The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology]

by Edited By Ian Watson

The bottle was finished. He set it to one side, opened another. He swilled the liquid in the glass, hearing the magnified ticking of the clock.

  He crossed the room, took the Luger from the case. He found a cleaning rod, patches and oil. He sat awhile dully, looking at the pistol. Then he slipped the magazine free, pulled back on the breech toggle, thumbed the latch, slid the barrel from the guides.

  His mind, wearied, had begun to play aggravating tricks. It ranged and wandered, remembering scenes, episodes, details sometimes from years back; trivial, unconnected. Through and between the wanderings, time after time, ran the ancient, lugubrious words of the carol. He tried to shut them out, but it was impossible.

  “Living he spoiled where poor men toiled, which made kind Ceres sad. …”

  He pushed the link pin clear, withdrew the breech block, stripped the firing pin. He laid the parts out, washed them with oil and water, dried and re-oiled. He reassembled the pistol, working carefully; inverted the barrel, shook the link down in front of the hooks, closed the latch, checked the recoil spring engagement. He loaded a full clip, pushed it home, chambered a round, thumbed the safety to GESICKERT. He released the clip; reloaded.

  He fetched his briefcase, laid the pistol inside carefully, grip uppermost. He filled a spare clip, added the extension butt and a fifty box of Parabellum. He closed the flap and locked it, set the case beside the bed. After that there was nothing more to do. He sat back in the chair, refilled his glass.

  “Toiling he boiled, where poor men spoiled.…”

  The firelight faded, finally.

  * * * *

  He woke, and the room was dark. He got up, felt the floor sway a little. He understood that he had a hangover. He groped for the lightswitch. The clock hands stood at zero eight hundred.

  He felt vaguely guilty at having slept so long.

  He walked to the bathroom. He stripped and showered, running the water as hot as he could bear. The process brought him round a little. He dried himself, staring down. He thought for the first time what curious things these bodies were; some with their yellow cylinders, some their indentations.

  He dressed and shaved. He had remembered what he was going to do; fastening his tie, he tried to remember why. He couldn’t. His brain, it seemed, had gone dead.

  There was an inch of whisky in the bottle. He poured it, grimaced and drank. Inside him was a fast, cold shaking. He thought, ‘Like the first morning at a new school.’

  He lit a cigarette. Instantly his throat filled. He walked to the bathroom and vomited. Then again. Finally there was nothing left to come.

  His chest ached. He rinsed his mouth, washed his face again. He sat in the bedroom for a while, head back and eyes closed. In time the shaking went away. He lay unthinking, hearing the clock tick. Once his lips moved. He said, “They’re no better than us.”

  At nine hundred hours he walked to the breakfast room. His stomach, he felt, would retain very little. He ate a slice of toast, carefully drank some coffee. He asked for a packet of cigarettes, went back to his room. At ten hundred hours he was due to meet the Minister.

  He checked the briefcase again. A thought made him add a pair of stringback motoring gloves. He sat again, stared at the ashes where he had burned the Geissler. A part of him was willing the clock hands not to move. At five to ten he picked the briefcase up, stepped into the corridor. He stood a moment staring round him. He thought, ‘It hasn’t happened yet. I’m still alive.’ There was still the flat in Town to go back to, still his office; the tall windows, the telephones, the khaki utility desk.

  He walked through sunlit corridors to the Minister’s suite.

  The room to which he was admitted was wide and long. A fire crackled in the hearth; beside it on a low table stood glasses and a decanter. Over the mantel, conventionally, hung the Fuehrer’s portrait. Edward VIII faced him across the room. Tall windows framed a prospect of rolling parkland. In the distance, blue on the horizon, were the woods.

  The Minister said, “Good morning, Richard. Please sit down. I don’t think I shall keep you long.”

  He sat, placing the briefcase by his knee.

