to sit with legs straight out, and Paymaster Seventh Martfield almost dislocated his shoulder saluting first. The driver of that one was a Japanese in a kimono. A long curved sword lay across his lap.
Mile after mile the smell of sulfur and sulfides increased; finally there rose before them the towers of a Frasch Process layout. It looked like an oilfield, but instead of ground-laid pipelines and bass-drum storage tanks there were foothills of yellow sulfur. They drove between them—
more salutes from baggily uniformed workers with shovels and yard-long Stilson wrenches. Off to the right were things that might have been Solvay Process towers for sulfuric acid, and a glittering horror of a neo-Roman administration-and-labs building. The Rising Sun banner fluttered from its central flagstaff.
Music surged as they drove deeper into the area; first it was a welcome counterirritant to the pop-pop of the two-cycle buckboard engine, and then a nuisance by itself. Royland looked, annoyed, for the loudspeakers, and saw them everywhere—on power poles, buildings, gateposts. Schmaltzy Strauss waltzes bathed them like smog, made thinking just a little harder, made communication just a little more blurry even after you had learned to live with the noise.
'I miss music in the wilderness,' Martfield confided over his shoulder.
He throttled down the buckboard until they were just rolling; they had passed some line unrecognized by Royland beyond which one did not salute everybody—just the occasional Japanese walking by in business suit with blueprint-roll and slide rule, or in kimono with sword. It was a German who nailed Royland, however: a classic jack-booted German in black broadcloth, black leather, and plenty of silver trim. He watched them roll for a moment after exchanging salutes with Martfield, made up his mind, and said: 'Halt.'
The Paymaster Seventh slapped on the brake, killed the engine, and popped to attention beside the buckboard. Royland more or less imitated him. The German said, stiffly but without accent: 'Whom have you brought here, Paymaster?'
'A scientist, sir. I picked him up on the road returning from Los Alamos with personal supplies. He appears to be a minerals prospector who missed a rendezvous, but naturally I have not questioned the Doctor.'
The German turned to Royland contemplatively. 'So, Doctor. Your name and specialty.'
'Dr. Edward Royland,' he said. 'I do nuclear power research.' If there was no bomb he'd be damned if he'd invent it now for these people.
'So? That is very interesting, considering that there is no such thing as nuclear power research. Which camp are you from?' The German threw an aside to the Paymaster Seventh, who was literally shaking with fear at the turn things had taken. 'You may go, Paymaster. Of course you will report yourself for harboring a fugitive.'
'At once, sir,' Martfield said in a sick voice. He moved slowly away pushing the little buckboard before him. The Strauss waltz oom-pah'd its last chord and instantly the loudspeakers struck up a hoppity-hoppity folk dance, heavy on the brass.
'Come with me,' the German said, and walked off, not even looking behind to see whether Royland was obeying. This itself demonstrated how unlikely any disobedience was to succeed. Royland followed at his heels, which of course were garnished with silver spurs. Royland had not seen a horse so far that day.
A Japanese stopped them politely inside the administration building, a rimless-glasses, office-manager type in a gray suit. 'How nice to see you again, Major Kappel! Is there anything I might do to help you?'
The German stiffened. 'I didn't want to bother your people, Mr. Ito.
This fellow appears to be a fugitive from one of our camps; I was going to turn him over to our liaison group for examination and return.'
Mr. Ito looked at Royland and slapped his face hard. Royland, by the insanity of sheer reflex, cocked his fist as a red-blooded boy should, but the German's reflexes operated also. He had a pistol in his hand and pressed against Royland's ribs before he could throw the punch.
'All right,' Royland said, and put down his hand.
Mr. Ito laughed. 'You are at least partly right, Major Kappel; he certainly is not from one of our camps! But do not let me delay you further. May I hope for a report on the outcome of this?'
'Of course, Mr. Ito,' said the German. He holstered his pistol and walked on, trailed by the scientist. Royland heard him grumble something that sounded like 'Damned extraterritoriality!'
They descended to a basement level where all the door signs were in German, and in an office labeled wissenschaft-slichesicherheitsliaison Royland finally told his story. His audience was the major, a fat officer deferentially addressed as Colonel Biederman, and a bearded old civilian, a Dr. Piqueron, called in from another office. Royland suppressed only the matter of bomb research, and did it easily with the old security habit. His improvised cover story made the Los Alamos Laboratory a research center only for the generation of electricity.
The three heard him out in silence. Finally, in an amused voice, the colonel asked: 'Who was this Hitler you mentioned?'
For that Royland was not prepared. His jaw dropped.
Major Kappel said: 'Oddly enough, he struck on a name which does figure, somewhat infamously, in the annals of the Third Reich. One Adolf Hitler was an early Party agitator, but as I recall it he intrigued against the Leader during the War of Triumph and was executed.'
'An ingenious madman,' the colonel said. 'Sterilized, of course?'
'Why, I don't know. I suppose so. Doctor, would you—?'
Dr. Piqueron quickly examined Royland and found him all there, which astonished them. Then they thought of looking for his camp tattoo number on the left bicep, and found none. Then, thoroughly upset, they discovered that he had no birth number above his left nipple either.
'And,' Dr. Piqueron stammered, 'his shoes are odd, sir—I just noticed.
Sir, how long since you've seen sewn shoes and braided laces?'
'You must be hungry,' the colonel suddenly said. 'Doctor, have my aide get something to eat for—for the doctor.'
'Major,' said Royland, 'I hope no harm will come to the fellow who picked me up. You told him to report himself.'
'Have no fear, er, doctor,' said the major. 'Such humanity! You are of German blood?'
'Not that I know of; it may be.'
'It must be!' said the colonel.
A platter of hash and a glass of beer arrived on a tray. Royland postponed everything. At last he demanded: 'Now. Do you believe me?
There must be fingerprints to prove my story still in existence.'
'I feel like a fool,' the major said. 'You still could be hoaxing us. Dr.
Piqueron, did not a German scientist establish that nuclear power is a theoretical and practical impossibility, that one always must put more into it than one can take out?'
Piqueron nodded and said reverently: 'Heisenberg. Nineteen fifty-three, during the War of Triumph. His group was then assigned to electrical weapons research and produced the blinding bomb. But this fact does not invalidate the doctor's story; he says only that his group was attempting to produce nuclear power.'
'We've got to research this,' said the colonel. 'Dr. Piqueron, entertain this man, whatever he is, in your laboratory.'
Piqueron's laboratory down the hall was a place of astounding simplicity, even crudeness. The sinks, reagents, and balance were capable only of simple qualitative and quantitative analyses; various works in progress testified that they were not even strained to their modest limits. Samples of sulfur and its compounds were analyzed here. It hardly seemed to call for a 'doctor' of anything, and hardly even for a human being. Machinery should be continuously testing the products as they flowed out; variations should be scribed mechanically on a moving tape; automatic controls should at least stop the processes and signal an alarm when variation went beyond limits; at most it might correct whatever was going wrong. But here sat Piqueron every day, titrating, precipitating, and weighing, entering results by hand in a ledger and telephoning them to the works!
Piqueron looked about proudly. 'As a physicist you wouldn't understand all this, of course,' he said. 'Shall I explain?'
'Perhaps later, doctor, if you'd be good enough. If you'd first help me orient myself—'
So Piqueron told him about the War of Triumph (1940-1955) and what came after.
In 1940 the realm of der Fuehrer (Herr Goebbels, of course—that strapping blond fellow with the heroic jaw
