sounding his initial alarm. His strong tail waved tentatively.

  Meanwhile Macurdy and Lotta waited a couple of hundred feet away, invisible. The dog paid them no heed-either couldn't see them, or simply didn't notice them standing motionless against a background of forest.

  The barking brought two aproned "herd girls" from the cabin, one a graying woman in her fifties, square, with strong square hands, the other a shy-seeming girl, slight and blond, perhaps twelve years old. The older woman, Edouard supposed, provided the know-how and confidence. The younger no doubt helped her milk and cut firewood, herded the cows and learned the trade. Their auras reflected basic mild contentment, but just now, the older did not entirely trust the visitors.

  Both Edouard and Berta tried to look as fit and vigorous as they could, which was easier now that they weren't limping. Edouard told the women they were on a hiking holiday. Macurdy's pack tended to support the story, though it would have been better had it resembled the usual German rucksack.

  Using some of Macurdy's counterfeit reichsmarks, Edouard bought new butter, uncured cheese, freshly baked bread, and a jug of buttermilk, promising to return the jug before they left.

  "Where will you sleep tonight?" the woman asked. "It gets very cold at night, with so much snow left. The sun goes down, and 'poof', it is freezing! We always keep the cows in at night until after it has melted."

  Edouard and Berta looked at one another, then back at the woman. "What do you suggest?" he asked.

  "You can stay in the hay shed tonight. I will charge you-" The woman thought a moment. "One reichsmark." Edouard didn't hesitate. Reaching into his pocket, he gave her another reichsmark, and thanked her.

  The dusk thickened, dew began to form on the grass, and they returned to the hay shed to sleep, Berta holding Lotta in her arms like a mother might hold her child. Edouard had told Macurdy, the evening before, why the Occult Bureau had been interested in Lotta. Macurdy wondered what kind of dreams she had.

  Macurdy watched the woman take Edouard and Berta to the hay shed, leave them there and return to the cabin. Moments later Edouard reappeared, and looking toward where they'd parted, motioned to him. Macurdy and Lotta joined them, and Edouard told what he'd arranged. Macurdy agreed: Sleeping in the hay shed seemed a good idea, and a very good bargain. And both Edouard and Berta could see and read auras; they should know-suspect at least-if the woman was a threat.

  After they'd eaten, they went outside in the failing daylight, to a nearby outcrop of dark rock still warm from the sun. There the invisible Macurdy worked on their feet and legs again. Meanwhile the two herd girls went to the hay shed with pitchforks, and for a while carried hay to the cow shed a few yards distant.

  Despite himself, Macurdy worried again. "Are you sure the woman can be trusted?"

  "I would know if she couldn't," Edouard answered, and Berta agreed. Then Berta asked Macurdy to show them again how he healed, and this time Edouard also tried to see, or at least feel the energy threads.

  40

  Lotta

  Bruno Krieger's mood was deteriorating. To start the day, the plane's engine had failed the preflight checklist, and he'd waited on the ground in Munich for more than two hours while the pilot and a mechanic had worked and cursed, getting it ready to fly. Then, after several hours of flying, they'd had to land at Kempten and refuel, and their luck had not improved since. If they didn't find his quarry fairly soon, they'd have to leave and refuel again, which would take them till evening. Where in hell was the American bastard?

  He turned and spoke to his pilot. "Fly over the Vorarlberg Highway," he said. "West from Bludenz."

  It was unreasonable to expect he'd gotten that far, but this Montag was an unreasonable man, an extraordinary man, aside from any occult powers he might have. The paratrooper of whatever nationality was trained to exceptional performance, reflecting determined will even more than physical toughness. And among them, some stood out. And among those…

  The pilot had said nothing, responding to the order by banking and gaining altitude, to clear the mountain ridge to the south. Short, compact, hard-looking, he was a taciturn man who smoked incessantly. Different though they were, he and Krieger were highly compatible, and through Krieger's influence, he received enough assignments to keep more or less busy, and in food and cigarettes. Like Krieger he was non-political and non-military, a highly skilled professional who mouthed party slogans only when he had to, and with reservations. Politically he was a complete cynic, militarily part cynic, part pragmatist. For him, the important thing was to fly, preferably on interesting missions, though they were the exception. In the first war he'd been a decorated fighter pilot with twenty-three kills, but at age fifty-six and with a heart murmur, the Luftwaffe was not interested in him. Nor was the SS, except as a civilian sometime-employee, which was how he preferred it.

