Striking the Balance

XX

The Lizard named Oyyag dipped his head in a gesture of submission he’d learned from the NKVD. “It shall be done, superior sir,” he said. “We shall meet all norms required of us.”

“That is good, headmale,” David Nussboym answered in the language of the Race. “If you do, your rations will be restored to the normal daily allotment.” After Ussmak died, the Lizards of Alien Prisoner Barracks Three had fallen far below their required labor quotas, and had gone hungry-or rather, hungrier-on account of it. Now, at last, the new headmale, though he’d had no great status before his capture, was starting to whip them back into shape.

Oyyag, Nussboym thought, would make a better headmale for the barracks than Ussmak had. The other Lizard, perhaps because he’d been a mutineer, had tried to make waves in camp, too. If Colonel Skriabin hadn’t found a way to break the hunger strike he’d started, no telling how much mischief and disruption in routine he might have caused.

Oyyag swiveled his eye turrets rapidly in all directions, making sure none of the other males in the barracks was paying undue attention to his conversation with Nussboym. He lowered his voice and spoke such Russian as he had: “This other thing, I do. I do it, you do like you say.”

“Da,”Nussboym said, wishing he were as sure he could deliver on his promise as he sounded.

Only one way to find out whether he could or not. He left the barracks hall and headed for the camp headquarters. Luck was with him. When he approached Colonel Skriabin’s office, the commandant’s secretary was not guarding the way in. Nussboym stood in the doorway and waited to be noticed.

Eventually, Skriabin looked up from the report he’d been writing. Trains were reaching the camp more reliably now that the cease-fire was in place. With paper no longer in short supply, Skriabin was busy catching up on all the bureaucratic minutiae he’d had to delay simply because he couldn’t record the relevant information.

“Come in, Nussboym,” he said in Polish, putting down his pen. The smudges of ink on his fingers told how busy he’d been. He seemed glad of the chance for a break. Nussboym nodded to himself. He’d hoped to catch the colonel in a receptive mood, and here his hope was coming true. Skriabin pointed to the hard chair in front of his desk. “Sit down. You have come to see me for a reason, of course?”You’d better not be wasting my time, was what he meant.

“Yes, Comrade Colonel.” Nussboym sat gratefully. Skriabinwas in a good mood; he didn’t offer the chair at every visit, nor did he always speak Polish instead of making Nussboym work through his Russian. “I can report that the new Lizard headmale is cooperative in every way. We should have far less trouble from Barracks Three than we’ve known in the past.”

“This is good.” Skriabin steepled his inky fingers. “Is it the only thing you have to report?”

Nussboym made haste to reply: “No, Comrade Colonel.”

Skriabin nodded-had he been interrupted just for that, he would have made Nussboym regret it. The interpreter went on, “The other matter, though, is so delicate, I hesitate to bring it to your attention.” He was glad he was able to use Polish with Skriabin; he could never have been subtle enough in Russian.

“Delicate?” The camp commandant raised an eyebrow. “We seldom hear such a word in this place.”

“I understand. This, however”-Nussboym looked back over his shoulder to make certain the desk out there remained unoccupied-“concerns your secretary, Apfelbaum.”

“Does it?” Skriabin kept his voice neutral. “All right. Go on. You have my attention. What about Apfelbaum?”

“Day before yesterday, Comrade Colonel, Apfelbaum and I were walking outside Barracks Three with Oyyag, discussing ways the Lizard prisoners could meet their norms.” Nussboym picked his words with great care. “And Apfelbaum said everyone’s life would be easier if the Great Stalin-he used the title sarcastically, I must say-if the Great Stalin worried as much about how much the Soviet people ate as he did about how hard they worked for him. That is exactly what he said. He was speaking Russian, not Yiddish, so Oyyag could understand, and I had trouble following him, so I had to ask him to repeat himself. He did, and was even more sarcastic the second time than the first.”

“Is that so?” Skriabin said. Nussboym nodded. Skriabin scratched his head. “And the Lizard heard it, too, you say, and understood it?” Nussboym nodded again. The NKVD colonel looked up to the boards of the ceiling. “He will, I suppose, make a statement to this effect?”

“If it is required of him, Comrade Colonel, I think he would,” Nussboym replied. “Would it be? Perhaps I should not have mentioned it, but-”

“Butindeed,” Skriabin said heavily. “I suppose you now think it necessary to file a formal written denunciation against Apfelbaum.”

Nussboym feigned reluctance. “I would really rather not. As you recall when I denounced one of thezeks with whom I formerly worked, this is not something I care to do. It strikes me as-”

“Useful?” Skriabin suggested. Nussboym looked back at him with wide eyes, glad the NKVD man could not see his thoughts. No, they hadn’t put him in charge of this camp by accident. He reached into his desk and pulled out a fresh form headed with incomprehensible Cyrillic instructions. “Write out what he said-Polish or Yiddish will do. That way, we will have it on file. I suppose the Lizard would talk about this to all and sundry. You would never do such a thing yourself, of course.”

“Comrade Colonel, the idea would never enter my mind.”

Nussboym put shocked innocence into his voice. He knew he was lying, as did Colonel Skriabin. But, like any game, this one had rules. He accepted a pen and wrote rapidly. After scrawling his signature at the bottom of the denunciation, he handed the paper back to Skriabin.

He supposed Apfelbaum would come back with a denunciation of his own. But he’d picked his target carefully. Skriabin’s clerk would have a hard time getting his fellow politicals to back any accusations he made: they disliked him because of the way he sucked up to the commandant and the privileges he got because he was Skriabin’s aide. The ordinaryzeks despised him-they despised all politicals. And he didn’t know any Lizards.

Skriabin said, “From another man, I might think this denunciation made because he wanted Apfelbaum’s position.”

“You could not possibly say that of me,” Nussboym answered. “I could not fill his position, and would never claim I could. If the camp functioned in Polish or Yiddish, then yes, you might say that about me. But I do not have enough Russian to do his job. All I want is to let the truth be known.”

“You are the soul of virtue,” Skriabin said dryly. “I note, however, that virtue is not necessarily an asset on the road to success.”

“Indeed, Comrade Colonel,” Nussboym said.Be careful, the NKVD man was telling him. He intended to be careful if he could shake Apfelbaum loose from his job, get him sent off to some harder camp in disgrace, everyone here would move up. His own place would improve. Now that he’d acknowledged he was in effect a political and cast his lot with the camp administration, he thought he might as well take as much advantage of the situation as he could.

After all, if you didn’t look out for yourself, who was going to look out for you? He’d felt miserable after Skriabin had made him sign the first denunciation, the one against Ivan Fyodorov. This one, though, this one didn’t bother him at all.

Offhandedly, Skriabin said, “A train bringing in new prisoners will arrive tomorrow. A couple of cars’ worth, I am given to understand, will be women.”

“That is most interesting,” Nussboym said. “Thank you for telling me.” Women who knew what was good for them accommodated themselves to the powerful people in the camp: first to the NKVD men, then to the prisoners who could help make their lives tolerable… or otherwise. The ones who didn’t know what was good for them went out and cut trees and dug ditches like any otherzeks.

