And then there were the befflem. They’d got farther from the Mexican border and raised more kinds of hell than all the Race’s meat animals put together. They killed cats. They killed some dogs, too. They raided henhouses. They stole from garbage cans. They bit people. They ran very fast for creatures with such stumpy legs, and their armored carcasses made them tough to harm.
“What will be interesting,” Sam said when he returned to Colonel Webster’s office, “will be seeing how all these animals-and the plants that are spreading, too-come through the winter. My guess is that cold weather will limit the northern range for most of them, but it’s only a guess.”
“There will be places where they can thrive year-round, though,” Webster said. “This is one of them.” He tapped his desk as if expecting a herd of ssefenji to come trampling across it.
“Yes, sir, I think so,” Sam agreed. “Unless I’m wrong, we’ll have to learn to live with them as best we can.”
“What do we do if their plants start crowding out our crops?” Webster asked.
“Sir, I haven’t got any good answers for that,” Yeager said. “I don’t think anyone else does, either. Maybe the pesticide people will come up with something that kills plants from Home but leaves our stuff alone. Something like that’s liable to be our best chance.”
Colonel Webster eyed him with more than a little respect. “I happen to know that that’s being worked on right now. I don’t know when results will come, or even if they’ll come, but it is being worked on.”
“Stands to reason,” Sam said. “But do you know what I think the real trouble spot could be?” He waited for Webster to shake his head, then went on, “Befflem. They’re liable to be as much of a nuisance as rats and wild cats put together, and they don’t seem to have any natural enemies here.”
“Cold weather, like you said,” Webster suggested.
Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But I’ve looked at a couple of reports there that talk about finding them in dens with nests, so maybe cold won’t bother them as much as it would some other beasts from Home.”
Webster scrawled a note. “I’m glad I called you in, Yeager. I don’t think anybody else has mentioned that.” He paused, scratching his head. “The Lizards keep befflem for pets, don’t they? Maybe we could do the same.”
“We keep cats for pets, too-or they keep us for pets, one,” Yeager answered. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t a nuisance plenty of places.” He managed a lopsided grin. “Of course, as far as the Lizards are concerned, we’re nothing but nuisances ourselves, so I don’t think we’ll get much sympathy from them.”
“Too goddamn bad,” Webster said. Sam’s grin got wider. He nodded.
“No.” Johannes Drucker shook his head. “I don’t think we can go back to Greifswald. There’s a good-sized Lizard garrison there, and that male called Gorppet knows me much too well. We’d be under a microscope if we tried.”
“Too bad.” Both of his sons and his daughter spoke at the same time.
But his wife nodded. “I’d just as soon stay here in Neu Strelitz, or else go someplace where nobody has any idea at all who we are and start over there. Too many people back in Greifswald know why they took me away for a while.”
Drucker watched his older son. That Heinrich had joined the band of holdouts in Stargard had probably saved Drucker’s own neck; the major who commanded them had changed his mind about shooting him. But those holdouts were at least as fanatical about Party ideology as any 55 men. If they ever found out Heinrich Drucker’s mother was, or might have been, a quarter Jewish…
Very visibly, Heinrich figured that out for himself. He walked over and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “All right,” he said. “We’ll go somewhere it’s safe for you.”
Letting out a small, silent sigh of relief didn’t show, and sigh Drucker did. The Nazis made heroes of children who turned in their parents. He hadn’t thought Heinrich would fall for such nonsense, but you couldn’t be sure till things actually started happening.
Claudia turned to him and asked, “Father, if you can’t fly into space any more, what will you do for a living?”
That was a good question. It was, in fact, the good question. Drucker wished he had a better answer for it. As things were, he said, “I don’t know. Something will turn up. Something always does, if you’re willing to work. I can be a mechanic, I suppose. I can make an engine sit up and do as it’s told.”
“A mechanic?” Claudia didn’t sound very happy at that. The social difference between a Wehrmacht officer’s daughter and a mechanic’s could be measured only in light-years.