  They cleared a high crest, Krieger's calm eyes taking in the landscape to the south. Ahead lay the Ill Valley, with broad pastures, areas of dark forest, and along the river a railroad and narrow paved highway, with cultivated fields on the better ground. Here and there, tongues of forest led down to it from steep slopes higher up, mostly accompanying small streams that flowed into the Ill.

  Krieger's attention became more focused as they approached the highway. If the people he hunted were on the road, it seemed to him they d be easily seen. If they were keeping to the forested land, steeper and rougher, that was something else, but the going there would be much more difficult for them.

  The pilot turned west above the road, and Krieger aimed his binoculars along it. Soon he saw a man and woman walking beside the pavement, each carrying something over a shoulder. A rolled blanket perhaps. But what might there be that he wasn't seeing? His focus sharpened. Something, something-

  Abruptly a retinal image popped into his consciousness, of a man in uniform, wearing a pack and with a child on his shoulders) It was as if the man had suddenly materialized a few meters ahead of the couple. A chill surged over Krieger, accompanied by exultation, then the plane was past, and not wanting to alarm them, he let the pilot continue west.

  "Did you see the couple we passed on the road?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "How many were with them?"

  "With them?" It seemed a strange question. "None."

  If verification were needed, Krieger thought, that was it. I saw the third and fourth, he did not. Therefore, the man the child is Montag, hidden in some sort of concealment spell.. He'd heard of concealment spells: Because of his own talents, he'd read rather widely on the occult-the traditional as well as popular and quasi-technical literature-but had never seen evidence that concealment spells were real. "Continue down the valley," he said, "then circle back, wide, so they do not see you. They must not suspect our interest. "

  He took the microphone from its mount and called a young Officer waiting at the airfield outside Kempten, giving him instructions. The officer listened intently, jotting notes on a map, then got his squads quickly aboard their plane. While the twin engines warmed, he briefed the pilot. Ten minutes after the call, the planeload of SS Fallschirmjager rolled down the runway, lifting sluggishly with little tarmac to spare, then climbed and turned south. It would, the pilot told himself, fly better after his human cargo had jumped.

  Macurdy had been only mildly concerned about planes. A couple walking along a road didn't seem terribly suspicious. A couple on a mountain trail had been another matter, but they were over with now. And with a road that led directly to a border crossing, it made sense to use it, even though it ran mostly through open ground, with occasional villages.

  He traveled with Lotta sharing his cloak, holding her hand or carrying her. Presumably, hopefully, Edouard and Berta wouldn't attract attention, but even so, approaching and passing through villages they'd played it safe, all four clustered under Macurdy's cloak. It was awkward, requiring coordination,
but near the border, where candidate routes narrowed to a few crossings, they'd play it safe. The truck had probably been found by now, a compelling clue to their route.

  Three times in the past hour or two he'd heard a plane, and twice had seen one, perhaps the same one. It worried him, perhaps needlessly. He could have been written off as unlikely to cause further harm, and not worth committing German manpower to hunt down. Or perhaps the truck hadn't been found after all. Something might even have happened to Manfred.

  But it seemed more likely that Manfred had talked to the SS, that the truck had been found, and that the SS wanted very much to nail him, along with any presumed accomplices.

  Then surely they'd have warned the authorities to watch for them, not only as a foursome, but as separate individuals. They'd have descriptions, and if he were one of those authorities, he'd have notified village storekeepers and constables to watch for them. Perhaps even warned the local population by radio, those who had electricity.

