Could he have been the fork in the road America never took, the singular point she jumped the wrong way from? Suppose the Slothropite heresy had had the time to consolidate and prosper? Might there have been fewer crimes in the name of Jesus, and more mercy in the name of Judas Iscariot? It seems to Tyrone Slothrop that there might be a route back—maybe that anarchist he met in Zürich was right, maybe for a little while all the fences are down, one road as good as another, the whole space of the Zone cleared, depolarized, and somewhere inside the waste of it a single set of coordinates from which to proceed, without elect, without preterite, without even nationality to fuck it up. . . . Such are the vistas of thought that open up in Slothrop’s head as he tags along after Ludwig. Is he drifting, or being led? The only control in the picture right now is the damned lemming. If she exists. The kid shows Slothrop photos he’s packing in his wallet: Ursula, eyes bright and shy, peeking out from under a pile of cabbage leaves . . . Ursula in a cage decked with a giant ribbon and swastika’d seal, first prize in a Hitler Youth pet show . . . Ursula and the family cat, watching each other carefully across a tiled stretch of floor . . . Ursula, front paws dangling and eyes drowsy, hanging out the pocket of Ludwig’s Nazi cub-scout uniform. Some part of her is always blurred, too quick for the shutter. Even knowing when she was a baby what they’d be in for someday, still Ludwig has always loved her. He may be thinking that love can stop it from happening.
Slothrop will never find out. He loses the fat young lunatic in a village near the sea. Girls in full skirts and flowered kerchiefs are out in the woods gathering mushrooms, and red squirrels flash through the beeches. Streets curve on into town, foreshortening too fast—it’s wideangle, smalltown space here. Lamps are clustered up on the poles. Street cobbles are heavy and sand-colored. Drayhorses stand in the sun flourishing their tails.
Down an alleyway near the Michaeliskirche, a little girl comes tottering under an enormous pile of contraband fur coats, only her brown legs visible. Ludwig lets out a scream, pointing at the coat on top. Something small and gray is worked into its collar. Artificial yellow eyes gleam unwholesomely. Ludwig runs hollering Ursula, Ursula, grabbing for the coat. The little girl lets out a flurry of curses.
“You killed my lemming!”
“Let go, idiot.” A tug-of-war among the blurry patches of sun and shadow in the alley. “It isn’t a lemming, it’s a gray fox.”
Ludwig stops yelling long enough to look. “She’s right,” Slothrop points out.
“I’m sorry,” Ludwig snivels. “I’m a little upset.”
“Well, could you help me carry these as far as the church?”
“Sure.”
They each take an armful of furs and follow her through the bumpy gassen of the town, in a side entrance, down several flights to a subbasement of the Michaeliskirche. There in the lamplight, the first face Slothrop sees, inclined over a Sterno fire tending a simmering pot, is that of Major Duane Marvy.
• • • • • • •
YAAAGGGGHHHH— Slothrop hefts his armload of coats, ready to throw them and flee, but the Major’s just all smiles. “Hi there, comrade. You’re just in time for some o’ Duane Marvy’s Atomic Chili! Whyntcha pull up a pew ’n’ sit down? Yaah-ha-ha-ha! Little What’s-her-name here,” chuckling and copping a feel as the girl deposits her delivery with the enormous stash of furs that occupies most of this room, “she’s kind of indiscreet sometimes. I hope you don’t feel like that we’re doing anything illegal, I mean in your zone and everything.”
“Not at all, Major,” trying for a Russian accent, which comes out like Bela Lugosi. Marvy is out with his pass anyhow, most of which is handwritten, with here and there a seal stamped onto it. Slothrop squints at the Cyrillic handwriting at the bottom and makes out Tchitcherine’s signature. “Ah. I have coordinated with Colonel Tchitcherine on one or two occasions.”
“Hey’d ya hear what happened up in Peenymunde? Buncha ’suckers just come in hijacked Der Springer right out f’m under the Colonel’s nose. Yeah. You know Der Springer? Bad ass, comrade. That ’sucker got so many arns in the far don’t leave much for free-enterprisers like me ’n’ old Bloody Chiclitz.”