Nussboym smiled to himself. Surely a man as… practical as he could find some equally… practical woman for himself-maybe even one who spoke Yiddish. Wherever you were, you did what you could to get by.

A Lizard with a flashlight approached the campfire around which Mutt Daniels and Herman Muldoon sat swapping lies. “That is you, Second Lieutenant Daniels?” he called in pretty good English.

“This here’s me,” Mutt agreed. “Come on over, Small-Unit Group Leader Chook. Set yourself down. You boys are gonna be pullin’ out tomorrow mornin’-did I hear that right?”

“It is truth,” Chook said. “We are to be no more in the Illinois place. We are to move out, first back to main base in Kentucky, then out of this not-empire of the United States. I tell you two things, Second Lieutenant Daniels. The first thing is, I am not sorry to go. The second thing is, I come here to say good-bye.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” Mutt said. “Good-bye to you, too.”

“A sentimental Lizard,” Muldoon said, snorting. “Who woulda thunk it?”

“Chook here ain’t a bad guy,” Daniels answered. “Like he said when we got the truce the first time, him and the Lizards he’s in charge of got more in common with us than we do with the brass hats way back of the line.”

“Yeah, that’s right enough,” Muldoon answered, at the same time as Chook was saying, “Truth,” again. Muldoon went on, “It was like that Over There, wasn’t it? Us and the Germans in the trenches, we was more like each other than us and the fancy Dans back in Gay Paree, that’s for damn sure. Show those boys a louse and they’d faint dead away.”

“I have also for you a question, Second Lieutenant Daniels,” Chook said. “Does it molest you to have me ask you this?”

“Does it what?” Mutt said. Then he figured out what the Lizard was talking about. Chook’s English was pretty good, but it wasn’t perfect “No, go ahead and ask, whatever the hell it is. You and me, we’ve got on pretty good since we stopped tryin’ to blow each other’s heads off. Your troubles, they look a lot like my troubles, ‘cept in a mirror.”

“This is what I ask, then,” Chook said. “Now that this war, this fighting, this is done, what do you do?”

Herman Muldoon whistled softly between his teeth. So did Mutt. “That’s the question, okay,” he said. “First thing I do, I reckon, is see how long the Army wants to keep me. I ain’t what you’d call a young man.” He rubbed his bristly chin. Most of those bristles were white, not brown.

“What do you do if you are not a soldier?” the Lizard asked. Mutt explained about being a baseball manager. He wondered if he would have to explain about baseball, too, but he didn’t. Chook said, “I have seen Tosevites, some almost hatchlings, some larger, playing this game. You were paid for guiding a team of them?” He added an interrogative cough. When Mutt agreed that he was, the Lizard said, “You must be highly skilled, to be able to do this for pay. Will you again, in time of peace?”

“Damfino,” Daniels answered. “Who can guess what baseball’s gonna look like when things straighten out? I guess maybe the first thing I do, I ever get out of the Army, I go home to Mississippi, see if I got me any family left.”

Chook made a puzzled noise. He pointed west, toward the great river flowing by. “You live in a boat? Your home is on the Mississippi?” Mutt had to explain about the difference between the Mississippi River and the state of Mississippi. When he was through, the Lizard said, “You Big Uglies, sometimes you have more than one name for one place, sometimes you have more than one place for one name. It is confused. I tell no great secret to say once or twice attacks go wrong on account of this.”

“Maybe we’ll just have to call every town in the country Jonesville,” Herman Muldoon said. He laughed, happy with his joke.

Chook laughed, too, letting his mouth fall open so the firelight shone on his teeth and on his snaky tongue. “You do not surprise me, you Tosevites, if you do this very thing.” He pointed to Daniels. “Before you become a soldier, then, you command baseball men. You are a leader from hatching?”

Again, Mutt needed a moment to understand the Lizard. “A born leader, you mean?” Now he laughed, loud and long. “I grew up on a Mississippi farm my own self. There was nigger sharecroppers workin’ bigger plots o’ land than the one my pappy had. I got to be a manager on account of I didn’t want to keep walkin’ behind the ass end of a mule forever, so I ran off an’ played ball instead. I was never great, but I was pretty damn good.”

“I have heard before these stories of defiance of authority from Tosevites,” Chook said. “They are to me very strange. We have not any like them among the Race.”

Mutt thought about that: a whole planet full of Lizards, all doing their jobs and going on about their lives for no better reason than that somebody above them told them that was what they were supposed to do. When you looked at it that way, it was like what the Reds and the Nazis wanted to do to people, only more so. But to Chook, it seemed like water to a fish. He didn’t think about the bad parts, just about how it gave his life order and meaning.

“How about you, Small-Unit Group Leader?” Daniels asked Chook. “After you Lizards pull out of the U.S. of A, what do you do next?”

“I go on being a soldier,” the Lizard answered. “After this cease-fire with your not-empire, I go on to some part of Tosev 3 where no truce is, I fight more Big Uglies, till, soon or late, the Race wins there. Then I go to a new place again and do the same. All this for years, till colonization fleet comes.”

“So you were a soldier from the git-go, then?” Mutt said. “You weren’t doin’ somethin’ else when your big bosses decided to invade Earth and just happened to scoop you up so as you could help?”

“That would be madness,” Chook exclaimed. Maybe he was taking Mutt too literally-and maybe he wasn’t. He went on, “A hundred and five tens of years ago, the 63rd Emperor Fatuz, who reigned then and now helps watch spirits of our dead, he set forth a Soldier’s Time.”

Mutt could hear the capital letters thudding into place, but didn’t know what exactly they meant. “A Soldier’s Time?” he echoed.

“Yes, a Soldier’s Time,” the Lizard said. “A time when the Race needed soldiers, at first to train the males who would go with the conquest fleet, and then, in my own age group and that just before mine, the males who would make up the fleet.”

“Wait a minute.” Mutt held up a stubby, bent forefinger. “Are you tryin’ to tell me that when it’s not a Soldier’s Time, you Lizards, you don’t have any soldiers?”

“If we are not building a conquest fleet to bring a new world into the Empire, what need do we have for soldiers?” Chook returned. “We do not fight among us. The Rabotevs and Hallessi are sensible subjects. They are not Tosevites, to revolt whenever they like. We have the data to make males into soldiers when the Emperor”-he looked down at the ground-“decides we need them. For thousands of years at a time, we do not need. Is it different with you Big Uglies? You fought your own war when we came. Did you have soldiers in a time between wars?”

He sounded as if he were asking whether they picked their noses and then wiped their hands on their pants. Mutt looked at Muldoon. Muldoon was already looking at him. “Yeah, we’ve been known to keep a soldier or two around while we’re not fightin’,” Mutt said.

“Just in case we might need ’em,” Muldoon added, his voice dry.

“This is wasteful of resources,” Chook said.

“It’s even more wasteful not to keep soldiers around,” Mutt said, “on account of if you don’t and the country next door does, they’re gonna whale the stuffing out of you, take what used to be yours, an’ use it for their own selves.”