  Meanwhile all four were limping again, Berta worst of all. He'd healed blisters and muscles each night, and treated them at breaks during the day. Without the healing they'd have been much worse, but even so, they limped.

  There'd been more forest the last couple of miles, providing cover for breaks, but Macurdy was waiting for a brook or creek. There they'd have a real rest. He'd work on their feet, then they'd nap until dusk, and continue to Feldkirch after dark.

  And reach the border crossing that night. There'd be guards, of course, but with a little luck, they'd get across in a tight group, cloaked.

  The road was passing through wide hay meadows, their grass knee high, when a movement caught his attention from a tongue of forest some eighty yards ahead. "Stop," he said quietly, and gestured the others back. They stopped, and for a moment nothing happened, then uniformed men stepped from behind trees, weapons aimed toward them, or at least toward Edouard and Berta.

  "All four of you!" one shouted. "Do not move. You are under arrest!"

  All four! They saw him then! Slowly he set Lotta on the ground as the men started toward him. "When I say down," Macurdy murmured, "I want you all to fall flat on the ground." He gave them a second to digest the order, then snapped 'Down!'

  And dropped himself, not quite flat, his left elbow holding his upper torso off the ground, his right hand raised as gunfire erupted ahead of him. Two-centimeter plasma charges pumped from his slightly cupped right palm, quick as bullets but without gunshots. And more accurate, as if they sought their targets.

  The gunfire stopped, and he rolled from the roadside into the shallow ditch beside it, then looked at Lotta lying on the shoulder a few feet away, her eyes wide with fear. "Lotta!" he hissed. "Roll into the ditch! Now!"

  He hadn't been sure she would, had thought she might be frozen with fear. He was partly right; she didn't roll. She stood half up, then threw herself almost on top of him.

  And no one fired!

  He looked back. Edouard and Berta still lay on the road, seemingly unhit, eyes as wide with fear as Lotta's, though theirs were on the forest, not on him. "Edouard, Berta," he husked, "roll to the ditch!"

  As soon as they moved, the silence was torn by three or four seconds of gunfire that made Macurdy press his cheek against the ground. When it was over, he looked up again. The men ahead had moved back into the concealment of tree trunks.

  From behind him, Berta called, "Kurt! They have shot Edouard," and looking back, Macurdy saw the professor lying on the shoulder, doubled at waist and knees, making tiny grunting sounds: "Uh, uh, uh!"

  Macurdy dismissed it for the moment-there was nothing he could do about it-and gave his attention to something else: The enemy hadn't fired when he'd rolled, or when Lotta had gotten up. "Berta, listen to me," he said tautly. "I. am going to cloak you, you and Edouard, but you must stay where you are. Do not move! The cloaks cannot follow you. And stay as flat as you can; cloaks don't fool bullets."

  After casting his sell he stood up, slowly, carefully, arms above his head as if surrendering. Nothing happened. He lowered his arms; still nothing. They don't see me, he thought. They only assume there are four of us. But how did they know he was there? Manfred! Manfred had told them he could make himself invisible, and they'd believed him!

  Then someone emerged from behind a pine,- holding a submachine gun. Macurdy froze, then lowered himself to the ground again. After a moment, three others stepped from the woods, guns ready, and all four began advancing. As they drew near, Macurdy made out the leader's collar patch-a lieutenant and after a few more yards, saw the color of the intent eyes. Blue. They flicked around as if seeking.

  Macurdy raised both palms, pumped plasma charges toward the approaching men, then flattened himself against the ground, peering through the roadside grass. All four were down, dead.

  It took a moment; as if the troopers left behind hadn't fully grasped what they'd seen. There'd been no gunshots, and in the afternoon sunlight, they shouldn't have spotted the darting plasma charges. Certainly not at that distance. Then a voice called from the forest: "lieutenant! Are you all right?"

  When there was no answer, a tentative rifle shot was fired, then another. When that brought no response, they let loose an intense flurry of gunfire, lasting three or four seconds.

