Authors: Harry Turtledove
When he went into the house, the children, Käthe, 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. Käthe 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,” Käthe 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 Förde, 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,” Käthe 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
Führer.
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, by 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.
“I greet you, superior sir,” Drucker said once the connection went through. “How may I help you?”
He doubtless meant,
How may I hinder you?
Big Uglies were not immune to polite hypocrisy. Gorppet said, “I congratulate you on your promotion. And I believe I should also congratulate you on recovering your mate and hatchlings. Is that not a truth?”
“Yes, that is a truth,” the Tosevite replied. “No harm in admitting it now.”
“I hope they are all well?” Gorppet said.
“Yes,” Drucker said again. “I thank you for asking.”
“I suppose you want them to stay well?” Gorppet said. “You must, after searching so long and hard to find them.”
This time, Drucker paused before answering. Gorppet had not thought him a fool. When he did speak again, what he said was, “I do not care for the way this conversation is going. What is your point?”
“My point is that I hope I will not have to tell anyone about your recent friendship with Mordechai Anielewicz,” Gorppet replied. “I believe that would be unfortunate for all concerned. Do you not agree?”
Silence stretched a good deal longer now. At last, Drucker said, “In the language of the Race, I cannot call you all the vile names I am thinking in my own language. I wish I could. What do you want from me in exchange for your silence?”
He caught on quickly, all right. Gorppet said, “Is it not a truth that your government seeks to conceal weapons that should have been surrendered to the Race?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” the Big Ugly said.
“No? That will probably mean I shall have to make some other telephone calls,” Gorppet said.
Drucker spoke in his own language. Gorppet didn’t understand a word, but it sounded impassioned. Then Drucker returned to the language of the Race: “You will want me to betray my own not-empire. That is very hard for me to do.”
“The choice is yours,” Gorppet said.
Another long silence. “You will hear from me from time to time,” Drucker said, breaking it. “You will not hear from me very often, or I would give myself away.”
“I understand,” Gorppet said. “I think we may have a bargain. Do not forget your obligation, or the bargain will come undone. I warn you now. I do not intend to warn you again.”
“I understand,” Drucker said, and broke the connection with what struck Gorppet as altogether unnecessary violence.
But that was neither here nor there. Turning to Hozzanet, Gorppet said, “I believe he is recruited. The true test, of course, will be in what he reveals. If he fails us . . .” He shrugged. “If he fails us, he will pay the price.”
“He will deserve it, too,” Hozzanet said.
Before Gorppet could reply, his telephone hissed. It was another voice-only connection with a Tosevite on the other end. “I greet you,” the Big Ugly said. “Mordechai Anielewicz speaking here.”
“And I greet you,” Gorppet said in some surprise. “I was just talking about you, as a matter of fact. How may I help you?”
“You need to know something has gone missing,” the Jewish leader answered.
“Do I?” Gorppet thought for a moment. “In that case, I probably also need to know
what
has gone missing—is that not a truth?”
“Yes,” Anielewicz said. “That is a truth.” He used an emphatic cough.
When the Big Ugly didn’t say anything more, Gorppet realized he would have to prompt him. He did: “Will you tell me what has gone missing, or did you put this telephone call through to tantalize me?”
Mordechai Anielewicz sighed, a sound much like that a male of the Race might have made. “I will tell you. You will have heard, I suppose, that the Jews of Poland possess an explosive-metal bomb captured from the Deutsche years ago, at the end of the first round of fighting.”
“I have heard this, yes,” Gorppet replied. “I do not know whether it is a truth or not, but I have heard it.” His tailstump lashed in sudden alarm. “Wait. Are you telling me—?”
“I am telling you that we do indeed possess this bomb,” Anielewicz said. “Or rather, I am telling you that we did possess it. At the moment, we do not. By
we
here, I mean the organized group of Jewish fighters who have held it for all these years.”
Gorppet’s head started to ache. “Do you mean to say than an explosive-metal bomb has been stolen?” That got Hozzanet’s complete, and horrified, attention. “If you do not have it, who does?” That seemed a good question with which to start.
“There is no sign of violence in the place where it was kept,” the Tosevite replied. “This leads me to believe some of my fellow Jews have taken it, and not Poles or Russians or Deutsche.”
“I see,” Gorppet said. “And what would Jewish hijackers be likely to do with an explosive-metal bomb?” He answered that for himself: “They would be likely to bring it here, into the
Reich,
and try to use it against the Deutsche, against whom they have strong motivation for seeking vengeance.”
“That is also my belief,” Mordechai Anielewicz said. “If the Deutsche still have any explosive-metal weapons of their own hidden away, they might be provoked into using them against you—and against us in Poland—if such a bomb destroyed one of their cities without warning.”
“So they might,” Gorppet said unhappily.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience,” the Big Ugly said. “I do not know for a fact that the bomb can still burst. But I do not know for a fact that it cannot, either. We have tried to maintain it over the years. It is large and heavy. In my measure, it weighs about ten tonnes.” He translated that into the Race’s units.
Gorppet thought he must have made a mistake. “Are you sure?” he asked. “That seems an impossibly large weight.”
But Anielewicz answered, “Yes, I am sure. Tosevite technology with these weapons was primitive in those days. We have improved since. That is our way, you will recall.”
“Yes. I do recall,” Gorppet said tonelessly. A hopeful thought occurred to him: “You Tosevites have many different languages. Would Jews in the
Reich
give themselves away by how they speak?”
“No,” Anielewicz said. “I am sorry, but no. Yiddish, our tongue, is close to the Deutsch language as is, and many Jews are fluent in that language itself.”
“Splendid.” Gorppet turned an eye turret toward Hozzanet. “By the spirits of Emperors past, superior sir, what do we do now?”
“They let someone wander off with an explosive-metal bomb?” Atvar spoke in tones of extravagant disbelief. Extravagant disbelief was exactly what he felt. Even for Big Uglies, that struck him as excessive. “They do not know who? They do not know when? They do not know where? They do not know how?”