by Mike Resnick
If that was his idea of exterior decorating, I just hope Mrs. Jupiter gave him hell for it and made him sleep on the couch.
Spring Training
Now you would think on the surface of it that it ain’t much of a walk from Bogota to Buenos Aires, but let me tell you, they’re a lot closer to each other in the alphabet then they are on foot. I made the trek back in 1937 with a heavy heart, since I’d lost yet another fortune to Erich von Horst, a deep-dyed villain what didn’t have no respect at all for an honest, good-natured, trusting man of the cloth like myself.
He had that in common with about eighty trillion insects I encountered along the way, plus more than a few anacondas that wanted to teach me the samba, or at least the part where you shake like you got a case of palsy, and there was a jaguar what wanted to turn my hide into a coat for his missus, and a bunch of half-naked little bitty folks what carried around a bunch of heads that were even littler and bittyer, but eventually I made it to Buenos Aires, which seemed like as good a place as any to set up shop and finally build my tabernacle. The sinners were thick on the ground, there wasn’t no civic authorities going around trying to tighten all the loose women, and clearly Erich von Horst had never visited the place, because most of the folks still had their folding money.
The biggest place in town was a joint called the Casa Rosada, but the evening I got there I inquired out front by the massive iron gates about renting a room and putting my tab on the cuff, and they just stared at me like they couldn’t understand a word, so I started explaining about vows of poverty—mine had come a few miles north of town when I found out that a flush does beat a full house when the guy with the flush is also the guy with the machete—but they didn’t answer, and I finally figgered that either they didn’t speak no civilized lingo or else the whole hotel was rented out, which could well have been the case considering how many generals I seen coming and going whilst we was talking, or anyway whilst I was talking and they was listening.
I asked one of the locals to recommend a good cheap hotel. He just shrugged and said, rather apologetically, “Señor, there are not even any good expensive hotels.”
I was about to explain to him that we were standing in the central district of one of the great cities of South America, but I had to step out of the way as two llamas and a pig walked by.
“Okay,” I said, “just tell me where the foreign folk go.”
“Home, Señor,” he said.
“Before then.”
He shrugged. “The Presidente.”
“The President puts ’em up?” I said. “I’d call that uncommonly Christian of him.”
He shook his head. “The Hotel Presidente, Señor.”
He pointed to de Julio Avenue, and I moseyed over there, but before I could reach the door I chanced upon a little beer garden right in front of it. I’d heard of beer gardens before, but I hadn’t never seen one until just then, and to my surprise it didn’t have no tables nor chairs nor other conveniences. In fact, all it had was three guys in uniforms I couldn’t recognize sitting down on the ground and swilling bottle after bottle of beer and speaking in some tongue that was harsher than Argentinian and made even less sense than French.
“Howdy,” I said, stepping over the hedge and trying not to crush an excessive number of flowers. “You gents mind if I join you? Finding a hotel in this town can be mighty thirsty work.”
“I didn’t know one was missing,” said one of ’em in a thick German accent, and the other two threw back their heads and laughed, which guv me a chance to delicately reach over and nab a beer bottle.
“Thanks,” I said. “You guys are looking mighty spiffy in them uniforms. Are they doing military exercises in these here parts?”
“We have no idea,” he answered.
“Well, you’re all decked out in your parade finest, and each of you got a chest full of medals,” I said. “So you can understand me thinking you were part of the army.”
“We are,” he said.
“But not this army,” added another one of ’em.
“Got separated from your outfit, did you?” I asked.
“We are members of the Third Reich!” said the first guy.
“So you’re looking for the First and Second Reichs, is that it?” I said.
“Fool!” snapped the one what hadn’t spoke up yet. “We are the Master Race!”
Well, I could tell right off that these here officers had been drinking all night and were pretty far gone, because they weren’t running the Master Race until Saturday over at Argentine Downs, and besides, to the best of my knowledge it was limited to horses.
“I didn’t mean no offense, neighbor,” I said. “By the way, I’m the Honorable Right Reverend Doctor Lucifer Jones at your service. Baptisms and holy matrimony done cheap, with a group rate for military funerals.”
“I am Colonel Guenther Schnitzel,” he said, offering me what would have been a snappy salute if he hadn’t poked himself in the eye. “And these are my companions: Colonel Hans Grueber and Colonel Wilhelm Schnabble.”
“Pleased to meet you gents,” I said. “Where do you hail from?”
“We already told you: we are members of the Third Reich.”
“Yeah, but I figger that’s some kind of amateur theater group or something like that,” I said. “What country are you from?”
They exchanged looks, and just when I figgered they was gonna tell me that they’d all forgot, Hans spoke up and said “Germany.”
“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings,” I said, “but you must have tooken a wrong turn.” I pointed to the east. “Germany’s about seventeen trillion miles that way.”
“We are the advance guard,” said Wilhelm. “The Fuehrer sent us here to conquer South America while he’s preparing to conquer the rest of the world.”
“Just the three of you?” I asked.
