by John Dalmas
At least, Macurdy told himself, it was downhill today. Tough on the feet, of course, but easier on the thighs and buttocks than the uphill grind they'd face later.
Finally they crossed the forested lower slope, and turned west up the canyon bottom, guiding on Macurdy's map, keeping to the trees when possible. He didn't want some herd girl to see them, even though the route was unlikely.
Later they crossed the canyon, wading a swift icy stream, to reach the descending side canyon Macurdy had decided on. It too had a trail, that led steeply up and up to two large high meadows occupying basins, the lower of them with a cow camp.
More and more, Lotta rode on Macurdy's shoulders, her trust in him seeming absolute now, though still she didn't speak. Each of the fugitives, even Lotta, had blistered feet from hiking on steep slopes, but they pushed steadily on, no one complaining. Macurdy had promised to heal them when they stopped at day's end. Edouard, although he tried, couldn't entirely believe him, but knew that Berta believed, so he hoped. Otherwise—there'd be time to heal in Switzerland.
* * *
As they got higher, the forested and north-facing stretches had old snow, newly trampled by cattle being driven to the high pastures. Eventually, well up on the mountain, they reached the first grassy bowl, with deep old drifts around the edges. At the lower edge was a set of small, steep-roofed log buildings. The elevation was considerably higher than they'd reached that morning, even at the notch.
It was time to replenish their food supply. The stolen bread and cheese were mostly gone, and there were hard miles to hike before they came to the villages and farms along the road to Liechtenstein.
The road to Liechtenstein. There lay the greatest danger, with little he could do about it except avoid attention. Meanwhile they needed rest as well as food. He'd carried Lotta much of the time—most of the time that afternoon—grateful she was small, and Edouard and Berta were a lot more tired than he. He wished he was in the shape he'd been in at Oujda or Chilton Foliat, or Benning or Camp Robinson, but even so he was doing pretty well, tapping the Web of the World. If it weren't for the damn blisters...
Close below the lower basin, he cloaked the others and left them to rest near the trail, then scouted till he found a secluded opening facing the late sun. He led the others there, and they unshipped the blankets. Then Macurdy worked on their feet until, to Edouard's awe, they could actually see new pink skin covering the rawness. Finally Macurdy worked at flushing the fatigue acids from their legs and buttocks; after a day like this, they'd stiffen seriously if nothing effective was done. With Berta and Lotta, he worked without touching legs or buttocks. Berta he didn't want to excite. As for Lotta—he remembered the images in her trauma vortices.
Berta watched everything he did, asking questions, intent on learning. She couldn't see the energy threads, but perhaps with practice ... Certainly Kurt's methods were much more precise than those she'd used.
Lotta too had watched and listened, and still without speaking, duplicated his actions. When Macurdy asked her if she saw clouds of light around people, she looked away shyly. At least, he thought, it wasn't fearfully.
When he'd finished his healings, they napped. He intended later to send Edouard and Berta to the cow camp to buy food. In these times, a couple hiking in the mountains might well seem suspicious, certainly if they weren't wearing hiking clothes. But that suspicion would be less for the two of them alone than if they had a child with them wearing sandals.
* * *
It was near evening when Edouard and Berta approached the cow camp, Edouard carrying the pack now. The camp consisted of a cabin that housed the herd girls, along with the pans and utensils they used to make butter and cheese; and a springhouse, woodshed, storage shed, two long cow sheds, the hay shed, a privy, and a guest cabin for the men when they came to make hay.
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.
* * *
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.
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.
40
Lotta
Bruno Krieger's mood was deteriorating. To start the day, the plane's engine had failed the pre-flight 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 carrying 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 Fallschirmjäger 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 spell 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.