by John Dalmas
"Where do you think you were this morning? Where we picked you up?"
"In Kempten," Montag answered.
"And where do you think Kempten is? In what state?"
Montag shook his head.
"Kempten is in Bavaria!"
Montag looked puzzled.
The lieutenant had overheard, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Herr Montag," he said, "where are you from?" He suspected his passenger was Volksdeutsch, ethnic German from one of the Baltic countries. He'd known a Volksdeutscher from Latvia; his German had sounded much like this man's.
"I am from Hermans Acker, Herr Kapitän."
The lieutenant ignored the unexpected promotion. "I don't mean what farm! What country axe you from?"
"From Germany, Herr Kapitän."
"Lieber Gott," the lieutenant muttered under his breath. "Another idiot." Some of these psychics, it seemed to him, were candidates for eugenic cleansing. "What state!?" he said aloud.
"Ost-Preussen, captain, from Kleines Torfland Gebiet."
Macurdy had kept part of his attention out the window. They were passing a longish lake that had to be der Kiefersee; he knew it well on maps. He wondered idly what kind of fish they caught there. A forested ridge backed the far shore, while the near shore was fields and pasture, with woods here and there. They'd be at Schloss Tannenberg very soon.
They passed the lake's upper end, where a lane ran down through pasture to a small wooden dock locked in ice. Briefly the road burrowed through woods, mostly of beech and fir, the latter shading patches of old gray snow. The car slowed, then turned onto a horseshoe drive that led to a preposterous-looking building: a large stone manor house three stories high, built in the shape of a U, its courtyard to the rear. Providing some pretense to the title Schloss—castle—its ridged, red-tiled roof was bordered by battlements, embellished at intervals with drain spouts in the form of gargoyles, and by a tower that stood like an afterthought at the end of the farther wing. Macurdy wondered what sort of man had designed the place.
The car unloaded its passengers in front of the entrance, and the driver pulled away. With the lance corporal's hand on Montag's sleeve, they followed Lieutenant Lipanov up several steps to a roofed porch with concrete pillars, and through the main entrance with its black-uniformed guard. Behind Montag's oafish gawp, Macurdy's eyes sized things up. The foyer, also with a guard, was as oddly laid out as the building, forming a U around a broad central flight of stairs leading to the second floor. The carpet was well-worn, both on floor and stairs. Pale rectangles on the walls showed where art had been removed. A front corner held the only furniture, a banquette and three club chairs, all of them threadbare. In a side wall toward the back was a door which might access a cellar stairway.
The lieutenant took Montag to the broad cross corridor that passed beneath the staircase, and turned left to the first door. Its polished brass plate read PROJECT OFFICE. He opened it, and they entered a small reception room partitioned off from the office behind it. A corporal rose abruptly from behind a desk, his right arm snapping forward sharply. "Heil Hitler!" he barked.
"Heil Hitler! I am here to see Hauptsturmführer Kupfer."
The corporal opened the door behind him, spoke to someone, then sent Lipanov through, Montag following. Inside, Lipanov stopped at attention with a sharp clack of heels, and again his right hand shot out. "Heil Hitler!"
The man he'd saluted outranked Lipanov, his insignia marking him as a Hauptsturmführer, a captain, "Heil Hitler!" he answered, but though his words were as loud, his salute as stiff, from him they seemed awkward, a required formality. From Lipanov, the words had reflected fervor, or at least well-drilled false fervor.
"I am here to deliver your new psychic, Herr Hauptsturmführer," Lipanov snapped, then stepped to the desk and handed over the papers given him by the Gestapo.
The captain—Kupfer, from the name plate on his desk— scanned them, then laid them on his blotter. "Thank you, Lipanov. I will require Corporal Karlsbach's services for a bit. You are dismissed."
"Thank you, Herr Hauptsturmführer!" Again Lipanov's heels clopped, and his arm shot out again. "Heil Hitler!" Then he about-faced and left.