The Lizard’s tongue flicked out, wiggled around, and flipped back into his mouth. “Ah,” he said. “Now I have understanding. You are always in possession of an enemy next door. With us of the Race, it is a thing of difference. After the Emperors”-he looked down again-“made all Home one under their rule, what need had we of soldiers? We had need only in conquest time. Then the reigning Emperor”-and again-“declared a Soldier’s Time. After the ending of the conquest, we needed soldiers no more. We pensioned them, let them die, and trained no new ones till the next time of need.”

Mutt let out a low, soft, wondering whistle. In a surprisingly good Cockney accent, Herman Muldoon sang out, “Old soldiers never die. They only fade away.” He turned to Chook, explaining, “With us, that’s just a song. I heard it Over There during the last big war. You Lizards, though, sounds like you really mean it. Ain’t that a hell of a thing?”

“We mean it on Home. We mean it on Rabotev 2. We mean it on Halless 1,” Chook said. “Here on Tosev 3, who knows what we mean? Here on Tosev 3, who knows what anything means? Maybe one day, Second Lieutenant Daniels, we fight again.”

“Not with me, you don’t,” Mutt said at once. “They let me out of the Army, they ain’t never gettin’ me back in. An’ if they do, they wouldn’t want what they got. I done had all the fightin’ that’s in me squeezed out. You want to mix it up down line, Small-Unit Group Leader Chook, you got to pick yourself a younger man.”

“Two younger men,” Sergeant Muldoon agreed.

“I wish to both of you good fortune,” Chook said. “We fighted each other. Now we do not fight and we are not enemies. Let it stay so.” He turned and skittered out of the circle of yellow light the campfire threw.

“Ain’t that somethin’?” Muldoon said in wondering tones. “I mean, ain’t that just somethin’?”

“Yeah,” Mutt answered, understanding exactly what he was talking about. “If they ain’t got a war goin’ on, they don’t have any soldiers, neither. Wish we could be like that, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for Muldoon’s nod, which came as automatically as breathing. Instead, he went on, voice dreamy, “No soldiers a-tall, not for hundreds-shitfire, maybe thousands, all I know-of years at a time.” He let out a long sigh, wishing for a cigarette.

“Almost makes you wish they won the war, don’t it?” Muldoon said.

“Yeah,” Mutt said. “Almost.”

Whatever Mordechai Anielewicz was lying on, it wasn’t a feather bed. He pulled himself to his feet. Something wet was running down his cheek. When he put his hand against it, the palm came away red.

Bertha Fleishman sprawled in the street, in amongst the tumbled bricks from which he had just arisen. She had a cut on her leg and another one, a nasty one, on the side of her head that left her scalp matted with blood. She moaned: not words, just sound. Her eyes didn’t quite track.

Fear running through him, Mordechai stooped and hauled her upright. His head was filled with a hissing roar, as if a giant high-pressure air hose had sprung a leak right between his ears. Through that roar, he heard not only Bertha’s moan but the screams and cries and groans of dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of injured people.

If he’d walked another fifty meters closer to the fire station, he wouldn’t have been injured. He would have been dead. The realization oozed slowly through his stunned brain. “If I hadn’t stopped to chat with you-” he told Bertha.

She nodded, though her expression was still faraway. “What happened?” Her lips shaped the words, but they had no breath behind them-or maybe Anielewicz was even deafer than he thought.

“Some kind of explosion,” he said. Then, later than he should have, he figured out what kind of explosion: “A bomb.” Again, he seemed to be thinking with mud rather than brains, because he needed several more seconds before he burst out, “Skorzeny!”

The name reached Bertha Fleishman, where nothing had before it“Gottenyu!” she said, loud enough for Anielewicz to hear and understand. “We have to stop him!”

That was true. They had to stop him-if they could. The Lizards had never managed it. Anielewicz wondered if anyone could. One way or the other, he was going to find out.

He looked around. There in the chaos, using a bandage from the aid kit he wore on his belt, squatted Heinrich Jager. The old Jew who held out a mangled hand to him didn’t know he’d been aWehrmacht panzer colonel, or care. And Jager, by the practiced, careful way he worked, didn’t worry about the religion of the man he was helping. Beside him, his Russian girlfriend-another story about which Anielewicz knew less than he would have liked-was tying what looked like an old wool sock around a little boy’s bloody knee.

Anielewicz tapped Jager on the shoulder. The German whirled around, snatching for the submachine gun he’d set down on the pavement so he could help the old man. “You’re alive,” he said, relaxing a little when he realized who Mordechai was.

“I think so, anyhow.” Anielewicz waved at the hurly-burly all around. “Your friend plays rough.”

“This is what I told you,” the German answered. He looked around, too, but only for a moment. “This is probably a diversion-probably not the only one, either. Wherever the bomb is, you’d better believe Skorzeny’s somewhere close by.”

As if on cue, another explosion rocked Lodz. This one came from the east; gauging the sound, Anielewicz thought it had gone off not far from the ruined factory sheltering the stolen weapon. He hadn’t told Jager where that factory was, not quite trusting him. Now he had no more choice. If Skorzeny was around there, he’d need all the help he could get.

“Let’s go,” he said. Jager nodded, quickly finished the bandaging job, and grabbed the Schmeisser. The Russian girl-the Russian pilot-Ludmila-drew her pistol. Anielewicz nodded. They started off. Mordechai looked back toward Bertha, but she’d slumped down onto the pavement again. He wished he had her along, too, but she didn’t look able to keep up, and he didn’t dare wait. The next blast wouldn’t be a fire station. It wouldn’t be whatever building had gone up in the latest explosion. It would be Lodz.

Nothing was left of the fire station. Petrol flames leaped high through the wreckage-the fire engine was burning. Mordechai kicked a quarter of a brick as hard as he could, sending it spinning away. Solomon Gruver had been in there. Later on-if he lived-he’d grieve.

The Mauser thumped against his shoulder as he trotted along. It didn’t bother him; he noticed it only at odd moments. What did bother him was how little ammunition jingled in his pockets. The rifle bore a full five-round clip, but he didn’t have enough cartridges to refill that clip more than once or twice. He hadn’t expected to fight today.

“How are you fixed for ammunition?” he asked Jager.

“Full magazine in the weapon, one more full one here.” The German pointed to his belt. “Sixty rounds altogether.”

That was better, but it wasn’t as good as Mordechai had hoped.

You could go through the magazine of a submachine gun in a matter of seconds. He reminded himself Jager was a panzer colonel. If a German soldier-a German officer, no less-didn’t maintain fire discipline, who would?

Maybe nobody. When bullets started cracking past your head, maintaining discipline of any sort came hard.

“And I, I have only the rounds in my pistol,” Ludmila said. Anielewicz nodded. She was coming along. Jager seemed to think she had every right to come along, but Jager was sleeping with her, too, so how much was his opinion worth? Enough that Anielewicz didn’t feel like bucking it, not when anybody who wouldn’t run away at the sound of a gunshot was an asset. She’d been in the Red Air Force and she’d been a partisan here in Poland, so maybe she’d be useful after all. His own fighters had shown him some women could do the job-and some men couldn’t.