  This morning everything seemed strange. He studied the Minister curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. He had that type of face once thought of as peculiarly English; short-nosed and slender, with high, finely-shaped cheek-bones. The hair, blond and cropped close to the scalp, made him look nearly boyish. The eyes were candid, flat, dark-fringed. He looked, Mainwaring decided, not so much Aryan as like some fierce nursery toy; a feral Teddy Bear.

  The Minister riffled papers. He said, “Several things have cropped up; among them I’m afraid, more trouble in Glasgow. The fifty-first Panzer division is standing by; as yet, the news hasn’t been released.”

  Mainwaring wished his head felt less hollow. It made his own voice boom so unnecessarily. He said, “Where is Miss Hunter?”

  The Minister paused. The pale eyes stared; then he went on speaking.

  “I’m afraid I may have to ask you to cut short your stay here. I shall be flying back to London for a meeting; possibly tomorrow, possibly the day after. I shall want you with me of course.”

  “Where is Miss Hunter?”

  The Minister placed his hands flat on the desk top, studied the nails. He said, “Richard, there are aspects of Two Empires culture that are neither mentioned nor discussed. You of all people should know this. I’m being patient with you; but there are limits to what I can overlook.”

  “Seldom he toiled, while Ceres roiled, which made poor kind men glad. …”

  Mainwaring opened the flap of the case and stood up. He thumbed the safety forward and levelled the pistol.

  There was silence for a time. The fire spat softly. Then the Minister smiled. He said, “That’s an interesting gun, Richard. Where did you get it?”

  Mainwaring didn’t answer.

  The Minister moved his hands carefully to the arms of his chair, leaned back. He said, “It’s the Marine model of course. It’s also quite old. Does it by any chance carry the Erfurt stamp? Its value would be considerably increased.”

  He smiled again. He said, “If the barrel is good, I’ll buy it. For my private collection.”

  Mainwaring’s arm began to shake. He steadied his wrist, gripping with his left hand.

  The Minister sighed. He said, “Richard, you can be so stubborn. It’s a good quality; but you do carry it to excess.” He shook his head. He said, “Did you imagine for one moment I didn’t know you were coming here to kill me ? My dear chap, you’ve been through a great deal. You’re overwrought. Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

  Mainwaring said, “You murdered her.”

  The Minister spread his hands. He said, “What with? A gun? A knife? Do I honestly look such a shady character?”

  The words made a cold pain, and a tightness in the chest. But they had to be said.

  The Minister’s brows rose. Then he started to laugh. Finally he said, “At last I see. I understood, but I couldn’t believe. So you bullied our poor little Hundenmeister, which wasn’t very worthy; and seriously annoyed the Herr Hauptmann, which wasn’t very wise. Because of this fantasy, stuck in your head. Do you really believe it, Richard? Perhaps you believe in Struwwelpeter too.” He sat forward. He said, “The Hunt ran. And killed… a deer. She gave us an excellent chase. As for your little Huntress… Richard, she’s gone. She never existed. She was a figment of your imagination. Best forgotten.”

  Mainwaring said, “We were in love.”

  The Minister said, “Richard, you really are becoming tiresome.” He shook his head again. He said, “We’re both adult. We both know what that word is worth. It’s a straw, in the wind. A candle, on a night of gales. A phrase that is meaningless. Lacherlich.” He put his hands together, rubbed a palm. He said, “When this is over, I want you to go away. For a month, six weeks maybe. With your new car. When you come back… well, we’ll see. Buy yourself a girlfriend, if you need a woman that much. Einen Schatz.
I never dreamed; you’re so remote, you should speak more of yourself. Richard, I understand; it isn’t such a very terrible thing.”

  Mainwaring stared.

  The Minister said, “We shall make an arrangement. You will have the use of an apartment, rather a nice apartment. So your lady will be close. When you tire of her… buy another. They’re unsatisfactory for the most part, but reasonable. Now sit down like a good chap, and put your gun away. You look so silly, standing there scowling like that.”

