“I am here to look for my family. My wife. My sons. My daughter. Drucker. Katherina—Käthe. Heinrich. Adolf. Claudia.” Drucker stayed polite and businesslike.
“Oh. One of those.” The woman nodded. Now she knew in which pigeonhole he belonged. She pulled out a form from a box on the table behind her and said, “Fill this out. Fill it out very carefully. We will search. If we find them in our records, you will be notified.”
“When will you search? When will I be notified?” Drucker asked. “Why don’t you search now? I’m here now.” By all the signs, she needed reminding of that.
A slow flush darkened her cheeks. It wasn’t embarrassment; it was anger. “We have many important duties to perform here, sir,” she said in a voice like winter on the Russian front. “When we have the opportunity, we shall search the records for you.” That might be twenty years from now. It might, on the other hand, be never. “Please fill out the form.” The form was important. The family it represented? That might matter, but more likely it wouldn’t.
Drucker had seen that attitude before. He had a weapon to combat it. He took from his wallet a telegram and passed the woman the yellow sheet. “Here. I suggest you read this.”
For a moment, he thought she’d try to crumple it instead. He would have prevented that—by force, if necessary. But she did read. And her eyes, the dull blue and white of cheap china, grew bigger and bigger as she read.
“But this is from Flensburg,” she said, and all the other Red Cross women exclaimed when she mentioned the new capital. Even the typist stopped typing. In an awed whisper, the woman went on, “This is from the Führer, from the Führer himself. We are to help this man, he says.”
They all crowded around to examine, and to exclaim over, the special telegraph form with the eagle with the swastika in its claws. After that, Johannes Drucker found things going much more smoothly. Instead of being a client and hence an obvious inferior, he was a man known to the Führer—the Führer himself, Drucker thought sourly—and hence an obvious superior.
“Helga!” the blue-eyed woman barked. “Check the records at once for the Herr Oberstleutnant. Drucker. Käthe. Heinrich. Adolf. Claudia. At once!” Drucker’s eyebrows rose. She’d been listening. She just hadn’t wanted to do anything about it. To him, that made things worse, not better—lazy, sour bitch.
Helga said, “Jawohl!” and went for the file boxes at the run—so fast that a lock of her blond hair escaped the pins with which she imprisoned it. She grabbed the right one without even looking and riffled through the forms in it. Then, on the off chance something had gone wrong, she went through the boxes to either side. Having done that, she looked up at Drucker and said, “I’m sorry, sir, but we have here no record of them.” Since he was known to the Führer, she actually sounded sorry, not bored as she might well have otherwise.
It wasn’t as if Drucker hadn’t heard it before, too many times. Lately, though, he’d added a new string to his bow. “See if you have anyone who was living on Pfordtenstrasse in Greifswald.” Maybe a neighbor would know something. Maybe.
“Helga!” the woman holding the telegram thundered again. While Helga went to a different set of file boxes, Drucker got the precious sheet of yellow paper back. He’d need it to overawe people somewhere else.
Sorting through those boxes took longer. After fifteen minutes or so, Helga looked up. “I have an Andreas Bauriedl, at 27 Pfordtenstrasse.”
“By God!” Drucker exclaimed. “Andreas the hatter! He lives—lived—only three doors down from me. Can you have him fetched here?”
They could. They did. Half an hour later, there was skinny little Andreas, ten years older than Drucker, hurrying in to shake his hand. “Good to see you, Hans!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t know you’d made it.”
“I’m here,” Drucker answered. “What about my family? Do you know anything?”
“They gave Heinrich a rifle, same as they did me, and put him in a Volkssturm battalion,” Bauriedl answered. “That was when the Lizards were getting close to Greifswald, you know. If you were a man and you were breathing, they gave you a rifle and hoped for the best. It was pretty bad.”
Boys and old men, Drucker thought. Everybody else would have already gone into the Wehrmacht. He asked the question he had to ask: “Do you know what happened to him?”
Bauriedl shook his head. “I couldn’t tell you, Hans. He got called in a couple of days before I did, and into a different unit. I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you more.”