He passed a good many of his own fighters as he hurried with Jager and Ludmila toward the ruined factory. Several shouted questions at him. He gave only vague answers, and did not ask any of the men or women to join. None of them was privy to the secret of the explosive-metal bomb, and he wanted to keep the circle of those who were as small as possible. If he stopped Skorzeny, he didn’t want to have to risk playing a game of Samson in the temple with the Lizards afterwards. Besides, troops who didn’t know what they were getting into were liable to cause more problems than they solved.

A couple of Order Service policemen also recognized him and asked him where he was going. Them he ignored. He was used to ignoring the Order Service. They were used to being ignored, too. Men who carried truncheons were polite to men with rifles and submachine guns: either they were polite, or their loved ones (assuming Order Service police had any loved ones, a dubious proposition) saidKaddish over new graves in the cemetery.

Jager was starting to pant “How far is it?” he asked on the exhale. Sweat streamed down his face and darkened his shirt at the back and under the arms.

Anielewicz wasshvitzing, too. The day was hot and bright and clear, pleasant if you were just lounging around but not for running through the streets of Lodz.This couldn’t have happened, say, in fall? he thought. Aloud, though, he answered, “Not much farther. Nothing in the ghetto is very far from anything else. You Nazis didn’t leave us much room here, you know.”

Jager’s mouth tightened. “Can’t you leave that alone when you talk to me? If I hadn’t got through to you, you’d have been dead twice by now.”

“That’s true,” Mordechai admitted. “But it only goes so far. How many thousands of Jews died here before anyone said anything?” He gave Jager credit. The German visibly chewed on that for a few strides before nodding.

A cloud of smoke was rising. As Mordechai had thought from the sound, it was close to the place where the bomb lay concealed. Somebody shouted to him, “Where’s the fire engine?”

“It’s on fire itself by now,” he answered. “The other explosion you heard was the fire station.” His questioner stared at him in horror. When he had time, he figured he would be horrified, too. What would the ghetto do for a fire engine from now on? He grunted. If they didn’t stop Skorzeny,from now on would be a phrase without meaning.

He rounded another corner, Jager and Ludmila beside him. Almost, then, he stopped dead in his tracks. The burning building housed the stable that held the heavy draft horses he’d gathered to move the bomb in case of need. Fire trapped the horses in their stalls. Their terrified screams, more dreadful than those of wounded women, dinned in his ears.

He wanted to go help the animals, and had to make himself trot past them. People who didn’t know what he did were trying to get the horses out of the stable. He looked to make sure none of the bomb guards were there. To his relief, he didn’t see any, but he knew he might well have. When that thought crossed his mind, he was suddenly certain Skorzeny hadn’t bombed the building at random. He’d tried to create a distraction, to lure the guards away from their proper posts.

“That SS pal of yours, he’s a realmamzer, isn’t he?” he said to Jager.

“A what?” the panzer man asked.

“A bastard,” Anielewicz said, substituting a German word for a Yiddish one.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jager said. “Christ, Anielewicz, you don’t know a tenth part of it.”

“I’m finding out,” Mordechai answered. “Come on, we go round this last corner and then we’re there.” He yanked the rifle from his shoulder, flipped off the safety, and chambered the first round from the clip. Jager nodded grimly. He also had his Schmeisser ready to fire. And Ludmila had been carrying her little automatic in her hand all along. It wasn’t much, but better than nothing.

At the last corner, they held up. If they went charging around it, they were liable to be walking straight into a buzz saw. Ever so cautiously, Mordechai looked down the street toward the dead factory. He didn’t see anyone, not with a quick glance, and he knew where to look. In the end, though, whether he saw anyone didn’t matter. They had to go forward. If Skorzeny was ahead of them… With luck, he’d be busy at the bomb. Without luck-

He glanced over to Jager. “Any better idea of how many little friends Skorzeny is liable to have with him?”

The panzer colonel’s lips skinned back from his teeth in a mirthless grin. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there? I’ll go first, then you, then Ludmila. We’ll leapfrog till we get to where we’re going.”

Mordechai resented his taking over like that, even if the tactic did make good sense. “No, I’ll go first,” he said, and then, to prove to himself and Jager both that it wasn’t bravado, he added, “You’ve got the weapon with the most firepower. Cover me as I move up.”

Jager frowned, but nodded after a moment. He slapped Anielewicz lightly on the shoulder. “Go on, then.” Anielewicz dashed forward, ready to dive behind a pile of rubble if anyone started shooting from inside the factory. No one did. He hurled himself into a doorway that gave him some cover. No sooner had he done so than Jager ran past him, bent double and dodging back and forth. He might have been a panzer man, but he’d learned somewhere to fight on foot, Anielewicz scratched his head. The German was old enough to have fought in the last war. And who but he could say what all he’d done in this one?

Ludmila ran by both of them. She chose a doorway on the opposite side of the street in which to shelter. While she paused there, she shifted the pistol to her left hand so she could shoot from that position without exposing much of her body to return fire. She knew her business, too, then.

Anielewicz sprinted past her, up to within ten or twelve meters of the hole in the wall that led into the ruined factory. He peered in, trying to pierce the gloom. Was that someone lying still, not far inside? He couldn’t be certain, but it looked that way.

Behind him, booted feet thumped on the pavement. He hissed and waved; Heinrich Jager saw him and ducked into the doorway where he was standing. “What’s wrong?” the German asked, breathing hard.

Anielewicz pointed. Jager narrowed his eyes, squinting ahead.

The lines that came out when he did that said he was indeed old enough to have fought in the First World War. “That’s a body,” he said, just as Ludmila came up to crowd the narrow niche in front of the door. “I’d bet anything you care to name it isn’t Skorzeny’ s body, either.”

“No, thanks,” Mordechai said. “I don’t have much, but what I’ve got, I’ll keep.” He drew in a deep breath. That took some effort.Nerves, he thought; he hadn’t run that far. He pointed again. “If we can make it up to that wall, we go in there and then head for the bomb along the clear path that leads into the middle of the building. Once we’re at the wall, nobody can shoot at us without giving us a clear shot back at him.”

“We go, then,” Ludmila said, and ran for the wall. She made it. Muttering under his breath, Jager followed. So did Anielewicz. Ever so cautiously, he peered into the factory. Yes, that was a sentry lying there-his rifle lay beside him. His chest wasn’t moving.

Mordechai tried to take another deep breath himself. His lungs didn’t seem to want to work. Inside his chest, his heart stumbled. He turned back toward Jager and Ludmila. It had been shadowy inside the wrecked factory. He’d expected that. But here, too, on a bright, sunny day, he saw his comrades only dimly. He looked up at the sun. Staring at it didn’t hurt his eyes. He looked back to Ludmila. Her eyes were very blue, he thought, and then realized why: her pupils had contracted so much, he could barely see them at all.

He fought for another hitching breath. “Something’s-wrong,” he gasped.

Heinrich Jager had watched the day go dark around him without thinking much of it till Anielewicz spoke. Then he swore loudly and foully, while fear raced through him. He was liable to have killed himself and the woman he loved and all of Lodz out of sheer stupidity. You couldn’t see nerve gas. You couldn’t smell it. You couldn’t taste it. It would kill you just the same.