  After that it was quiet again. It had to be damned spooky for them; presumably they couldn't see Edouard or Berta any longer either. For a long half minute he didn't move, then turned onto his side and now cast a separate cloak over Lotta, lying beside him in the grass. "Lotta," he said, "do not get up. They cannot see you if you stay where you are, and the bullets won't hit you if you lie flat." He hoped.

  Again he got up, and again no one fired. Slowly, watchfully, he started toward the woods, but had gone only about a dozen yards when four more troopers dashed from the sheltering trees, staying low, well dispersed, to hit the ground a few yards into the field.

  At that same instant, Macurdy hit the ground too. A moment later the four were on their feet again, this time covered by a flurry of gunfire from the woods. When it stopped, he raised his head. A moment later the four were up and dashing another few yards, again with covering fire. This time Macurdy kept his head up enough to watch. The fire came from four men, in the forest somewhat off to his right, and having drawn no return fire, they didn't retire so completely behind their sheltering tree trunks when they finished.

  Again the four on the ground dashed forward, bolder now, covering ten or twelve yards before hitting the ground. Again they had covering fire from the woods. The instant the covering fire stopped, Macurdy rose to his knees, pumping silent plasma charges toward the men who'd shot, then dropped prone again. At almost the same moment, the men on the ground got up and dashed forward once more, as if they hadn't noticed his return fire.

  It was then he became aware of a sound he'd been ignoring. A plane was circling at a little distance. Still his attention focused on the men in front of him. Their dash not accompanied by covering fire, they lay for perhaps half a minute before one raised himself cautiously to an elbow, then a knee. When nothing happened, he looked back toward the trees-and shouted. Then Macurdy stood, and pumped out half a dozen more plasma charges. The man fell; the others moved not at all, or only twitched.

  The plane's engine was louder. Macurdy started back to the others, somehow certain that the plane was dangerous. "Berta!" he shouted, "take Lotta and run to the forest! Now! I will bring Edouard!"

  Confused, she rose only to her knees. The forest was where the danger had been. He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. "The forest is safe now! They are all dead there! The plane is the threat now!"

  Berta did run then, only pausing to pull Lotta to her feet, and they ran hard toward the woods. Macurdy bent, lifted the marionette-jointed Edouard, and struggled him over a shoulder, then started after them. Now exertion showed him what he'd overlooked: the cost in energy of firing so many plasma charges. He stumbled, nearly collapsing beneath Edouard's weight, then staggered on. Th
rough the aircraft's engine noise, he heard its machine gun hosing bullets, and ten yards in front of him, dirt and asphalt spurted. He stopped, nearly fell, heard the engine yowl as the plane banked sharply. Again he started running, heavily, his lungs heaving as if he'd raced a hundred yards with his burden.

  And heard Lotta running back to him, crying, "Herr Montag! Herr Montag!"

  Dismayed, he shouted, telling her to go back.

  Hands on its sides, Krieger leaned out the door, watching the troopers dash forward, hit the ground. From his vantage he couldn't see the others deliver covering fire, but had no doubt they did. They knew-at least he'd told them--that they might be unable to see the man they had to deal with, an American in a khaki jumpsuit. But he hadn't realized the man might be able to confer invisibility on the others. He wondered if his troopers realized their unseen targets were lying prone.

  After a few seconds the soldiers were on their feet again, sprinting, cast themselves on the ground, and now, as the plane banked, he could see the others deliver covering fire-and fall!

  His consternation almost choked him. "Closer!" He shouted into his throat mike. "Quickly! I need to lay down accurate fire. " Then jerking the door gunner out of his way, he took the gun over and set himself. From behind it he had a smaller field of view than before, but as the plane banked, he saw Montag running, now with a body over his shoulder. Staggering; he must be wounded! Krieger laid down fire in front of him, his goal to stop instead of kill. Alive, Montag was valuable for what he knew, what he could do.

  As he fired, he saw Montag stop, actually barely pause, then lumber on again. The plane banked steeply, but Krieger kept his prey in view. In seconds the American would reach forest, unless he killed him. Krieger pivoted the gun on its mount; he dared not spare the man again.