* * *
After giving Lance Corporal Karlsbach brief instructions, Kupfer sent him off to show Montag what he needed to know about the building, This would use time, allowing Kupfer to finish his paperwork before Colonel Landgraf returned from Munich.
First the corporal took Montag back to the foyer, to the door leading to the cellar. "Do not go down there," he said pointing. "If you do, you will be shot."
He didn't elaborate, and his aura gave Macurdy no clear indication that he was or was not exaggerating. Macurdy was also to avoid the north and south wings totally, except if escorted, for the same compelling reason.
"Either that," Karlsbach added, "or the colonel will give you to the foreigners for punishment." His aura indicated now that he was lying—no doubt playing with the newcomer.
"Foreigners? What will they do to me?"
The answer was a shrug and smirk.
Then Montag was taken to the second floor main, to the men's quarters—the room where the male psychics were quartered. It held eight steel-framed army cots with mattresses, pillows, and blankets. Several had linens, and were made up for use. Connected to the sleeping room was a latrine, with commodes, urinals, washbasins, and an attached shower room with eight showerheads. He was also shown a door, diagonally across the corridor, which the corporal identified as quartering the female psychics. "I think they are very lonely in there," he said. "Perhaps they will invite you to visit them some night." Again he smirked. From there, Montag was shown the psychics' messroom, also on second-floor main, to which their food was delivered from the enlisted men's kitchen. An unoccupied classroom, on third-floor main, was equipped with tables, chairs, a blackboard, and large cabinet, but nothing else. There wasn't a clue as to what might be taught there.
The tour finished, Montag was returned to Captain Kupfer's office. The most interesting things he'd learned were the off-limits rules. Enforced rules: The foyer guard would see anyone attempting to visit the cellar, while a sentry stood at each corridor ell to each wing.
* * *
Kupfer was a Schwabe, a Swabian, gangling, nervous, forty-six years old, with large eyes suggesting hyperthyroidism—certainly not in the SS image. At first his Schwäbisch speech was difficult for Montag to follow, nor was Montag's Baltic German much easier for Kupfer. Nonetheless, Kupfer gave him the standard interview for psychic newcomers to the project, typing Montag's responses with quick index fingers. The interview required that if possible, the newcomer demonstrate his talents. Montag lit the captain's cigarette of course, but his invisibility spell, and ability to cast plasma charges, he kept carefully to himself. The written tests took longer. Kupfer hadn't been sure Montag could read well enough, but he managed, though laboriously. Or so it seemed. His most conspicuous difficulty was inserting the carbon paper right side up.
He is more ignorant than innately stupid, Kupfer decided; perhaps the Voitar will find him teachable. What Kupfer didn't consciously articulate in his mind was an underlying hope—that this unlikely seeming young man, who had surely been more at home manhandling cargo on the Lübeck docks, might actually prove to be what they'd been striving for, thus validating Reichsführer Himmler's hopes for the project.
At the same time validating his own hopes for psychic phenomena, for Kupfer, though lacking psychic talent, was a true believer. Just having his cigarette lit had given him a considerable boost.
By the time Montag had plodded through the written tests, classes had let out for the psychics in the third-floor classrooms. Kupfer pressed a button on his desk, and a minute later a private arrived from the duty room. He took Montag to the men's quarters, delivering him, along with a carbon copy of the interview form, to the civilian in charge—the psychic who was senior to the others.
Briefly the guardsman waited until the senior psy
chic had scanned the form and handed it back. Then, fixing Kurt Montag with a hard gaze, he said, "You will do as the Herr Doktor Professor orders, or it will go badly for you here." With that admonition, he turned and left.