He yanked open the aid kit he’d used to bandage the wounded old Jew. He had-he thought he had-five syringes, one for himself and each man in his panzer crew. If the SS had taken those out when they’d arrested him-If they’d done that, he was dead, and he wouldn’t be the only one.

But the blackshirts hadn’t They hadn’t thought to paw through the kit and see what was inside. He blessed them for their inefficiency.

He took out the syringes. “Antidote,” he told Ludmila. “Hold still.” All at once, speaking was an effort for him, too: the nerve gas was having its way. A few more minutes and he would have quietly keeled over and died, without ever figuring out why he was dead.

Ludmila, for a wonder, didn’t argue. Maybe she was having trouble talking and breathing, too. He jabbed the syringe into the meat other thigh, as he’d been trained, and pressed down on the plunger.

He grabbed another syringe. “You,” he told Anielewicz as he yanked off its protective cap. The Jewish fighting leader nodded. Jager hurried to inject him; he was starting to turn blue. If your lungs didn’t work and your heart didn’t work, that was what happened to you.

Jager threw down the second syringe. Its glass body shattered on the pavement He heard that, but had trouble seeing it. Working as much by touch as by sight, he got out another syringe and stabbed himself in the leg.

He felt as if he’d held a live electrical wire against his flesh. It wasn’t well-being that rushed through him; instead, he was being poisoned in a different way, one that fought the action of the nerve gas. His mouth went dry. His heart pounded so loud, he had no trouble hearing it. And the street, which had gone dim and faint as the nerve gas squeezed his pupils shut, all at once seemed blindingly bright. He blinked. Tears filled his eyes.

To escape the hideous glare, he ducked inside the factory. There, in real shadows, the light seemed more tolerable. Mordechai Anielewicz and Ludmila followed. “What was that stuff you shot us with?” the Jew asked, his voice a whisper.

“The antidote for nerve gas-that’s all I know,” Jager answered. “They issued it to us in case we had to cross areas we’d already saturated while we were fighting the Lizards-or in case the wind shifted when we didn’t expect it to. Skorzeny must have brought along gas grenades, or maybe just bottles full of gas, for all I know. Throw one in, let it break, give yourself a shot while you’re waiting, and then go in and do what you were going to do.”

Anielewicz looked down at the dead body of the sentry. “We have nerve gas now, too, you know,” he said. Jager nodded. Anielewicz scowled. “We’re going to have to be even more careful with it than we have been-and we’ve taken casualties from it.” Jager nodded again. With nerve gas, you couldn’t be too careful.

“Enough of this,” Ludmila said. “Where is the bomb, and how do we get to it and stop Skorzeny without getting killed ourselves?”

Those were good questions. Jager couldn’t have come up with better if he’d thought for a week, and he didn’t have a week to waste thinking. He glanced over to Anielewicz. If anybody had the answers, the Jewish fighting leader did.

Anielewicz pointed into the bowels of the building. “The bomb is there, less than a hundred meters away. See the opening there, behind the overturned desk? The path isn’t straight, but it’s clear. One of you, maybe both of you, should go down it. It’s the only way you’ll get there fast enough to be useful. Me, I set this place up. There’s another way to get to the bomb. I’ll take that-and we see what happens then.”

Jager was used to sending others out to create distractions for him to exploit. Now he and Ludmila were the distraction. He couldn’t argue with that, not when Anielewicz knew the ground and he didn’t. But he knew the people who created distractions were the ones likely to get expended when the shooting started. If his mouth hadn’t already been dry from the antidote, it would have gone that way.

Anielewicz didn’t wait for him and Ludmila to argue. Like any good commander, he took being obeyed for granted. Pointing one last time to the upside-down desk, he slipped away behind a pile of rubble.

“Stay in back of me,” Jager whispered to Ludmila.

“Chivalry is reactionary,” she said. “You have the better weapon. I should lead and draw fire.” In strictly military terms, she was right He’d never thought strictly military terms would apply to the woman he loved. But if he failed here out of love or chivalry or whatever you wanted to call it, he failed altogether. Reluctantly, he waved Ludmila ahead.

She didn’t see the motion, because she’d already started moving forward. He followed, close as he could. As Anielewicz had said, the path wound but was easy enough to use. With his pupils dilated by the nerve gas antidote, he could see exactly where to place each foot to make the least possible noise.

What he thought was about halfway to the bomb, Ludmila stopped in her tracks. She pointed round the corner. Jager came up far enough to see. A Jewish guard lay dead there, one hand still on his rifle. Ever so carefully, Jager and Ludmila stepped over him and moved on.

Up ahead, Jager heard tools clinking on metal, a sound with which he’d become intimately familiar while serving on panzers. Normally, that was a good sound, promising that something broken would soon be fixed. Something broken would soon be fixed now, too. Here, though, the sound of ongoing repair raised the hair at the back of his neck.

He made a mistake then-brushing against some rubble, he knocked over a brick. It fell to the ground with a crash that seemed hideously loud. Jager froze, cursing himself.That’s why you didn’t stay in the infantry, you clumsy son of a whore.

He prayed Skorzeny hadn’t heard the brick. God wasn’t listening. The handicraft noises stopped. A burst of submachine gun fire came in their place. Skorzeny couldn’t see him, but didn’t care. He was hoping ricochets would do the job for him. They almost did. A couple of bouncing bullets came wickedly close to Jager as he threw himself flat.

“Give up, Skorzeny!” he shouted, wriggling forward with Ludmila beside him. “You’re surrounded!”

“Jager?” For one of the rare times in their acquaintance, he heard Skorzeny astonished. “What are you doing here, you kikeloving motherfucker? I thought I put paid to you for good. They should have hanged you from a noose made of piano wire by now. Well, they will. One day they will.” He fired another long burst. He wasn’t worried about spending ammunition. Bullets whined around Jager, striking sparks as they caromed off bricks and wrecked machines.

Jager scuttled toward him anyhow. If he made it to the next heap of bricks, he could pop up over it and get a decent shot. “Give up!” he yelled again. “We’ll let you go if you do.”

“You’ll be too dead to worry about it, whether I give up or not,” the SS man answered. Then he paused again. “No, maybe not. You should be dead already, as a matter of fact. Why the hell aren’t you?” Now he sounded friendly, interested, as if they were hashing it out over a couple of shots of schnapps.

“Antidote,” Jager told him.

“Isn’t that a kick in the balls?” Skorzeny said. “Well, I’d hoped I’d get out of here in one piece, but-” Thebut was punctuated by a potato-masher hand grenade that spun hissing through the air and landed five or six meters behind Jager and Ludmila.

He grabbed her and folded both of them into a tight ball an instant before the grenade exploded. The blast was deafening. Hot fragments of casing bit into his back and legs. He grabbed for his Schmeisser, sure Skorzeny would be following hard on the heels of the grenade.

A rifle shot rang out, then another one. Skorzeny’s submachine gun chattered in reply. The bullets weren’t aimed at Jager. He and Ludmila untangled themselves from each other and both rushed to that pile of bricks.

