The Bavarian Gate

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The Bavarian Gate Page 18

by John Dalmas


  After he'd had made his bed—without any difficulty—he and Schurz sat down facing each other. "Berta found you interesting," Schurz commented.

  "She is a nice lady. Friendly." Macurdy would maintain his Montag persona, even though Schurz saw through it.

  Schurz grunted. "She is rather interested in men. If circumstances permitted, I believe she would try us out. And I believe she finds you more interesting than she does the rest of us. She sees something in you that most do not—something more than your large and powerful physique." He raised a knowing eyebrow at Macurdy.

  It seemed to Macurdy that Schurz had said this to read his response. "I would like to try her out," Montag answered. "I like ladies."

  Schurz's smile flicked on, then off. Macurdy realized that the Herr Doktor Professor would like to try her out too.

  "Why is she here?" Montag asked. "Why are any of us here?"

  "According to her folder, she sometimes exhibits poltergeist phenomena when she drinks. Colonel Landgraf finds that promising."

  Montag looked confused, and Schurz, instead of explaining poltergeist, changed the subject. "Did you pay any attention to the other women?" Macurdy's lack of auric response told him he hadn't. "The small, younger woman is Anna Hofstetter. I believe she must have an interesting history, but Colonel Landgraf has not told me what it is. Nor do I know why she is here. Her talent is listed as broad-band telepathy, but so far as I know, telepathy does not contribute to the purpose of this project."

  He smiled. "Incidentally, do not be alarmed by her. Such telepathy is not continually operative. At least under ordinary circumstances it must be consciously turned on, otherwise the constant mental noise becomes intolerable. Also, persons like ourselves seem to have a built-in shield against telepathic snooping; she is unlikely to discern your thoughts. Your secrets. It would be interesting to know hers however.

  "The round-shouldered, graying red-haired woman is a gypsy. She..."

  That was as far as Schurz got, because Otto and Philipp came in. Macurdy took toothbrush and paste from the small kit issued to him and went into the latrine. When he was done, he came back.

  "What is our job here?" he asked Schurz. "No one has told me what I am to do."

  Manfred Eich had returned by then, and it was he who answered, before Schurz had time to. "Each of us has his own work, according to his intelligence," Eich said. "In the morning you will report to the stable, to clean up behind the colonel's horses."

  "Oh," said Montag, "that will be easy for me. It was part of my work at home when I was a boy."

  Manfred sneered, disappointed that his victim showed no hurt. Schurz simply looked at Montag quizzically.

  * * *

  At 9:55, Schurz blinked the lights. By that time Macurdy was already in bed, eyes closed, reviewing the day. Somehow neither he nor the OSS people who'd prepared him had foreseen the risk of psychic detection, an oversight that seemed to him a major bit of stupidity on their part and his. Kupfer hadn't noticed anything, but what might Colonel Landgraf see? Landgraf or someone else. He wasn't convinced that a persistent and perceptive telepath couldn't learn something dangerous from his mind; his aura had already compromised him. And if Landgraf lacked the talent, what of the instructors here? Almost certainly they were psychics, and presumably more powerful, even much more powerful, than Edouard Schurz or Berta Stark.

  They were foreigners, according to rumor; he should soon know.

  He wondered what tomorrow would be like.

  23

  The Voitar

  Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Schurz took Montag to Kupfer's office, and Kupfer, through a connecting door, delivered him to Landgraf's, saluting as he entered. "Heil Hitler," he barked; it was their first meeting of the day, and the formality required.

  "Heil Hitler." Lieutenant Colonel Karl Gustaf Richard Landgraf neglected to stand. If necessary, he could claim exemption on the basis of a war wound received as a young cavalry officer on the Vistula. That had been in August 1915; the German army had fought on an eastern front before.

  It was an injury that hampered him only when convenient.

  "Herr Obersturmbannführer," Kupfer said, "this is Herr Montag, a psychic turned over to us at the Gestapo office in Kempten yesterday. His papers are on your desk."

  "I have looked at them. Thank you, Kupfer, you may leave. I will speak with Herr Montag."

  He looked calmly at this newcomer he thought of as young. "I see you are married, Herr Montag. Are you worried about your wife? How she will get by in your absence? Do not be concerned. Here you will have no expenses. We will take good care of you; even your cigarette ration costs you nothing. And being restricted to the grounds, you will need no money for visits to town. Your pay will be that of a lance corporal, and all but five marks a month will be sent to your wife."

  Montag stood as if all this was incomprehensible. Reading auras while looking dull and confused had taken practice, but he did it well. Landgraf looked like the stereotypic Prussian aristocrat, erect, in charge, autocratic—and in fact he was. He wore black riding breeches, and glossy black riding boots that reached his knees; Macurdy wondered how he got them off.

  But his aura reflected a mildness, a humanity that might make him one of a kind in the SS.

  And he was a lieutenant colonel. The officer in charge of the Occult Bureau, Colonel von Sievers, was only one rank higher. Perhaps Landgraf had brought his rank with him from some earlier command. Or did an aristocratic family still count for something in the Third Reich?