Drucker sighed. He’d learned a little something, anyhow. “What about Käthe and the other children?”
“They left town right after Heinrich went in. Piled into the VW and took off.” Bauriedl frowned. “Something about Uncle Lothar? Uncle Ludwig? I was coming up the street when she drove by. She called out to me, in case I saw you. I’d tell you more, but they bombed the block a few minutes later. They got Effi, damn them. We were in different rooms, and . . .” He grimaced. “I went into the Volkssturm hoping I’d get killed too. No such luck.”
“I’m sorry.” Drucker hoped he sounded sincere. He’d heard so many stories like that. But excitement burned in him, too. “Kãthe has”—he made himself use the present tense—“an uncle down in Neu Strelitz. I think his name starts with an L. I’ll tell you one thing—I’m going to find out.” Neu Strelitz wasn’t so far away, not when he’d already walked from Nuremberg. But maybe he wouldn’t have to walk. He had connections now, and he intended to use them.
Gorppet was discovering he liked intelligence work. It was for males of a mistrustful cast of mind. It was also for males who wanted more than just to be given orders. He got to think for himself without becoming an object of suspicion.
He was writing a report on what he suspected to be underground activity among the Deutsche when a Big Ugly came into the tent and said, “I greet you, superior sir. I am Johannes Drucker, the friend of Mordechai Anielewicz.”
“And I greet you.” The Tosevite had named himself, which Gorppet found considerate. Even after so long on Tosev 3, even after his spectacular capture of that maniac of a Khomeini, he still found that most Big Uglies looked alike. Since this Drucker had announced who he was, Gorppet could proceed to the next obvious question: “And what do you want with me today?”
“Superior sir, does the Race have a garrison in the town of Neu Strelitz?”
“I have no idea,” Gorppet answered. “Say the name again, so that I can enter it into our computer and find out.” Drucker did. As best Gorppet could, he turned the odd sounds of the Deutsch language into the Race’s familiar characters. The screen displayed a map of the Reich, with a town south of Greifswald blinking on it. That the displayed town was blinking meant the computer system wasn’t sure of the identification. Gorppet pointed at the town with his tongue. “Is this the place you mean?”
Johannes Drucker leaned forward to get a better look at the monitor. His head went up and down in the Big Uglies’ affirmative gesture. “Yes, superior sir, that is the right place.”
“Very well.” Gorppet spoke to the computer. The light indicating Neu Strelitz stopped blinking. Gorppet interrogated the data system, then turned back to the Tosevite. “No, at present we have no males in that town. We cannot be everywhere, you know.” That was a truth that worried him. The Deutsche might well be hatching trouble under the Race’s snout—there just weren’t enough males to watch everything at once. But he said nothing of that to Drucker: no point in giving a former Deutsch officer ideas. He probably had too many already. Gorppet did ask, “Why do you wish to know that?”
“My mate and two of my hatchlings may be there,” Drucker replied. “I was hoping that, if the Race did have males in that place, I could there in one of your vehicles travel.” Every so often, he would forget about the verb till the end of a sentence. A lot of Deutsche did that when speaking the language of the Race. The Big Ugly’s sigh was amazingly like that of a male of the Race. “Now must I walk.”
“Wait.” Gorppet thought
hard. Mordechai Anielewicz was a Tosevite the Race needed to keep happy. That meant keeping his friend happy, too—especially where kin were concerned. Anielewicz himself had been almost insane with joy after recovering his own hatchlings and mate. And having a former Deutsch officer owing the Race a debt of gratitude might not be the worst thing in the world, either. It might, in fact, prove very useful. Gorppet said, “Let me make a telephone call or two and I will see what I can do.”
“I thank you,” Drucker said. “Do you mind if I on the ground sit? I do not fit well inside this tent.”