  It seemed he felt all life, all experience, as a grey weight pulling. He lowered the pistol, slowly. He thought. ‘At the end, they were wrong. They picked the wrong man.’ He said, “I suppose now I use it on myself.”

  The Minister said, “No, no, no. You still don’t understand.” He linked his knuckles, grinning. He said, “Richard, the Herr Hauptmann would have arrested you last night. I wouldn’t let him. This is between ourselves. Nobody else. I give you my word.”

  Mainwaring felt his shoulders sag. The strength seemed drained from him; the pistol, now, weighed too heavy for his arm.

  The Minister said, “Richard, why so glum? It’s a great occasion, man. You’ve found your courage. I’m delighted.”

  He lowered his voice. He said, “Don’t you want to know why I let you come here with your machine? Aren’t you even interested?”

  Mainwaring stayed silent.

  The Minister said, “Look around you, Richard. See the world. I want men near me, serving me. Now more than ever. Real men, not afraid to die. Give me a dozen… but you know the rest. I could rule the world. But first… I must rule them. My men. Do you see now? Do you understand?”

  Mainwaring thought, ‘He’s in control again, But he was always in control. He owns me.’

  The study spun a little.

  The voice went on, smoothly. “As for this amusing little plot by the so-called Freedom Front; again, you did well. It was difficult for you. I was watching; believe me, with much sympathy. Now, you’ve burned your book. Of your own free will. That delighted me.”

  Mainwaring looked up, sharply.

  The Minister shook his head. He said, “The real recorder is rather better hidden, you were too easily satisfied there. There’s also a tv monitor. I’m sorry about it all, I apologise. It was necessary.”

  A singing started, inside Mainwaring’s head.

  The Minister sighed again. He said, “Still unconvinced, Richard? Then I have some things I think you ought to see. Am I permitted to open my desk drawer?”

  Mainwaring didn’t speak. The other slid the drawer back slowly, reached in. He laid a telegram flimsy on the desk top. He said, “The addressee is Miss D. J. Hunter. The message consists of one word. ‘ACTIVATE.’ “

  The singing rose in pitch.

  “This as well,” said the Minister. He held up a medallion on a thin gold chain. The little disc bore the linked motif of the Freedom Front. He said, “Mere exhibitionism; or a death wish. Either way, a most undesirable trait.”

  He tossed the thing down. He said, “She was here under surveillance of course, we’d known about her for years. To them, you were a sleeper. Do you see the absurdity? They really thought you would be jealous enough to assassinate your Minister. This they mean in their silly little book, when they talk of subtlety. Richard, I could have fifty blonde women if I chose. A hundred. Why should I want yours?” He shut the drawer with a click, and rose. He said, “Give me the gun now. You don’t need it any more.” He extended his arm; then he was flung heavily backward. Glasses smashed on the side table. The decanter split; its contents poured dark across the wood.

  Over the desk hung a faint haze of blue. Mainwaring walked forward, stood looking down. There were blood-flecks, and a little flesh. The eyes of the Teddy Bear still showed glints of white. Hydraulic shock had shattered the chest; the breath drew ragged, three times, and stopped. He thought, ‘I didn’t hear the report.’

  The communicating door opened. Mainwaring turned. A secretary stared in, bolted at sight of him. The door slammed.

  He pushed the briefcase under his arm, ran through the outer office. Feet clattered in the corridor. He opened the door, carefully. Shouts sounded, somewhere below in the house.

  Across the corridor hung a loop of crimson cord. He stepped over it, hurried up a flight of stairs. Then another. Beyond the private apartments the way was closed by a heavy metal grille. He ran to it, rattled. A rumbling sounded from below. He glared round. Somebody had operated the emergency shutters; the house was sealed.

  Beside the door an iron ladder was spiked to the wall. He climbed it, panting. The trap in the ceiling was padlocked. He clung one-handed, awkward with the briefcase, held the pistol above his head.