“Honest work is honest work,” Drucker insisted, “and mechanics make pretty good money.” Claudia looked anything but convinced.
Before he could say anything else, somebody knocked on the front door to Kathe’s uncle Lothar’s house. The Druckers crowded it to the bursting point, but Lothar, a widower, didn’t seem to mind. He was Kathe’s father’s brother, and didn’t let on that he knew anything about the possibility of Jewish blood on the other side of her family tree. Nobody talked about that where Uncle Lothar could overhear-better safe than sorry summed up everyone’s attitude.
He came into the back bedroom now with a frown on his face: a big, raw-boned man in his sixties, still physically strong but, like so many others, badly at sea in this new, diminished Reich. Nodding to Drucker, he said, “Hans, there’s a soldier out front wants to speak to you.”
“A soldier?” Suspicion roughened Drucker’s voice. “What kind of soldier? Wehrmacht or Waffen-SS?” He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to meet an SS man without an assault rifle in his hands.
But Kathe’s uncle answered, “A Wehrmacht lieutenant, just barely old enough to shave.”
“I’ll see him,” Drucker said with a sigh. “I wonder what he’ll make of me.” He wore one of Lothar’s old shirts, which was too big on him, and denim trousers that had seen better days. He hadn’t shaved this morning.
Sure as the devil, that wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant didn’t look as if he believed his eyes. “You are Colonel Johannes Drucker?” He seemed to have to remind himself to come to attention and salute.
Drucker returned the salute, though he wasn’t at all sure he remained in the Wehrmacht himself. “That’s right, sonny,” he answered, no doubt further scandalizing the lieutenant. “What can I do for you today?”
Visibly holding in his anger, the young officer spoke with exquisite politeness: “Sir, I am ordered to bring you to a secure telephone line and connect you to the Fuhrer in Flensburg.” Every line of his body screamed that he hadn’t the faintest idea why Walter Dornberger would want to speak with such a derelict.
“A secure phone line?” Drucker said, and the lieutenant nodded. “Secure from the Lizards?” he persisted, and the kid nodded again. Drucker hadn’t known such lines survived anywhere in the Reich, let alone in sleepy Neu Strelitz. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be a mechanic after all. “I’ll come.”
He’d expected to be taken either to the telephone exchange or to the Burgomeister’s hall. Instead, the lieutenant led him to a fire station where men playing draughts looked up without much curiosity as he walked by.
The secure telephone looked like an ordinary instrument. But another Wehrmacht officer was in charge of it. He gave Drucker a fishy stare, too. When the lieutenant confirmed Drucker’s identity, the other officer made the call. It took a couple of minutes to go through. When it did, the officer thrust the handset at Drucker and said, “Go ahead.”
“Johannes Drucker speaking,” Drucker said, feeling like an idiot.
“Hello, Hans. Good to hear from you.” That was Walter Dornberger’s voice, all right.
“Hello, sir,” As soon as Drucker spoke, he knew he should have called Dornberger mein Fuhrer. Now that the former commander at Peenemunde had the job, how seriously did he take it? Would he be offended if he didn’t get the respect he thought he deserved? Drucker plowed ahead, trying to hide his gaffe: “What can I do fo
r you? I thought I was retired.”
“Nobody who’s still breathing is retired,” Dornberger answered. “If you’re breathing, you can still serve the Reich. That’s why I was so glad to hear you’d turned up in Neu Strelitz. I can use you, by God.”
“How?” Drucker asked in real confusion. “The Lizards won’t let us get back into space. Unless…” He paused, then shook his head. With radar watching every square centimeter of the Reich, clandestine launches were impossible. Weren’t they? Hoping he was wrong, he waited for the new Fuhrer’s reply.
“That’s true-they won’t,” Dornberger said, which nipped his hope before it was truly born. The Fuhrer went on, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t need you closer to home. I’m going to order you here to Flensburg, Hans. You’ve got no idea what a small cadre I have of men I can really trust.”