Sure enough, he had to bend his head forward a little to keep from bumping the fabric of the roof, an unnatural and uncomfortable posture for a Big Ugly. “Go ahead,” Gorppet said, and made the affirmative gesture. As Drucker sat, Gorppet spoke on the telephone. Had he still been an ordinary infantry officer, he was sure the quartermaster he called would have laughed in his face. The fellow took an officer from Security more seriously. Gorppet hardly had to raise his voice. When the quartermaster broke the connection, Gorppet turned an eye turret back toward the Big Ugly. “There. I have arranged it.”
“Have you?” Drucker asked eagerly. “So thought I, but when you speak rapidly, I have trouble following.”
“I have indeed.” Gorppet sounded smug. He’d earned a little smugness. “Go three tents over and one tent up”—he gestured to show directions within the Race’s encampment—“and you will find a motorcar waiting for you. The driver will take you to this Neu Strelitz place.”
“I thank you,” the Big Ugly said again, this time with an emphatic cough to show how much. “You are generous to a male who was your enemy.”
“I am not altogether disinterested,” Gorppet said. Drucker, he judged, was smart enough to figure that out for himself. Sure enough, the Tosevite nodded once more. Gorppet went on, “You Deutsche and we of the Race should try to live together as smoothly as we can now that the war is over.”
“That is always easier for the winner than for the loser to say,” Johannes Drucker answered. “Still, I also think it is a truth. And the Race fights with honor—I cannot deny it. I almost killed a starship of yours, but your pilot accepted my surrender and did not kill me. And now this. It is very kind.”
“Go on. You will not want to keep the driver waiting, or he will be annoyed,” Gorppet said. The driver would undoubtedly be annoyed anyhow at having to take a Big Ugly somewhere, but Gorppet didn’t mention that. He did say, “I hope you find your mate and your hatchlings.”
“So do I,” Drucker said. “You have no idea how much I do.” That was bound to be literally true, given the different emotional and sexual patterns of Tosevites and members of the Race.
Drucker got to his feet. He bent into an awkward version of the posture of respect, then hurried out of the tent.
Hozzanet, the male who’d recruited Gorppet into Security, came into the tent just after Drucker had left. “Making friends with the Big Uglies?” he asked, his voice dry—but then, his voice was usually dry.
“As a matter of fact, yes, superior sir.” Gorppet explained what he’d done, and why. He waited to find out if Hozzanet would think he’d overstepped.
But the other male said, “That is good. That is very good, in fact. The more links we have with the Tosevites, the better off we are and the easier this occupation will be.”
“My thought exactly,” Gorppet said. “By all the signs, the only thing that keeps the Deutsche from rising against us is the certainty that they will lose.”
“I agree,” Hozzanet said. “Our superiors also agree. They take the idea of trouble from the Deutsche very seriously indeed. You were right, and I was right—these Big Uglies are caching weapons against a day of rebellion. We recently discovered a double ten of landcruisers, along with supplies, hidden in the galleries of an abandoned coal mine.”
“A good thing we did discover them,” Gorppet exclaimed. “I missed that report. The other interesting question is, what have we failed to discover? And will we find out only when it is too late?”
“Yes, that is always the interesting question.” Hozzanet shrugged. “We made this place radioactive once. We can always make it radioactive again. I do not think the Deutsche have managed to conceal any great number of explosive-metal weapons, anyhow.”
“And they surely have no long-range delivery systems left,” Gorppet said. “Whatever they have, they can only use it against us here inside the territory of the Reich.” He laughed a wry laugh. “How reassuring.”
“Reassuring for the Race,” Hozzanet said. “Not so reassuring for the males here—that I can hardly deny.” He swung an eye turret toward Gorppet. “Things could have been worse, you know, if you had stayed in the infantry. Then you could have been trying to fight your way up into the not-empire called the United States.”
“I am just as well pleased we avoided that fight, thank you very much,” Gorppet said. “I do not think we would have had a pleasant time trying to force our way up from the south on a front that got wider the farther we went—you see, I have been examining the maps.”
“That is what you should do. That is why they go into the databases,” Hozzanet said. “But I do not think there would have been so much ground combat on the lesser continental mass as there was here. Here, the Deutsche invaded our territory, so we had to fight them on the ground. Against the USA, we probably would have used missiles to batter the not-empire into submission, then picked up the pieces with infantrymales.”