  Daylight showed through splintered wood. He put his shoulder to the trap, heaved. It creaked back. He pushed head and shoulders through, scrambled. Wind stung at him and flakes of snow.

  His shirt was wet under the arms. He lay face down, shaking. He thought, ‘It wasn’t an accident. None of it was an accident.’ He had underrated them. They understood despair.

  He pushed himself up, stared round. He was on the roof of Wilton. Beside him rose gigantic chimney stacks. There was a lattice radio mast. The wind hummed in its guy wires. To his right ran the balustrade that crowned the facade of the house. Behind it was a snow-choked gutter.

  He wriggled across a sloping scree of roof, ran crouching. Shouts sounded from below. He dropped fiat, rolled. An automatic clattered. He edged forward again, dragging the briefcase. Ahead, one of the corner towers rose dark against the sky. He crawled to it, crouched sheltered from the wind. He opened the case, pulled the gloves on. He clipped the stock to the pistol, laid the spare magazine beside him and the box of rounds.

  The shouts came again. He peered forward, through the balustrade. Running figures scattered across the lawn. He sighted on the nearest, squeezed. Commotion below. The automatic zipped; stone chips flew, whining. A voice called, “Don’t expose yourselves unnecessarily.” Another answered.

  “Die kommen mit dem Hubschrauber

  He stared round him, at the yellow-grey horizon. He had forgotten the helicopter.

  A snow flurry drove against his face. He huddled, flinching. He thought he heard, carried on the wind, a faint droning.

  From where he crouched he could see the nearer trees of the park, beyond them the wall and gatehouses. Beyond again, the land rose to the circling woods.

  The droning was back, louder than before. He screwed his eyes, made out the dark spot skimming above the trees. He shook his head. He said. “We made a mistake. We all made a mistake.”

  He settled the stock of the Luger to his shoulder, and waited.

  <>

  * * * *

  The Lucky Strike

  Kim Stanley Robinson

  War breeds strange pastimes. In July of 1945 on Tinian Island in the North Pacific, Captain Frank January had taken to piling pebble cairns on the crown of Mount Lasso-one pebble for each B-29 takeoff, one cairn for each mission. The largest cairn had four hundred stones in it. It was a mindless pastime, but so was poker. The men of the 509th had played a million hands of poker, sitting in the shade of a palm around an upturned crate sweating in their skivvies, swearing and betting all their pay and cigarettes, playing hand after hand after hand, until the cards got so soft and dog-eared you could have used them for toilet paper. Captain January had gotten sick of it, and after he lit out for the hilltop a few times some of his crewmates started trailing him. When their pilot Jim Fitch joined them it became an official pastime, like throwing flares into the compound or going hunting for stray Japs. What Captain January thought of the development he didn't say. The others grouped near Captain Fitch, who passed around his bat­tered flask. "Hey January," Fitch called. "Come have a shot."

  January wandered over and took the flask. Fitch laughed at his pebble. "Practising your bombing up here, eh Professor?"

  "Yah," January said sullenly. Anyone who read more than the funnies
was Professor to Fitch. Thirstily January knocked back some rum. He could drink it any way he pleased up here, out from under the eye of the group psychiatrist. He passed the flask on to Lieutenant Matthews, their navigator.

  "That's why he's the best," Matthews joked. "Always practising."

  Fitch laughed. "He's best because I make him be best, right Professor?"

  January' frowned. Fitch was a bulky youth, thick-featured, pig-eyed-a thug, in January's opinion. The rest of the crew were all in their mid-twenties like Fitch, and they liked the captain's bossy roughhouse style. January, who was thirty-seven, didn't go for it. He wandered away, back to the cairn he had been building. From Mount Lasso they had an over­view of the whole island, from the harbor at Wall Street to the north field in Harlem. January had observed hundreds of B-29s roar off the four parallel runways of the north field and head for Japan. The last quartet of this particular mission buzzed across the width of the island, and January dropped four more pebbles, aiming for crevices in the pile. One of them stuck nicely.