“Sir…” Drucker’s voice trailed away. Dornberger had him by the short hairs, and he knew it. Of course the Reich’s new leader could trust him. Dornberger knew why the Gestapo had seized Kathe. If Drucker gave him any trouble, the blackshirts could always grab her again.
“I’ll have a car there for you-for all of you-in a couple of days,” Dornberger said. He didn’t mention the sword he’d hung over Drucker’s head. Why would he? Smoother not to, smoother by far. The Fuhrer continued, “You’ll be doing important work here-don’t kid yourself for a moment about that. And you’ll have the rank to go with it, too. Major general sounds about right, at least for starters.”
“Major general?” Now Drucker’s voice was a disbelieving squeak. The young lieutenant who’d brought him to the fire station stared at him. He didn’t look as if he believed it, either.
But Walter Dornberger repeated, “For starters. We’ll see how you shape in the job when you get here. I hope to see you soon-and your whole family.” He hung up. The line went dead.
“Sir…” The lieutenant spoke with considerably more respect than he’d given Drucker up till then. “Sir, shall I escort you back to your house?”
“No, never mind.” Drucker walked back to his wife’s uncle’s in something of a daze. He didn’t know what he’d thought Dornberger would have to say to him. Whatever it was, it didn’t come close to matching the real conversation.
When he went into the house, the children, Kathe, and her uncle Lothar all pounced on him. The children exclaimed in pride and delight when he gave them the news. Lothar slapped him on the back. Kathe congratulated him, too, but he saw the worry in her eyes. She knew the grip Dornberger had on him through her. He shrugged. He couldn’t do anything about it but hope things would work out all right. He wished he could think of some-thing else, but what else was there?
The motorcar that came for them was an immense Mercedes limousine. People up and down the street stared as they piled into it. Drucker hoped it wouldn’t tempt some ambitious band of holdouts into trying a hijacking. It purred away from Neu Strelitz in almost ghostly silence.
A few hours later, they were in Flensburg, in Schleswig-Holstein hard by the Danish border. “It’s like another world,” Kathe breathed as the motorcar pulled to a stop in front of the Flensborg-Hus, the hotel where the Reich was putting them up till they found permanent lodgings. And so it was: a world that hadn’t seen war. In the Reich, that made it almost unique. It was the main reason Walter Dornberger had chosen the town at the west end of the Flensburger Forde, an arm of the Baltic projecting into the neck of land that led up to Denmark.
Some of the people at the hotel spoke more Danish than German. The monogram of Frederick IV of Denmark stood above the gate: he’d built the Flensborg-Hus as an orphanage in 1725.
A major general’s uniform waited in the room to which the bellboy led Drucker. He put it on with a growing feeling of unreality. After he’d adjusted the high-peaked cap to the proper jaunty angle, Heinrich’s arm shot out in salute. “You look very handsome,” Kathe said loyally. If her heart wasn’t in the words, how could he blame her?
The next morning, a lieutenant who might have been brother to the one back in Neu Strelitz took him to the Fuhrer. Walter Dornberger was working out of another hotel not far from the downtown maritime museum. A servant brought Drucker pickled herring and lager beer. After he’d eaten and drunk, he asked, “What will you have me doing, sir?”
“We’ve got to rebuild,” Dornberger said. “We have to conceal as much as we can from the Lizards. And we have to take full control of the country, put down the outlaw bands or at least bring them under government control. Until we’ve done all those things, we’re hideously vulnerable. I’m going to put you to work at concealment. The more weapons we can keep from turning over to the Lizards, the better.”
“What have we got left?” Drucker asked. “Explosive-metal bombs? Poison gas?” Dornberger just smiled and said nothing. Drucker found another question: “What do I do if the Lizards find some of it?”
“Give it up, of course,” Walter Dornberger answered. “We can’t afford to do anything else-not yet we can’t. One of these days, though…”
“If the Lizards are patient, we have to be patient, too,” Drucker said.
“Just so.” Dornberger beamed at him. “You will do very well here, I think.”
By God, maybe I will, Drucker thought.
“Well, well.” Gorppet looked up from a listing of new appointments by the Deutsch government. “This may be interesting.”