* * *
Herr Doktor Professor Edouard Friederich Schurz had taught psychology at the Jesuit University in Karlsruhe. Here he was a trainee, not a teacher, his titles honorific. Forty-one years old, he was rather tall and still somewhat spare, a bachelor who, as a student, had been the star of his university's tennis club. As a graduate student, he'd been suspected by a professor of influencing the minds of others psychically, an ability more common than generally realized. Schurz himself hadn't realized he did it, but when included in a study of psychic dynamics, his ability had been superior at the 0.001 probability level. That is, there was almost no chance that the results were accidental—coincidences. It was through that study he'd come to Landgraf's attention, years before there'd been an Occult Bureau, or even an SS. Hindenburg had been president, and Hitler an obscure radical not long out of prison.
Schurz also read auras. Not in much detail, but enough to indicate somewhat about a person and their frame of mind, and he used it more or less automatically. In no more time than it had taken for the guardsman to introduce them, Schurz knew that Montag was not dull-witted, or even slow-witted, regardless of his facade, or anything his personnel form might say.
The simple fact of pretense was interesting. And worrisome. He needed time and observations to evaluate this newcomer. As he introduced the other male psychics—Herr Jensen, Herr Steinbach, Herr Eich—his mind worked on the problem. What might motivate Montag's pretense? Two possibilities occurred to him. It might be simply a means of staying out of the military, or he might be a spy from Berlin, sent to gather evidence that das Weutische Projekt was a useless waste of men and resources.
He hoped it was the former. Although he himself no longer had faith in the project, he'd hate to see it shut down. That would leave him vulnerable to military service, a gruesome thing to contemplate.
* * *
From Schurz's aura, Macurdy quickly realized the man saw through him. Was he telepathic? If so, this was a deadly situation. But by the time the introductions were completed—thirty seconds at most—Macurdy had rejected the thought: A telepath would have reacted more strongly. Perhaps Schurz simply read auras.
Then Schurz took him to the SS orderly room for an issue of bed and bath linens, and two suits of cheap, ill-fitting civilian clothes. On the way back, he showed him the psychics' recreation room. It was a bit like an army dayroom—a place where the psychics could spend their off hours reading, playing cards, talking, perhaps writing a letter. Just now, no one else was there. Schurz gestured toward a chair. "Sit down, Herr Montag," he said, and when Macurdy was seated, took a chair facing him, pulling it close.
"It might be well," Schurz said quietly, "if you knew something about your roommates. Otto Jensen is a sixty-year-old peasant smallholder from Schleswig, who developed a local reputation as a blood-stopper. And for healing in general, both of farm animals and humans. Reportedly he also sets bones without traction, simply by stroking the limb. Unfortunately the Project is not interested in healing powers, and drills have not elicited the sort of abilities hoped for.
"Philipp Steinbach, as perhaps you have guessed, is mentally retarded—what is called an 'idiot savant.' He is thirty-one years old, but his intellectual age is about six, and he is, of course, emotionally crippled. On the other hand, he can compute complex mathematical problems in his head, particularly of calendar dates, and on occasion produces poltergeist phenomena. It is the latter which brought him to Colonel Landgraf's attention. Unfortunately for the project, he has so far been unteachable. He simply does what he does."
Schurz grunted, a sort of humorless half chuckle. "As for Manfred—Herr Eich is a compulsive bully. He would bully physically if allowed to—I can imagine what life must have been like for his more susceptible school mates—but here that is forbidden him, so he bullies Otto and Philipp psychologically when he can. But not in front of me, because I have authority and do not put up with it. And remarkably, he is afraid of me physically; I can read it in..." Schurz waved a hand as if to cancel what he'd started to say. "He outweighs me by at least twenty kilos, but he fears physical strength, even strength no more than mine. Of course, he has only recently passed his eighteenth birthday; in time his confidence may increase, making him a more serious menace."
Eich's principal psychic power, Schurz went on to say, was an ability to beam confusion and fear in their raw form. This had come to light in secondary school, when the severity of his bullying, and an unwise choice of targets, had earned him the serious attention of school authorities. And through them the attention of psychological researchers at the University of Leipzig. They in turn had uncovered his talent. One of them, aware of Colonel Landgraf's needs, had written to him about this unusual and unpleasant youth.