“Nothing is impossible for the Master Race,” he said.
Obviously he hadn’t considered the likelihood of a muddy track, but I didn’t want to point it out to him, because he was already having trouble staying on topic, which was either conquering the world or finding them missing Reichs.
“He’s dubious,” said Hans, staring at me.
“No, I’m Lucifer,” I said. “You guys got a real head start on the beer, didn’t you?”
“I can see we shall have to convert you to Mein Kampf,” said Wilhelm.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m trying to give up these spicy foods.”
“Where are you heading?” asked Hans.
“Pretty much any place with a cheap bed, and if it’s occupied by an obliging lady of quality, so much the better,” I answered.
“You sound like a man who is in need of capital,” he said.
“The Tabernacle of Saint Luke is always looking for substantial donations,” I told him.
“The Tabernacle of Saint Luke?” repeated Guenther, frowning.
“I’m its legal representative here on Earth,” I explained.
“And where is this magnificent edifice?” asked Guenther.
“Well, it ain’t quite got itself built yet,” I said. “We’re still collecting for the cornerstone. How much can I put you gents down for?”
“What seems a reasonable amount to you?” he asked.
“I don’t want to be greedy or nothing,” I told him. “How’s about six million apiece?”
“How about five hundred deutschmaks?” he countered.
“How much is that in real money?” I asked,
“Soon it will be the only real money,” he said.
“Well, I’ll have to have a heart-to-heart with God, but He’s a pretty agreeable critter about most things,” I said, stretching out my open hand, “so why don’t you just fork it over and if He’s in any way displeased, Him and me’ll find some way of getting it back to you.”
Guenther pulled a wad out of his wallet and counted out the money.
“You understand,” he said, “that in exchange for
this donation, we will expect something in return.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you the next time I’m conferring with Him,” I said.
“We have in mind something a little more substantial than that,” said Guenther.
“Okay, I’ll name a pew after you.”
“Why don’t you let us tell you what our five hundred deutschmarks are buying?” said Guenther.
“A cornerstone?” I guessed.
“Silence, schweinhundt!” snapped Guenther.
“Okay,” I said, getting a little hot under the collar, “but just between you, me and the gatepost, I’ll lay plenty of eight-to-five that Jesus didn’t die for your sins.”
“Listen to me,” said Guenther. “We are here to conquer South America and turn it into a German colony. We do not wish to sully our hands with members of inferior races. Therefore, we need a go-between, someone who will relay our commands to the lower orders of humanity that will be serving the glorious Fatherland.”
“Fatherland?” I said. “Where is that? I thunk you guys came over from Germany.”
“Let’s get someone else,” complained Hans. “I mean, there’s inferior and then—” he glanced at me—“there’s inferior.”
“We are running out of time,” noted Wilhelm. “We’ve been here a whole week and haven’t subjugated a single nation. The Fuehrer won’t like that.”
“This guy’s your boss, huh?” I said.
“The Fuehrer is the greatest human being who has ever lived!” said Hans devoutly.
Now me, I’d have voted for Bubbles La Tour, the prima ballerina of the Rialto Burlesque back in Moline, Illinois, but I didn’t want to seem rude, so I just agreed that this here furrier was all the rage, and made a note to see if I could pick up a cut-rate mink coat the next time I fell eternally and helplessly in love, which tended to happen about every two or three months, give or take.
“Then,” said Hans, “after we have subjugated all of South America, we will return home and take our place at the head of the army as we march across Europe.”
“So this is kind of spring training for the main event?” I said.
“In a manner of speaking,” agreed Wilhelm.
“Okay,” I said, “If I’m gonna lead your army into battle, where are you hiding it?”
“On the outskirts of town,” said Hans uncomfortably.
“I come down from the north, and I never seen ’em,” I said, “so I figger they’re to the south. How many divisions you got waiting, armed and ready?”
They just kind of looked uncomfortable and didn’t say nothing.
“Okay, then,” I said, “how many regiments?”
Wilhelm immediately started watching a bird what was nesting in a balcony across the street.
“Brigades?” I said.
Hans suddenly noticed his shoelace was untied and leaned over to fix it, which was kind of strange since he was wearing boots.
“Platoons?” I asked.
Guenther pulled a monocle out of his pocket and began polishing it with a dirty handkerchief.
“Squads?” I said.
“I think we have a squad,” said Hans.
“A small one,” added Wilhelm.
“And you guys want to conquer Argentina with a small squad?” I said.
“We have to!” said Hans.
“You don’t know what the Fuehrer does to failures!” added Wilhelm with a shudder.
“How many men have you actually got?” I said.
“Seven,” said Wilhelm.
“Six,” Hans corrected him. “One ran off with the milkmaid.”
“So you plan to lead six men into battle again the entire Argentine army?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said Guenther.
“I’m glad at least one of you is talking sense,” I said.
“We function best in an advisory capacity,” he continued. “You are going to lead them.”