Skorzeny stood swaying like a tree in the breeze. In the gloom, his eyes were enormous, and all pupil: he’d given himself a stiff dose of nerve-gas antidote. Right in the center of the ragged old shirt he wore was a spreading red stain. He brought up his Schmeisser, but for once didn’t seem sure what to do with it, whether to aim at Anielewicz or at Jager and Ludmila.

His foes had no such hesitation. Anielewicz’s rifle and Ludmila’s pistol cracked at the same instant in which Jager squeezed off a burst. More red flowers blossomed on Skorzeny’s body. The breeze in which he swayed became a gale. It blew him over. The submachine gun fell from his hands. His fingers groped toward it, pulling hand and arm after them as they struggled from one rough piece of ground to the next, a centimeter and a half farther on. Jager fired another burst. Skorzeny twitched as the bullets slammed into him, and at last lay still.

Only then did Jager notice the SS man had pried several planks off the big crate that held the explosive-metal bomb. Under them, the aluminum skin of the device lay exposed, like that of a surgical patient revealed by an opening in the drapes. If Skorzeny had already set the detonator in there-

Jager ran toward the bomb. He got there a split second ahead of Anielewicz, who was in turn a split second ahead of Ludmila. Skorzeny had removed one of the panels from the skin. Jager peered into the hole thus exposed. With his pupils so dilated, he had no trouble seeing the hole was empty.

Anielewicz pointed to a cylinder a few centimeters in front of his left foot “That’s the detonator,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s the one we pulled or if he brought it with him, the way you said he might. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he didn’t get to use it.”

“We won.” Ludmila sounded dazed, as if she was fully realizing for the first time what they’d done, what they’d prevented.

“Nobody will put the detonator in this bomb any time soon,” Anielewicz said. “Nobody will be able to get close to it and keep living, not for a while, not without the antidote, whatever that is. How long does the gas persist, Jager? You know more about it than anyone else around here.”

“It’s not exposed to bright sun. What’s left of the roof will keep rain off. It should last a good while. Days, certainly. Weeks, maybe,” Jager answered. He still felt keyed up, ready to fight. Maybe that was the aftermath of battle. Maybe, too, it was the antidote driving him. Anything that made his heart thump like that probably scrambled his brains, too.

“Can we go out of here now?” Ludmila asked. She looked frightened; the antidote might have been turning her to flight, not fight.

“We’d better get out of here, I’d say,” Anielewicz added. “God only knows how much of that gas we’re taking in every time we breathe. If there’s more of it than the antidote can handle-”

“Yes,” Jager said, starting toward the street. “And when we do get out, we have to burn these clothes. We have to do it ourselves, and we have to bathe and bathe and bathe. You don’t need to breathe this gas for it to kill you. If it touches your skin, that will do the job-slower than breathing it, but just about as sure. We’re dangerous to anyone around us till we decontaminate.”

“Lovely stuff you Germans turn out,” Anielewicz said from behind him.

“The Lizards didn’t like it,” Jager answered. The Jewish fighting leader grunted and shut up.

The closer Jager got to the street, the brighter the glare became, till he squeezed his eyes almost shut and peered through a tiny crack between upper and lower lids. He wondered how long his pupils would stay dilated and then, relentlessly pragmatic, wondered where in Lodz he could come up with a pair of sunglasses.

He strode past the outermost dead Jewish sentry, then out onto the street, which seemed to him awash in as much brilliance as if the explosive-metal bomb had gone off. The Jews probably would have to cordon off a couple of blocks around the wrecked factory on one pretext or another, just to keep people from inadvertently poisoning themselves as they walked by.

Ludmila emerged and stood beside him. Through his half-blind squint, he saw hers. He didn’t know what was going to happen next He didn’t even know whether, as Anielewicz had suggested, they’d ended up breathing more nerve gas than their antidote could handle. If the day started going dim instead of brilliant, he still had two syringes left in his aid kit. For three people, that made two-thirds of a shot apiece. Would he need it? If he did, would it be enough?

He did know what wouldn’t happen next. Lodz wouldn’t go up in a fireball like a new sun. The Lizards wouldn’t aim their concentrated wrath at Germany-not on account of that, anyhow. He wouldn’t go back to theWehrmacht, nor Ludmila to the Red Air Force. Whatever future they had, whether hours or decades, was here.

He smiled at her. Her eyes were almost closed, but she saw him and smiled back. He saw that, very clearly.

Atvar had heard the buzzing racket of Tosevite aircraft a great many times through sound recordings, but only rarely in person. He turned one eye turret toward the window of his suite. Sure enough, he could see the clumsy, yellow-painted machine climbing slowly into the sky. “That is the last of them, is it not?” he said.

“Yes, Exalted Fleetlord, that one bears away Marshall, the negotiator from the not-empire of the United States,” Zolraag replied.

“The talks are complete,” Atvar said, sounding disbelieving even to himself. “We are at peace with large portions of Tosev 3.”No wonder I sound disbelieving, he thought.We have peace here, but peace without conquest. Who would have imagined that when we set out from Home?

“Now we await the arrival of the colonization fleet, Exalted Fleetlord,” Zolraag said. “With its coming, with the permanent establishment of the Race on Tosev 3, begins the incorporation of this whole world into the Empire. It will be slower and more difficult than we anticipated before we came here, but it shall be done.”

“That is also my view, and why I agreed to halt large-scale hostilities for the time being,” Atvar said. He turned one eye turret toward Moishe Russie, who still stood watching the Big Ugly aircraft shrink in the distance. To Zolraag, he went on, “Translate for him what you just said, and ask his opinion on the matter.”

“It shall be done,” Zolraag said before shifting from the language of the Race to the ugly, guttural grunts he used when speaking to the Tosevite.

Russie made more grunts by way of reply. Zolraag turned them into words a person could understand: “His answer is not altogether germane, Exalted Fleetlord. He expresses relief that the negotiator from Deutschland departed without embroiling the Race and the Tosevites in fresh warfare.”

“I confess to a certain amount of relief on this score myself,” Atvar said. “After that pompous pronouncement the Big Ugly issued which proved to be either a bluff or a spectacular example of Deutsch incompetence-our analysis there is still incomplete-I did indeed anticipate renewed combat. But the Tosevites apparently decided to be rational instead.”

Zolraag translated for Russie, whose reply made his mouth fall open in amusement. “He says expecting the Deutsche to be rational is like expecting good weather in the middle of winter: you may get it, yes, for a day or two, but most of the time you will be disappointed.”

“Expect anything from either Tosevites or Tosevite weather and most of the time you will be disappointed-though you need not translate that,” the fleetlord answered. Russie was looking at him with what he thought was alertness; he remembered the Big Ugly did know some of the language of the Race. Atvar shrugged mentally; Russie already had a good notion of his opinion of Tosevites. He said, “Tell him that, sooner or later, his people will be subjects of the Emperor.”

Zolraag dutifully told him. Russie did not answer, not directly. Instead, he went back to the window and stared out once more. Atvar felt only annoyance: the Tosevite aircraft was long gone by now. But Russie still kept looking out through the glass without saying anything.

“What is he doing?” Atvar snapped at last, patience deserting him.