Eich had been brought to the schloss the preceding summer. Fortunately, psychics, even Philipp, had at least some innate resistance to psychic coercion.
* * *
Schurz had a covert motive in telling all this to Montag: He wanted to see his reactions. And though the newcomer looked confused by it, his aura reflected alert interest.
* * *
They went from the recreation room to the dining room. By then Macurdy had no doubt at all that Schurz had seen through his pretense. But there was no hint of hostility or distrust, simply interest. This might, Macurdy decided, work out after all.
The meal was boiled potatoes, sauerkraut, bread, margarine, and cheese, and the decoction masquerading as coffee. All in all it was adequate. Macurdy wondered, though, if perhaps the SS troops got oatmeal-loaded sausage with theirs.
* * *
It was at supper he first saw the female psychics, who ate at their own table somewhat apart from the men. There were four of them: two more or less young, one middle-aged, and one whom Macurdy thought might well be in her seventies. He was aware that one of the two younger—the larger—had given him evaluative looks, her aura reflecting more than curiosity and sexual interest. Also there was a knowingness, as if, like Schurz, she saw through his facade.
He first got to know one of them, a little, in the recreation room after supper. There the women more or less segregated themselves—perhaps in response to Manfred Eich's unpleasant vibrations—but after a bit one of them came over to Kurt Montag, bringing with her one of the folding chairs, and sat down facing him. Her aura marked her as a basically dominant person, but not innately aggressive. Simply bold and impulsive. Physically she was in her early or mid-thirties, and rather tall, about five-feet-eight or nine. And pretty, with lovely coloring despite an indoor life and marginal nutrition. If they served seconds in the dining room, Macurdy thought, she might be heavy.
"You are new here," she said. "My name is Berta Stark. What is yours?"
"Kurt. Kurt Montag."
"Where are you from, Herr Montag?"
"Kleines Torfland Gebiet. It is in East Prussia. Where are you from?"
"I am from Kassel."
Macurdy had no doubt at all now that Berta Stark realized he was not what he seemed. But judging from her lack of reaction to his lie—that he was from East Prussia—she didn't read minds. Auras then, but not in much detail.
Her own aura suggested no threat. She was hoping for something from him, not primarily sexual. Could she be a spy for the British? He was already aware, from London, that the SIS and the OSS withheld things from each other.
"What did you do in Kassel?" he found himself asking.
"I was a nurse. A healer, actually; I heal with my hands. Most doctors would have nothing to do with me, but some did. I worked for them." According to her aura, she spoke truthfully, with a trace of irony.
She took Montag's right hand in hers, and while regarding him calmly, traced a pattern on his palm with a finger that raised goose bumps. That definitely felt sexual, but
still Macurdy read something more immediate in her aura: some interest other than sex. What it was, he had no idea, nor was it anything he could ask about, certainly not there.
He would let it be for now. Let her find a way to talk privately, if she wanted to. When she left, she had something on her mind. Perhaps just that: how they could be alone.
* * *
Montag stayed in the recreation room till 9:20, when Schurz told him to come with him. Lights out, Schurz said, was at 10 o'clock; Montag needed to put the sheets on his bed before that.
They left Otto, Manfred, and Philipp behind, the old farmer reading a well-worn bible, and Manfred an old journal on parapsychology, of which there was a sizeable stack on a table. Philipp sat alone, playing with a deck of cards, a seemingly aimless, repetitive activity whose purpose, if any, was known only to him. It was how he spent his evenings.
As they walked to their quarters, Schurz told Montag that to be in the corridor at all, after lights out, was against the rules and would be punished.
It seemed to Macurdy that the curfew simply reflected the Nazi impulse to control, but the other restrictions might protect important information. The corridors were not well lit, but how much light might it take for an attentive guard to see through his invisibility spell? And how attentive might the guards be?