Old Bloody Chiclitz, whose mother, Mrs. Chiclitz, named him Clayton, has been lurking behind a stack of mink capes with a .45 aimed at Slothrop’s stomach. “Say he’s O.K., buddy,” Marvy calls. “Y’all bring us s’more that champagne why don’tcha.” Chiclitz is about as fat as Marvy and wears hornrimmed glasses, and the top of his head’s as shiny as his face. They stand there with their arms around each other’s shoulders, two smiling fat men. “Ivan, you’re lookin’ at 10,000 calories a day, right here,” indicating the two paunches with his thumb, and winking. “Chiclitz here goam be the Royal Baby,” and they both collapse with laughter. But it is true. Chiclitz has actually figured out a way to cash in on redeployment. He is about to wangle with Special Services the exclusive contract for staging the equator-crossing festivities for every troop ship that changes hemispheres. And Chiclitz himself will be the Royal Baby on as many as he can, that’s been written in. He dreams of the generations of cannon fodder, struggling forward on their knees, one by one, to kiss his stomach while he gobbles turkey legs and ice-cream cones and wipes his fingers off in the polliwogs’ hair. Officially he is one of the American industrialists out here with the T-Force, scouting German engineering, secret weaponry in particular. Back home he owns a toy factory in Nutley, New Jersey. Who can ever forget the enormously successful Juicy Jap, the doll that you fill with ketchup then bayonet through any of several access slots, whereupon it flies to pieces, 82 of them, realistically squishy plastic, all over the room? or-or Shufflin’ Sam, the game of skill where you have to shoot the Negro before he gets back over the fence with the watermelon, a challenge to the reflexes of boys and girls of all ages? Right now business is taking care of itself, but Chiclitz has his eyes on the future. That’s why he’s running this fur operation, with the Michaeliskirche serving as a depot for the whole region. “Retrenchment. Got to get capitalized, enough to see me through,” splashing champagne into gold communion chalices, “till we see which way it’s gonna go. Myself, I think there’s a great future in these V-weapons. They’re gonna be really big.”
The old church smells of spilled wine, American sweat, and recently burned cordite, but these are raw newer intrusions that haven’t done away with the prevailing Catholic odor—incense, wax, centuries of mild bleating from the lips of the flock. Children come in and go out, bringing furs and taking them away, chatting with Ludwig and presently inviting him along to check out the freight cars down at the marshaling yards.
There are about 30 kids on Chiclitz’s payroll. “My dream,” he admits, “is to bring all these kids back to America, out to Hollywood. I think there’s a future for them in pictures. You heard of Cecil B. De Mille, the producer? My brother-in-law’s pretty close to him. I think I can teach them to sing or something, a children’s chorus, negotiate a package deal with De Mille. He can use them for the real big numbers, religious scenes, orgy scenes—”
“Ha!” cries Marvy, dribbling champagne, eyeballs bulging. “You’re dreaming all right, old buddy! You sell those kids to Cecil B. De Mille it’s f’damn sure they ain’t goam be singin’. He’ll use them little ’suckers for galley slaves! Yaah-ha-ha—yeah they’ll be chained to th’ oars, just haulin’ ass, rowin’ old Henry Wilcoxon away into th’ sunset to fight them Greeks or Persians or somebody.”
“Galley slaves?” Chiclitz roars. “Never, by God. For De Mille, young fur-henchmen can’t be rowing!”
Out at the edge of town are the remains of an A4 battery, left where it stood as the troops fled south, trying to escape British and Russian pincers. Marvy and Chiclitz are going to have a look, and Slothrop is welcome to come along. But first there is the matter of Duane Marvy’s Atomic Chili, which turns out to be a test of manhood. The champagne bottle is th
ere within easy reach, but drinking from it will be taken as a sign of weakness. Once Slothrop would have been suckered in, but now he doesn’t even have to think it over. While the two Americans, blinded, noses on fire and leaking incredible quantities of snot, undergo what the authoritative A Cheapskate’s Guide to the Zone aptly describes as “a Götterdämmerung of the mucous membranes,” Slothrop sits guzzling champagne like soda pop, nodding, smiling, and mumbling da, da now and then for authenticity’s sake.