I was about to object, but then my Silent Partner smote me with another of His timely revelations. “That ain’t no problem at all,” I announced. “You’re down here for spring training before you take on the British and the Russians and all them other inferior races that misleadingly seem identical to you in every way except maybe language. Well, I need some spring training too, so if you’ll fork over your money and tell me where to find your army, I’ll be more than happy to go conquer Uruguay or Paraguay or one of them other guays for you.”
“At least we’d have a triumph to report,” said Hans hopefully.
“Besides, the Fuehrer flunked geography,” added Wilhelm. “He doesn’t know one South American country from another.”
Guenther considered it for a minute before nodding his agreement. “What the hell,” he said. “If he gets captured, tortured with poisonous snakes and hunger-crazed rats, and then has his eyes gouged out before he is finally killed, we still have enough money left to go hire another go-between.” He handed the deutschmarks to me. “We are proud to contribute to the Tabernacle of Saint Luke.”
“The Tabernacle of Saint Luke thanks you,” I said, stuffing the bills in a shirt pocket. “And my first sermon will be about how even vicious, godless heathen can have moments of generosity.”
“Just out of curiosity, who was Saint Luke?” asked Hans.
“You’re looking at him.”
“I thought you were Lucifer?”
“Now what kind of haul do you think our poor box would take in if I was running the Tabernacle of Saint Lucifer?” I asked.
“What did you do to become a saint?” asked Wilhelm.
“What did you do to become a colonel?” I shot back.
“Touché,” he said. “The subject is closed.”
“But the war is open for business,” I said. “You guys care which country we conquer?”
“Not really,” admitted Hans. “Which one do you prefer?”
“Whichever’s got the cheapest busfare,” I said. “No sense fighting a war if you’re going to tire yourself out just getting there. Although,” I added, “since defeat ain’t in our lexicon from this moment on, maybe we ought to consider conquering the country with the friendliest ladies of the evening.”
“We will leave it entirely in your hands,” said Guenther. “Just tell us when you’ve won.”
“Right,” said Hans. “You’d best get started. Don’t worry about casualties. They’re all inferior specimens anyway.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” I said, “maybe I ought to take some superior specimens with me, just to set a bold and noble example.”
Well, I never saw three people go deaf so fast. I figgered it might be contagious, so I took my leave of them. They’d kind of pointed off to the southeast when talking about their six-man army, so I hopped the bus and got off when I seen six fellers just kind of standing around a corner, passing a bottle of tequila amongst themselves.
“Howdy, brethren,” I said.
“Greetings,” replied one of them.
“Nice night for a war,” I said.
“Oh?” said another. “Who are you mad at?”
Well, when I mulled it over, I decided the only two people in the world I was mad at were Erich von Horst, and the sheriff what arrested Bubbles La Tour the last time I saw her, when she was giving a thoughtful demonstration of half a dozen new and unique uses for a broom, not a one of which had anything to do with sweeping the floor, but of course neither of ’em was actually countries, so it didn’t hardly seem worth the bother to declare war on ’em.
“I suppose we ought to be democratic about this,” I said, since I didn’t hold no grudge against Uruguay. “Who would you fellers like to go to war with?”
“My mother-in-law,” said one of ’em promptly.
“My boss,” said another.
“You don’t have a boss,” said a third.
“Well, I would—if I had a job.”
“The man who made this tequila,” said another, taking a swig out of the bottle and making a face.
“Tell you what,” I said at last. “If you guys will pitch in and help me conquer Uruguay for the Third Fatherland, I’ll pay bus fare both ways.”
“What happened to the first two Fatherlands?” asked the one who didn’t have a boss.
“I guess the Motherlands caught ’em playing around and guv ’em the gate.”
A beat-up old bus with busted windows, torn seats, and worn tires pulled up just then, and I loaded all six of them onto it, bought seven tickets, and then joined ’em.
“Damned lucky I found you fellows so easy,” I said. “I was afraid I was going to have to look for loaded cannons and things like that.”
“Why would we have a loaded cannon?”
“Well, you are the German army,” I said.
“No such thing, Señor. We are the janitors for the buildings on this block. We were on our break when you showed up.”
“What happened to the army?” I asked.
“Those other men? They got tired of waiting, so they all went home.”
“Well, even though you ain’t the regular army, I’m still paying your fare both ways,” I said, “and as soon as we conquer Uruguay I’m buying the first round of drinks.” Then I thunk a little more, and said, “Ah, what the hell—it ain’t that small a country: the first two rounds.”
“What about Madame Fifi’s House of Scarlet Pleasures?” said one of ’em.
“I give up,” I said. “What about Madame Fifi’s House of Scarlet Pleasures?”
“If I bring you the Uruguayan president in chains, will you treat us to it?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “You bring him in chains, and he can treat us all to it.”
They let out a rousing cheer.
Well, we talked about this and that for the next few hours, mostly concentrating on some of the more unusual features to be found at Madame Fifi’s, and then the bus driver announced that we had crossed the border and entered Uruguay.
“Keep your heads down, men,” I warned ’em. “We’re in enemy territory.”