“What have you found?” Hozzanet asked.
“Remember that male named Johannes Drucker, with whom I had some dealings because he was associated with Anielewicz?” Gorppet waited for his superior to make the affirmative gesture, then went on, “He has turned up in Flensburg with a promotion of two grades.”
“That is interesting,” Hozzanet agreed. “What is he doing there, to earn such a sudden, sharp advance?”
“His title, translated, is ‘commandant of recovery services,’ ” Gorppet replied after checking the monitor. “That is so vague, it could mean anything.”
“I always mistrust vague titles,” Hozzanet said. “They usually mean the Big Uglies are trying to hide something.”
“We already know the Deutsche are trying to hide as much as they can from us,” Gorppet said.
“Really? I never would have noticed,” Hozzanet said. The Race didn’t have an ironic cough to set beside the emphatic and the interrogative. Had it possessed such a cough, Hozzanet would have used one then.
“Here, however, we are in an unusual position, because this Drucker speaks our language fairly well and has interacted with us in ways that are not hostile,” Gorppet persisted. “We have some hope of getting him to see reason and cooperate with us.”
“Really?” Hozzanet repeated, still sounding anything but convinced. “Is this Drucker not the male who refused to tell you anything whatsoever about how the male who drove him to, ah, Neu Strelitz ended up dead something less than halfway there?”
“Well, yes,” Gorppet said. “But that was an individual matter. This one pertains to the survival of his not-empire. If he sees he will endanger the Reich by refusing to cooperate, I think he will tell us at least some of what we need to know.”
“My opinion is that you are far too optimistic, if not utterly addled,” Hozzanet said. “But I can see you do not intend to listen to me. Go ahead, then: call this Drucker. I will warn you of one thing, though-accept none of his denials without proof. Distrust them even with thorough proof.”
“You may believe otherwise if you like, superior sir, but I really must assure you that I did not hatch from my eggshell yesterday,” Gorppet said stiffly. “I do know that Big Uglies will lie whenever it suits their interest to do so-and sometimes, I think, just for the sport of it. And…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t go on with whatever he’d been on the point of saying. Whatever it was, in fact, he forgot all about it. He started to laugh instead.
“And what is so funny?” Hozzanet asked. “Give me something to make me laugh, too, if you would be so kind. I could use a good laugh, b
y the Emperor.” He cast down his eye turrets.
So did Gorppet, who then answered, “It shall be done, superior sir. It just occurred to me: I believe I have the proper tool for persuading this particular Tosevite to listen to me and to do my bidding, or some of it.”
“Tell me,” Hozzanet urged. “Such a claim is usually all the better for proof. I do not think this likely to prove an exception to the rule.”
“I agree, superior sir,” Gorppet said. “Consider, though. When we first met Drucker, in whose company was he? In whose friendly company was he? Why, that of Mordechai Anielewicz.” He pronounced the Tosevite name with care. “And who is Mordechai Anielewicz? A leader of the members of the Jewish superstition in the subregion called Poland. The ideology of Drucker’s superiors requires permanent hatred for members of the Jewish superstition. If those superiors were to learn from us that he had violated their fundamental rule…”
He waited for Hozzanet’s judgment. If he’d missed something obvious, the other male would take sardonic pleasure in letting him know about it. But Hozzanet bent into the posture of respect, a very sizable compliment when from superior to inferior. “That is good. That is quite good,” he said, and added an emphatic cough. “By all means, make your telephone call. We may realize considerable profit from it. Blackmail is liable to prove more effective than friendship. This is Tosev 3, after all.”
“I thank you, superior sir,” Gorppet said. He had no trouble telephoning Flensburg. The Race often needed to do so, to tell Deutsch officials what to do. Even though he spoke none of the local Big Uglies’ language, he was quickly connected to Johannes Drucker: plenty of Deutsche, especially those involved with communication, could use the language of the Race. The line was voice-only, but he didn’t mind that; he was not good at interpreting Tosevite facial expressions.
Aftershocks c-3 Page 57
