Once Departed

The birds flying over, endless and endless and endless flights. And something there was about them to fear, though that was hard to know now, and the creature shook its head. It no longer knew fear. Perhaps they were not birds that flew overhead.

The ruins of the cities. And through them, the men in dark strange uniforms. Not the field gray of the Wehrmacht—what was the Wehrmacht? it couldn’t quite remember—but a darker color. And the helmets too were strange. The men ran, bent almost double, short weapons, with large circular clips, in their hands, as they ran, ran through the ruins. He hated them, but his dim mind did not know why he hated them.

The living in the deep cement bunker. And the noise. The always booming noise that went on above. And day in and day out. The noise. He could remember then knowing fear. Though he couldn’t remember now how fear was.

He stirred. Soon the master would come and tell him what he must do.

He mewled deep in his throat again.

It was pleasant to do things for the master.

Chapter Nine

Quint was staring at the other man. “You’ve got your genders mixed,” he told him. “He, not she.” Albrecht Stroehlein mustered sufficient courage to sneer in superiority. “Ah, my American friend, you are not so knowledgeable as you would pretend, eh? You do not even know that Doktor Grete Stahlecker is a woman, eh?” He tapped himself, on the upper part of his belly.

“I have known Grete Stahlecker since 1921, eh? It was I who introduced her to the Fuhrer. I, Albrecht Stroehlein. No one else, nicht? Even then she was noted in her field. Even then, a great scientist. If she had been a younger woman, Hitler himself might have taken her to bed, eh? Instead of finally that wishy-washy, as the British say, Eva Braun. I tell you, if Grete Stahlecker was here tonight, I would know Grete Stahlecker.” He snapped pudgy fingers. “Like that.”

Quint Jones felt dazed. He didn’t know why. It had just never occurred to him that the misty doctor was a woman. There was no particular reason. He muttered some excuse to the German, and went seeking Mike Woolman.

Mike was standing, glass in hand, listening to Ferd Dempsey and some American air force officer who were arguing bullfighting. Neither of them knew what they were talking about. Quint, come to think of it, had never met an American who knew anything about bullfighting with the possible exception of Johnny Short, who was a novittero.

The American columnist took Mike aside. “Listen,” he said. “This Doktor Stahlecker is a woman.”

Mike looked at him as though he had slipped his clutch. “So what?”

Quint stared at him. “I thought she was a man. I mean, that he was.”

Mike patted him on the arm. “Look, friend. Why don’t you go easy on the sauce? Of course, Doctor Grete Stahlecker was, or is, as the case may be, a woman. She was Adolf’s personal surgeon. She saved his life.”

“Okay,” Quint said. “Forget it. Nobody bothered to tell me.”

Mike shrugged hugely and went off for another drink, saying over his shoulder, “This whole idea flopped. The party’s beginning to break up. How long should we stick around?” But he was gone before the columnist could answer.

Quint looked down into his own glass, knocked the drink back and decided to get another. The idea had flopped was right. He had half a mind to hang one on.

Marty Dempsey wavered up to him, her glass so full that she was spilling the drink on Marylyn’s carpet. Quint winced. The Dempsey’s didn’t give a damn about spilling drinks on carpets. Either their own, or anyone else’s. The difference was they could afford to buy new ones. He doubted if Marylyn could.

Quint said disgustedly, “Pet, you aren’t Grete Stahlecker, are you?”

Marty closed one eye carefully. “Dahling, I’ve never seen you so stoned. Never. Look real close. I’m… don’t tell me. I’m Martha. Martha McCarthy. That’s who.”

“Don’t look now,” Quint said. “But you’re Martha Dempsey. Remember? You married Ferdinand about twenty or thirty years ago.”

“Oh, yeah,” Marty said vaguely. She took him in suspiciously. “You’re not as stoned as you act.” She concentrated for a moment then said, “I gotta go to the little girl’s,” and wandered off.

Quint looked after her, wondering why he associated with these people. What in the hell could the likes of Ferd and Marty Dempsey possibly do for him?

Some of the guests were leaving. It never had developed into much of a party, in spite of Marylyn’s shining- bright efforts. She just wasn’t cut out to be hostess for this type of a gang. Besides, they had all evidently come expecting some sort of excitement. That had been the rumor Mike and Quint had spread around. On the face of it, the excitement hadn’t developed. The party was melting.

Ferd Dempsey, swaying—his once heroic proportions, now gone to fat, threatening to collapse—held high his glass. “We’ll all go tasca-hopping!” he proclaimed. “Go bar hopping, pub crawling, saloon slinking. We’ll all go on down to Chicote’s and stan’ in front, out on the street, and I’ll give ’em a recitation.”

Ferd, Quint decided cynically, was at the stage where he was going to render Omar Khayyam. To render means to tear apart. And sure enough. Here it came. “And, as the Clock crew, those who stood before The tavern shouted—’Open then the Door!’ You know how little while we have to stay, And, once departed, may return no more.”

Quint Jones could just see Ferd and the rest standing in front of Chicote’s shouting quatrains from the Rubaiyat. Come to think of it, though, there was a certain appropriateness about it all. Omar Khayyam, the patron saint of the hedonist. All over again, Quint Jones wondered what he was doing associating with this crowd. How had he ever gotten into this rut?

Ferd’s idea grew on the rest A tasca crawl was in order. Carry the party onto the town. The remaining guests sought their things.

Mike Woolman was one of the last to leave. His eyes went from Quint to Marylyn, who was seeing someone out, and then back again. He said, “So, you’ve finally made it, eh?”

Quint scowled at him. “Come again?”

“Never mind,” Mike grunted. “I suppose it’s got to happen to her some day. Why not you?”

“Get lost, Buster,” Quint growled at him.

“See you around,” Mike said without inflection. “Good old Joe Garcia wants to talk to me about something.”

“He probably wants to know what, if anything, we found out at this party.”

“Well, I’ll tell him we found out a nice round zero.” Mike muttered. He turned to leave.

Something was churning in Quentin Jones’ brain. Something brought to mind by Ferd. The last two lines of his quatrain went over and over through the columnist’s head… how little while we have to stay, and, once departed, may return no more.

He wandered back to the bar and poured himself another short brandy. Actually, he hadn’t drunk much tonight. He had kept himself sober, so that his mind would be keen enough to pick up the slightest hint of a clue. Much good it had done him.

Marylyn said, from behind him, “They’re all gone, Quentin.”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking.”

She sat on the extremely large divan which dominated one side of the room. “Gracious! They drank so much. And were so loud. Thank goodness no one lives below.”

He put his glass down, untouched, and sat beside her. Still thoughtful. How little time we have to stay, and, once departed, may return no more.

“What were you thinking about… Quentin?”

He looked at her. “A lot of things. For once, what a worthless gang this is. Except for Mike, and yourself, who