They ride out to the site in a green, grinning Ford staff car. Marvy soon as he slides behind the wheel turns into a fanged dipsomaniac— eeeeerrrrr leaving rubber enough to condom a division, zero to 70 before the echo’s died, trying to run down bicyclists right ’n’ left, stampeding the livestock, whilst Bloody Chiclitz, whooping happily, a champagne bottle in each fist, urges him on—Marvy bellowing “San Antonya Rose,” his fav’rite song, Chiclitz screaming out the window admonitions like “Fuck not with the Kid, lest instead of fucker thou become fuckee,” which takes a while and draws only a few bewildered Fascist salutes from old ladies and little children at the roadside.
The site is a charred patch becoming green with new weeds, inside a copse of beech and some alder. Camouflaged metal stands silent across a ghostly crowd of late dandelions, gray heads nodding together waiting for the luminous wind that will break them toward the sea, over to Denmark, out to all points of the Zone. Everything’s been stripped. The vehicles are back to the hollow design envelopes of their earliest specs, though there’s still a faint odor of petrol and grease. Forget-me-nots are growing violent blue violent yellow among the snarl of cables and hoses. Swallows have built a nest inside the control car, and a spider has begun filling in the web of the Meillerwagen boom with her own. “Shit,” sez Major Marvy. “Fuckin’ Rooskies done stole everthing, no offense, comrade.” They go kicking through green and purple weeds, rusted food tins, old sawdust and chips of wood. Surveying stakes, each with a tatter of white nailed on top, still chain away toward the guide-beam transmitter 12 kilometers away. Eastward. So it must’ve been the Russians they were trying to stop. . . .
Red, white, and blue winks from the dusty deck of the control car. Slothrop drops to one knee. The Schwarzkommando mandala: KEZVH. He looks up to see Marvy giving him a sly fat smile.
“Why shore. I shoulda known. You don’t have no insignia on. Sheeeee . . . you’re-you’re like th’ Soviet CIC! Ain’tcha.” Slothrop stares back. “Hey. Hey, who’re you tryin’ to git? Huh?” The smile vanishes. “Sa-a-a-y, I shore hope it ain’t Colonel Tchitcherine, now. He’s a good Rooskie, you know.”
“I assure you,” holding up the mandala, cross to vampire, “my only interest is in dealing with the problem of these black devils.”
Back comes the smile, along with a fat hand on Slothrop’s arm. “You all set to go round ’n’ round with thim, whin y’r comrades git here?”
“Round, and round? I am not sure that I—”
“You know. Come on. Why all thim boogies’t’s camped outside o’ town! Hey, Ivan, god-damn ’at’s goam be fun. I spint all day today cleanin’ my Colt’s,” caressing the sidearm in its holster. “Goam make me a coonskin cap outa one o’ thim ’suckers, ’n’ I don’t have to tell you what part’s goam be danglin’ down there in back, do Uh? Hah?” Which tickles Bloody Chiclitz so much he like to chokes laughing.
“Actually,” Slothrop making it up as he goes along, “my mission is coordinating intelligence,” whatever that means, “in operations such as this. I am down here, in fact, to reconnoiter the enemy position.”
“Enemy’s right,” Chiclitz nods. “They got guns and everything. Only thing a coon ought to have in his hands is a broom!”
Marvy is frowning. “You, you ain’t expecting us to go out there with you, now. We can tell you how to git there, comrade, but you’re crazy to go out there alone. Why don’tcha wait’ll tonight? Scheduled to stort about midnight, ain’t it? You can wait till then.”
“It is essential that I gather certain information in advance,” poker-face, pokerface, good, good . . . “I do not have to tell you how important this is . . .” a pregnant Lugosi pause, “to all of us.”
Well, that gets him directions out to the Schwarzkommando and a lift back into town, where the businessmen pick up a couple of those Eager Fräuleins and go roistering off into the sunset. Slothrop stands in their exhaust, muttering.
Next time it won’t be any custard pie, you asshole. . . .
Takes him an hour to get out to the camp on foot across a wide meadow whose color is deepening now as if green dye flowed and seeped into its nap . . . he is aware of each single grassblade’s shadow reaching into the shadows east of it . . . pure milk-colored light sweeps up in a bell-curve above the sun nearly down, transparent white flesh, fading up through many blues, powdery to dark steel at the zenith . . . why is he out here, doing this? Is this Ursula the lemming’s idea too, getting mixed up in other people’s private feuds when he was supposed to be . . . whatever it was . . . uh. . . .