  "Yessir, Herr General sir!" Montag barked.

  General? thought Landgraf. When Schmidt wrote "retarded" on the form, he was at least marginally correct. "I am not a general," Landgraf replied mildly. "Call me—" He paused. Keep it simple, he cautioned himself. "Call me colonel."

  "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  You must work with what God sends you, Karl, the colonel thought. "Tell me, Herr Montag, do you ever get angry?"

  "No sir, colonel sir!"

  "Never?"

  "Hardly ever."

  "Ah. If someone does something to you that is very unjust, what do you do about it?"

  "I try to keep away from him, colonel sir."

  "Um. And if you want something very much, what are you willing to do to get it?"

  "I would work very very hard, sir."

  "When you are very angry at someone, is there something you sometimes do about it?"

  "Sometimes I beat them up. After that they left me alone."

  "I see. Now—" He paused meaningfully. "If there were some very bad people who wanted to destroy your country and your Führer, would you want to do something to prevent that?"

  "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  "Would you be willing to destroy them?"

  "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  "Good. Because there are such people, and we want to teach you to do something that will destroy them."

  Landgraf took a cigarette holder from his desk and put a cigarette in it. "I am told you can light my cigarette with your finger. Show me how you do that."

  He put the holder between his teeth, and Montag lit the cigarette, Landgraf watching with interest.

  "Very good, Herr Montag. That was well done. Now suppose I am on one side of the room and you are on the other, and I want you to light my cigarette. How would you do that?"

  "I would walk over to you."

  "And if you were unable to walk over to me?"

  "I—" Montag stopped.

  "Well... Can you get the idea of lighting my cigarette from across the room?"

  Montag's features reflected confusion. "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  "How might you do that?"

  Montag stared blankly.

  "No matter. Now I want you to imagine someone very bad. Can you imagine shouting angrily at him?"

  "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  "What is the worst thing you can imagine shouting at him?"

  There was a long pause. "Pig."

  "Nothin
g worse than that?"

  Montag swallowed, seeming visibly troubled. "Cow turd?"

  "Very good, Herr Montag. If you could shout something at them that would make them roll on the ground screaming, would you do that? For your Führer?"

  "Yessir, colonel sir!"

  "Good. We will give you a chance to do that."

  Kupfer had left the door open between the two offices, the usual procedure, and Landgraf raised his voice instead of pushing the intercom button. "Hauptsturmführer Kupfer, come in here please."

  Kupfer stepped in, and Landgraf told him to take Montag to "Baron Greszak." They'd left then, Kupfer steering Montag with a hand on the arm. When they were gone, Landgraf shook his head tiredly. Here we have someone who tries hard to be civilized, and it is my duty to de-civilize him. What kind of world are we trying to make?

  * * *

  Kupfer led Montag up to third-floor main. As they went, Macurdy considered what he'd read in Landgraf's aura. The colonel was a discouraged man, and Montag's demonstration had not noticeably changed that. Perhaps some of the others had also given good demonstrations, then failed to improve sufficiently.

  They stopped at an unmarked door, and the captain knocked. "Kommen Sie rein," called a voice, and they went in. Inside stood easily the tallest man Macurdy had ever seen, intimidating not only by his height, but by presence and strangeness. He wore a semi-fitted black coverall that emphasized his raw-boned slenderness. A tall, bag-like black cap with red splints and a knit, dark-green band covered his forehead, accentuating an almost albino-white face. His piercing eyes were as green as Varia's, but their resemblance ended with their color. These eyes were cold, impersonal. Macurdy felt like a bug on a pin.

  "Good Morning, Baron Greszak," Kupfer said. There was no Heil Hitler. "We have a new student for you. This is Herr Montag, from East Prussia."

  This giant was one of the reported foreigners, that was obvious. A German might conceivably have that build, those features, perhaps even that name, but the aura was distinctive; different than any human aura Macurdy had seen before, ever.

  Different in kind.

  Greszak didn't trouble to acknowledge Kupfer's greeting. Instead he examined Macurdy thoroughly. "And what is it, Herr Montag, that causes you to be considered psychic?"

  "I can start fires. I can light your cigarette. With my finger!"

  "Hmm. Show me. Light Captain Kupfer's cigarette."

  Grimacing sourly, Kupfer took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Then Montag created a brilliant bead of glowing plasma an inch from his fingertip, and a minute later the cigarette was smoking.

  The Voitu did not change expression. "What else can you do?"

  "If someone is cold, I can warm him with my hands."

  Greszak stepped around his table and reached out a very long hand. "Warm it," he ordered, and Montag did. Greszak regarded him for a moment, then without speaking, turned and went into a connecting room, closing the door behind him.

  "Arrogant swine!" Kupfer muttered. Macurdy wasn't sure how much of Greszak's attitude was arrogance, and how much simply foreignness. He looked toward the two stacks of books on the table—from their spines, all were in German—and wondered if Greszak intended actually to read them. And if he did, how far he'd gotten. Certainly his German seemed fluent, what little he'd heard.