Zolraag put the question. Through him, Moishe Russie replied, “I am looking across the Nile at the Pyramids.”

“Why?” Atvar said, irritated still. “What do you care about these-what were they? — these large funerary monuments, is that it? They are massive, yes, but barbarous even by Tosevite standards.”

“My ancestors were slaves in this country three, maybe four thousand years ago,” Russie told him. “Maybe they helped build the Pyramids. That’s what our legends say, though I don’t know if it’s true. Who cares about the ancient Egyptians now? They were mighty, but they are gone. We Jews were slaves, but we’re still here. How can you know what will happen from what is now?”

Now Atvar’s mouth fell open. “Tosevite pretensions to antiquity always make me laugh,” he said to Zolraag. “Hear how the Big Ugly speaks of three or four thousand years-six or eight thousand of ours-as if it were a long time in historic terms. We had already absorbed both the Rabotevs and the Hallessi by then, and some of us were beginning to think about the planets of the star Tosev: day before yesterday, in the history of the Race.”

“Truth, Exalted Fleetlord,” Zolraag said.

“Of course it is truth,” Atvar said, “and it is why in the end we shall triumph, our setbacks because of the Big Uglies’ unexpected technological sophistication notwithstanding. We are content to progress one small step at a time. There are whole Tosevite civilizations, as Russie just said, which moved forward at the usual Big Ugly breakneck clip-and then failed utterly. We do not have this difficulty, nor shall we ever. We are established, even if on only part of the world. With the arrival of the colonization fleet, our presence shall become unassailably permanent. We then have only to wait for another Tosevite cultural collapse, extend our influence over the area where it occurs, and repeat the process until no section of the planet remains outside the Empire’s control.”

“Truth,” Zolraag repeated. “Because of Tosevite surprises, the conquest fleet might not have accomplished quite everything the plan back on Home called for.” Kirel could not have been more cautious and diplomatic than that. Zolraag continued, “The conquest, however, does go on, just as you said. What, in the end, does it matter if it takes generations rather than days?”

“In the end, it matters not at all,” Atvar replied. “History is on our side.”

Vyacheslav Molotov coughed. The last T-34 had rumbled through Red Square a good while before, but the air was still thick with diesel fumes. If Stalin noticed them, he gave no sign. He chuckled in high good humor. “Well, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich, it wasn’t quite a victory parade, not the sort I would have wanted after we’d finished crushing the Hitlerites, for instance, but it will do, it will do.”

“Indeed, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said. Stalin, for once, had been guilty of understatement. Molotov had gone to Cairo expecting to have nothing but trouble because of the intransigent stand Stalin required him to take. But if Stalin had disastrously misread Hitler’s intentions, he’d gauged the Lizards aright.

“The Lizards have adhered in every particular to the agreement you forged with them,” Stalin said: displays of martial might such as the one just past made him happy as a boy playing with lead soldiers. “They have everywhere removed themselves from Soviet soil: with the exception of the formerly Polish territory they elected to retain. And there, Comrade Foreign Commissar, I have no fault to find with you.”

“For which I thank you, Iosef Vissarionovich,” Molotov answered. “Better to have borders with those who keep agreements than with those who break them.”

“Exactly so,” Stalin said. “And our mopping up of German remnants on Soviet soil continues most satisfactorily. Some areas in the southern Ukraine and near the Finnish border remain troublesome, but, on the whole, the Hitlerite invasion, like that of the Lizards, can be reckoned a thing of the past. We move forward once more, toward true socialism.”

He dug in a trouser pocket and took out his pipe, a box of matches, and a leather tobacco pouch. Opening the pouch, he filled the pipe from it, then lighted a match and held it to the bowl of the pipe. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked in breath to get the pipe going. Smoke rose from the bowl; more leaked from his nostrils and one corner of his mouth.

Molotov’s nose twitched. He’d expected the acrid reek ofmakhorka, which, as far as he was concerned, was to good tobacco what diesel fumes were to good air. What Stalin was smoking, though, had an aroma rich and flavorful enough to slice and serve on a plate for supper.

“A Turkish blend?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, no,” Stalin answered. “An American one: a gift from President Hull. Milder than I quite care for, but good of its kind. And there will be Turkish again, in short order. Once we have the northern coast of the Black Sea fully under our control, sea traffic will resume, and we can also begin rail shipments by way of Armenia and Georgia.” As he usually did when he mentioned his homeland, he gave Molotov a sly look, as if daring him to make something of his ancestry. Never one for foolhardy action, Molotov knew much better than that. Stalin took another puff, then went on, “And we shall have to work out arrangements for trade with the Lizards, too, of course.”

“Comrade General Secretary?” Molotov said. Stalin’s leaps of thought often left logic far behind. Sometimes that brought great benefits to the Soviet state: his relentless industrialization, much of it beyond the range of Nazi bombers, might have saved the USSR when the Germans invaded. Of course, the invasion, when it came, would have been better handled had Stalin’s intuition not convinced him that everyone who warned him of it was lying. You couldn’t tell in advance what the intuition was worth. You had to sit back and await results. When the Soviet state was on the line, that grew nerve-racking.

“Trade with the Lizards,” Stalin repeated, as if to a backwards child. “The regions they occupy will not produce everything they need. We shall supply them with raw materials they may lack. Being socialists, we shall not be good capitalists, and we shall lose greatly on the exchanges-so long as we obtain their manufactured goods in return.”

“Ah.” Molotov began to see. This time, he thought, Stalin’s intuition was working well. “You want us to begin copying their methods and adapting them for our own purposes.”

“That is right,” Stalin said. “We had to do the same thing with the West after the Revolution. We had a generation in which to catch up, or they would destroy us. The Nazis struck us a hard blow, but we held. Now, with the Lizards, we have-mankind has-paid half the world in exchange for most of another generation.”

“Until the colonization fleet comes,” Molotov said. Yes, logic backed intuition to give Stalin solid reasons for trading with the Lizards.

“Until the colonization fleet comes,” Stalin agreed. “We need more bombs of our own, we need rockets of our own, we need calculating machines that almost think, we need ships that fly in space so they cannot look down upon us without our looking down upon them as well. The Lizards have these things. The capitalists and fascists are on their way to them. If we are left behind, they will bury us.”

“Iosef Vissarionovich, I think you are right,” Molotov said. He would have said it whether he thought Stalin right or wrong. Had he actually thought him wrong, he would have started looking for ways and means to ensure that the latest pronunciamento was diluted before it took effect. That was dangerous, but sometimes necessary: where would the Soviet Union be now had Stalin liquidated everyone in the country who knew anything about nuclear physics?Under the Lizards’ thumb, Molotov thought.

Stalin accepted Molotov’s agreement as no more than his due. “Of course I am,” he said complacently. “I do not see how we can keep the colonization fleet from landing, but the thing we must remember-this above all else, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich-is that it will bring the Lizards fresh numbers, but nothing fundamentally new.”

“True enough, Comrade General Secretary,” Molotov said cautiously. Again, Stalin had got ahead of him on the page.