Yeah! yeah what happened to Imipolex G, all that Jamf a-and that S-Gerät, s’posed to be a hardboiled private eye here, gonna go out all alone and beat the odds, avenge my friend that They killed, get my ID back and find that piece of mystery hardware but now aw it’s JUST LIKE—
LOOK-IN’ FAWR A NEEDLE IN A HAAAAY-STACK!
Sssss—searchinfrasomethin’ fulla moon-beams,
(Something) got ta have yoooou!
Feet whispering through weeds and meadow grass, humming along exactly the breathless, chin-up way Fred Astaire did, reflecting on his chances of ever finding Ginger Rogers again this side of their graceful mortality. . . .
Then, snapping back—no no, wait, you’re supposed to be planning soberly now, weighing your options, determining your goals at this critical turning point in your . . .
Ya—ta-ta, LOOKIN’ F’R A NEEDLE IN A—
Nonono come on, Jackson, quit fooling, you got to concentrate. . . . The S-Gerät now—O.K. if I can find that S-Gerät ’n’ how Jamf was hooked in, if I can find that out, yeah yeah Imipolex now . . .
—searchin’ for a (hmm) cellar full o’ saffron . . .
Aw . . .
At about which point, as if someone’s simple longing has made it appear, comes a single needle-stroke through the sky: the first star.
Let me be able to warn them in time.
They jump Slothrop among the trees, lean, bearded, black—they bring him in to the fires where someone is playing a thumb-harp whose soundbox is carved from a piece of German pine, whose reeds are cut from springs of a wrecked Volkswagen. Women in white cotton skirts printed with dark blue flowers, white blouses, braided aprons, and black kerchiefs are busy with pots and tinware. Some are wearing ostrich-egg-shell necklaces knife-hatched in red and blue. A great cut of beef drips from a wooden spit over a fire.
Enzian isn’t there, but Andreas Orukambe is, nervous as wire, wearing a navy pullover and army fatigue trousers. He remembers Slothrop. “Was ist los?”
Slothrop tells him. “Supposed to be here at midnight. Don’t know how many there are, but maybe you’d better clear out.”
“Maybe.” Andreas is smiling. “Have you eaten?”
The argument, go or stay, proceeds over supper. It is not the tactical decision-making Slothrop was taught in officer school. There seem to be other considerations, something the Zone-Hereros know about and Slothrop doesn’t.
“We have to go where we go,” Andreas explains to him later. “Where Mukuru wants us to go.”
“Oh. Oh, I thought you were out here looking for something, like everybody else. The 00000, what about that?”
“That is Mukuru’s. He hides it where he wants us to seek.”
“Look, I have a line on that S-Gerät.” He gives them Greta Erdmann’s story—the Heath, the gasoline works,
the name Blicero—
That rings a bell. A gong, in fact. Everybody looks at everybody else. “Now,” Andreas very careful, “that was the name of the German who commanded the battery that used the S-Gerät?”
“I don’t know if they used it. Blicero took the woman to a factory where it was either put together, or a part of it was made, from some plastic called Imipolex G.”
“And she didn’t say where.”
“Only ‘the Heath.’ See if you can find her husband. Miklos Thanatz. He may have seen the actual firing, if there was one. Something out of the ordinary went on about then, but I never got to find out what.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s O.K. Maybe you can tell me something now.” He brings out the mandala he found. “What’s it mean?”
Andreas sets it on the ground, turns it till the K points northwest. “Klar,” touching each letter, “Entlüftung, these are the female letters. North letters. In our villages the women lived in huts on the northern half of the circle, the men on the south. The village itself was a mandala. Klar is fertilization and birth, Entlüftung is the breath, the soul. Zündung and Vorstufe are the male signs, the activities, fire and preparation or building. And in the center, here, Hauptstufe. It is the pen where we kept the sacred cattle. The souls of the ancestors. All the same here. Birth, soul, fire, building. Male and female, together.
“The four fins of the Rocket made a cross, another mandala. Number one pointed the way it would fly. Two for pitch, three for yaw and roll, four for pitch. Each opposite pair of vanes worked together, and moved in opposite senses. Opposites together. You can see how we might feel it speak to us, even if we don’t set one up on its fins and worship it. But it was waiting for us when we came north to Germany so long ago . . . even confused and uprooted as we were then, we knew that our destiny was tied up with its own. That we had been passed over by von Trotha’s army so that we would find the Aggregat.”
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