  The door opened again in half a minute, and Greszak gestured him in, closing it after him, leaving Montag alone with a man almost a head taller than Greszak, more than seven and a half feet, Macurdy guessed. He had the same pale skin and green eyes, the same black coverall that might be a uniform. The same slender build, the same peculiarities of aura.

  "Kurt Montag," he said, "I am Kronprinz Kurqôsz. Baron Greszak told me what you showed him. What else can you do?"

  Montag simply stared. Suddenly Kurqôsz pulled off his strange cap, tossing it on the table—the move uncovering his ears, like two goat's ears, perhaps six inches long and pointed, covered with the same copper-red hair that, stiffened, covered his skull and formed a sort of crest on its meridian. "Now perhaps you have something to say."

  Montag stared, his awe more genuine than pretended. "Jawohl, Herr Kronprinz," he answered. "What planet is the Herr Kronprinz from?"

  For just a moment Kurqôsz stared, then laughed a single loud whoop. "Der rote Planet," he answered. The Red Planet. He knew the German for Mars, but had translated literally from his own language. Macurdy might have taken him seriously, except for his laugh, and an auric reaction that in a human coincided with amusement.

  "If you do not satisfy me, I will give you ears like mine. Now, show me how large a fireball you can make."

  Montag made one perhaps an inch in diameter, which floated a couple of inches from his fingertip. Kurqôsz stepped toward him, and reaching, tested it for heat, seeming surprised when, at several inches distance, it was uncomfortably hot, though Montag showed no indication of discomfort.

  "Does it not burn?" he asked.

  The question took Macurdy by surprise; he hadn't thought about it before. "No, Herr Kronprinz. It is my fire. It cannot burn me."

  Kurqôsz pursed his lips. "Interesting, interesting. Make it be thirty centimeters away."

  "I—cannot, Herr Kronprinz. I—don't know how."

  Kurqôsz turned, gestured, and above a table, a hawk-like bird materialized, hovering on loudly thrumming wings that scattered papers from a table. Its head was like a great bat's, eyes glowing red, gaping mouth showing needle-teeth. "It can be killed by casting your fireball at it," Kurqôsz said. "I will count to five, and if you have not killed it by then, I will have it attack you! One, two..."

  At five, the thing darted forward. Montag's large right hand snatched, caught its head and crushed it. He felt its weight, its blood in his fist, its briefly flailing wings. "I'm sorry, Herr Kronprinz!" he cried, "I'm sorry! It was going to do something bad to me!"

  Kurqôsz stared, then grinned, cocking a quizzical eye. "Do not be concerned, Herr Montag. I can make as many of them as I wish." Without raising his voice, he spoke to the closed door: "Greszak, come and take Herr Montag back to his keeper. I am done with him for now. Tell the Hauptsturmführer we may be able to do something worthwhile with this one."

  * * *

  When the bird had appeared, Macurdy assumed it was an illusion. But when it was launched toward him, or launched itself, his gut reaction was to defend himself. And it seemed well that he had, considering how real—how physical!—it had proven. Sorcery like Kurqôsz's exceeded by far anything he'd witnessed in Yuulith. What were these Voitar? Could they really have come from Mars?

  And like Landgraf, Kurqôsz had realized at once his ability— or at any rate his potential—to throw plasma balls. So much for secrecy.

  Going down the stairs to Landgraf's office, a notion struck Macurdy. Opening his hand, he looked at it, willing the blood gone. And abruptly it was. Apparently Kurqôsz's fierce bird was only conditionally real after all.

  * * *

  Landgraf buzzed the duty room. Two minutes later a guardsman arrived, and took Kurt Montag to the recreation room, where he ordered him to wait. Being alone, Macurdy picked up a seventeen-year-old copy of Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft für Parapsychologje. The articles looked interesting, but most interesting was the masthead: the publisher and managing editor had been K.G.R. Landgraf, Phil. Doc. Landgraf might have no psychic talent at all, Macurdy told himself. He might simply know a lot, and have lots of contacts who knew and worked with psychics.

  Meanwhile, sitting there half reading, half contemplating, he realized something about the two Voitar: While their auras were like those of humans in important respects, they resembled even more those of the great ravens of Yuulith. And the great ravens shared minds—had what Blue Wing had termed a "hive mind." He wondered if perhaps the Voitar did too.

  If they did, then what one knew, the others knew, at least if they troubled to look.

  * * *

  After a while the corporal returned, and Mac
urdy, slack-jawed, pretended he was simply leafing the journal idly. He was taken back to Greszak's office, where a man stood waiting. He wore a coverall like those of the Voitar, but no cap. About Macurdy's height and width, he looked as strong, perhaps stronger, and somehow dangerous. But his hair approached Voitik red, his skin was almost Voitik-fair, and his eyes were Voitik green. His ears weren't nearly as long, but they were prominent and pointed.

  He scowled at Montag as if disliking him on sight. Macurdy guessed he was from wherever the Voitar were from, although his aura was essentially human.

 

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