This time, though, intuition had nothing to do with it While Molotov was dickering with the Lizards, Stalin must have been working through the implications of their social and economic development. He said, “It is inevitable that they would have nothing fundamentally new. Marxist analysis shows this must be so. They are, despite their machines, representatives of the ancient economic model, relying on slaves-with them partly mechanical, partly the other races they have subjugated-to produce for a dependent upper class. Such a society is without exception highly conservative and resistant to innovation of any sort. Thus we can overcome them.”

“That is nicely argued, Iosef Vissarionovich,” Molotov said, his admiration unfeigned. “Mikhail Andreyevich could not reason more trenchantly.”

“Suslov?” Stalin shrugged. “He made some small contributions to this line of thought, but the main thrust of it, of course, is mine.”

“Of course,” Molotov agreed, straight-faced as usual. He wondered what the young Party ideologist would say to that, but had no intention of asking. In any case, it did not matter. No matter who had formulated the idea, it supported what Molotov had believed all along. “As the dialectic demonstrates, Comrade General Secretary, history is on our side.”

Sam Yeager strolled down Central Avenue in Hot Springs, savoring the summer weather. One of the things he savored about it was being able to escape it every now and then. The sign painted on the front window of the Southern Grill said,OUR REFRIDGERATED AIR-CONDITIONING IS WORKING AGAIN. The wheeze and hum of the machinery and fan backed up the claim.

He turned to Barbara. “Want to stop here for some lunch?”

She looked at the sign, then took one hand off the grip of Jonathan’s baby carnage. “Twist my arm,” she said. Sam gave it a token twist “Oh, mercy!” she cried, but not very loud, because Jonathan was asleep.

Sam held the door open for her. “Best mercy I know of.” He followed her into the restaurant.

That took them out of Hot Springs summer in a hurry. The air-conditioning was refrigerated, all right; Sam felt as if he’d walked into Minnesota November. He wondered if his sweat would start freezing into tiny icicles all over his body.

A colored waiter in a bow tie appeared as if by magic, menus under his arm. “You jus’ follow me, Sergeant, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll take you to a booth where you can park that buggy right alongside.”

Sam slid onto the maroon leatherette of the booth with a sigh of contentment. He pointed to the candle on the table, then to the electric lights in the chandelier overhead. “Now the candle is a decoration again,” he said. “You ask me, that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Having to use candles for light when we didn’t have anything better-” He shook his head. “I didn’t like that”

“No, neither did I.” Barbara opened her menu. She let out a squeak of surprise. “Look at the prices!”

With some apprehension, Sam did just that. He wondered if he’d suffer the embarrassment of having to walk out of the Southern Grill. He had maybe twenty-five bucks in his wallet; Army pay hadn’t come close to keeping up with jumping prices. The only reason he’d figured he could eat out once in a while was that he got most of his meals for nothing.

But Barbara hadn’t said which way prices had gone. Everything was down about a third from what he’d expected, and a handwritten addendum boasted of cold Budweiser beer.

He remarked on that when the waiter returned to take his order and Barbara’s. “Yes, sir, first shipment from St Louis,” the colored man replied. “Just got in yesterday, matter of fact. We’re startin’ to see things now we ain’t seen since the Lizards came. Things is lookin’ up, that they is.”

Sam glanced at Barbara. When she nodded, he ordered Budweiser for both of them. The red-white-and-blue labels made them smile. The waiter poured the beers with great ceremony. Barbara lifted her glass on high. “Here’s to peace,” she said.

“I’ll drink to that.” Sam matched action to word. He swallowed the first swig of beer, then thoughtfully smacked his lips. He drank again, and was even more thoughtful. “You know, hon, after drinking mostly home brews and such the last couple of years, I’ll be darned if I don’t like ’em better. More flavor to ’em, you know what I mean?”

“Oh, good,” Barbara said. “If I were the only one who thought that, I’d figure it was just because I didn’t know anything about beer. It doesn’t mean I can’t drink this, though.” She proved as much. “And it is good to see the Budweiser bottle again-as if an old friend were back from the war.”

“Yeah.” Yeager wondered how Mutt Daniels was doing, and about all the other Decatur Commodores who’d been riding the train with him when the Lizards strafed it in northern Illinois.

The waiter set a hamburger in front of him and a roast-beef sandwich before Barbara. Then, with a flourish, he put a full bottle of Heinz catsup on the table between them. “This got here this morning,” he said. “Y’all are the first ones to use it”

“How about that?” Sam said. He pushed it over toward Barbara so she could have first crack at it. It acted like catsup-it didn’t want to come out of the bottle. When it did pour, too much came out: except, after most of two years without, how could there be too much?

After he’d anointed the hamburger, Sam took a big bite. His eyes widened. Unlike the Budweiser, he found no disappointment there. “Mm-mm,” he said with his mouth full. “That’s the McCoy.”

“Mm-hmm,” Barbara agreed, with as much enthusiasm and as few manners.

Sam disposed of the hamburger in a few bites, then slathered more catsup on the grits that took the place of french fries. He didn’t usually do that. In fact, nobody he knew did that; a proper Southerner who saw him perpetrating such an atrocity would probably ride him out of town on a rail. He didn’t care, not today. He wanted every bite of the sweet-sour tomato tang he could get, and any excuse was a good one. When Barbara did the same thing, he grinned in vindication.

“Another beer?” the waiter asked as he picked up their plates.

“Yes,” Sam said after glancing at Barbara again. “But why don’t you make it a local special this time? I’m glad to see the Budweiser, but it’s not as good as I remembered.”

“You’re about the fo’th person to say that today, sir,” the Negro remarked. “I’ll be right back with the pride of Hot Springs.”

He had just set the local brews-altogether a deeper, richer amber than Budweiser’s-before Sam and Barbara when Jonathan woke up and started to fuss. Barbara took him out of the carriage and held him, which calmed him down. “You were a good boy-you let us eat lunch,” she told him. She checked. “You’re even dry. Pretty soon I’ll give you lunch, too.” Now she looked over at Sam. “And pretty soon, maybe, I’ll be able to start giving him formula in a bottle. That should be one of the things that come back pretty fast.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam said. “Way things work, it’ll probably start showing up right about the time he can start drinking regular milk.” He grinned at his son, who was groping for Barbara’s bottle of beer. She pushed it safely out of reach. Jonathan started to cloud up, but Sam made a silly face at him, so he decided to laugh instead. Sam let his features relax. “What a crazy world he’ll grow up in.

“I only hope it’s a world where hecan grow up,” Barbara said, setting a hand on top of the baby’s head. Jonathan tried to grab it and stuff it into his mouth. Jonathan tried to grab everything and stuff it into his mouth these days. Barbara went on, “What with the bombs and the rockets and the gas-” She shook her head. “And the Lizards’ colonization fleet will get to Earth when he’s only a young man. Who can guess what things will be like then?”

“Not you, not me, not anybody,” Sam said. “Not the Lizards, either.” The colored waiter set the check on the table. Sam dug his wallet out of his hip pocket and pulled out a ten, a five, and a couple of singles, which left the fellow a nice tip. Barbara put Jonathan back into the buggy. As she started wheeling the baby toward the door, Sam finished his thought: “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens, that’s all.”