Gorppet considered. “Yes, that sounds reasonable. But they would have used missiles against us, too, as the Deutsche did. That would have been . . . unpleasant. Just as well the war did not happen.”
He expected Hozzanet to say, Truth! But the other male hesitated. “I wonder,” he said. “What was hoped, of course, was that the American Big Uglies would surrender their space installations. When they gave up a city instead, that left their capacity for mischief undiminished. Sooner or later, we will have to deal with them.”
“I suppose so.” Gorppet sighed. “This world is doing horrible things to all of us. When I went into one of the new towns the colonists ran up, I did not fit there at all, even though it hatched out of an egg from Home. I am sick of being a soldier, but I have no idea what else I might do with my life. And if we of the conquest fleet stop being soldiers, what will the colonists do against the Big Uglies?”
Hozzanet sighed, too. “That, I am given to understand, is under discussion at levels more exalted than our own. As I see it, the colonists have two choices: they can learn to be soldiers, or they can learn to live under the rule of the Big Uglies.”
“Oh, good,” Gorppet said. “I see no other choices, either. I was wondering if you did.” He stood up from the computer monitor. “Shall we head over to the refectory tent? My insides are empty.”
“Mine, too,” Hozzanet agreed.
The refectory was serving azwaca ribs. Gorppet fell to with a will. He’d got used to eating Tosevite foods before the colonization fleet came. He’d come to like some of them, especially pork. But the meats of Home were better, without a doubt.
After eating, he went back to work. The day was drawing to a close when the telephone attachment hissed. When he answered it, the quartermaster’s face appeared in the monitor. He said, “The motorcar I sent out with the Big Ugly has not come back.”
“It should have,” Gorppet answered. “That Neu Strelitz place is not very far away.”
“Well, it cursed well has not,” the quartermaster answered. “I am worried about my driver. Chinnoss is a good male. What have you got to say for yourself?”
“Something has gone wrong.” That was all Gorppet could think of to say. Had Drucker betrayed him, or had someone betrayed Drucker?”We had better find out what.”
12
David Goldfarb looked up from his work as Hal Walsh sauntered back into the Saskatchewan River Widget Works after going out for lunch. Goldfarb scratched his head. His boss was a high-pressure type if ever th
ere was one. Up till the past couple of weeks, David had never seen him saunter; he’d moved everywhere as if he needed to get there day before yesterday. That dreamy look on his face was new, too.
Seeing it made a light bulb come on above Goldfarb’s head. “You went out to lunch with my doctor again.”
To his amazement, Walsh blushed like a schoolgirl. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “Jane’s . . . quite something.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” Goldfarb said, most sincerely. “If I were ten, fifteen years younger and single, I’d give you a run for your money. Maybe even if I weren’t ten, fifteen years younger.”
“Next time I see Naomi, I’ll tell her you said that,” Walsh said.
“I’m allowed to look,” Goldfarb answered. “I’m allowed to think. I’m also allowed to keep my hands to myself if I want to keep them on the ends of my arms.”
“Sounds like a sensible arrangement,” his boss said. “Oh, and speaking of your hands, Jane asked me to ask you how your finger’s doing since she took out the stitches.”
After flexing the digit in question, David said, “It’s not half bad. Still a little sore, but not half bad.” He eyed Hal Walsh. “I gather she thinks you’ll have the chance to pass this on to her some time fairly soon?”
Sure as the devil, Walsh blushed again. “That’s right.” He coughed a couple of times, then went on, “You know, cutting that finger may have been the best thing you ever did for me.”
“I like that!” Goldfarb said in mock high dudgeon. “I like that quite a lot. Here I give you the phone-number reader, and what do I get credit for?” He grinned. “For working my finger to the bone, that’s what.” He held it up again.
Walsh groaned and held up a different finger. They both laughed. Jack Devereaux came into the office just then. He saw his boss’ upraised digit. “Same to you, Hal,” he said, and used the same gesture.
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