They were foreigners, according to rumor; he should soon know.

He wondered what tomorrow would be like.

23

The Voltar

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Schurz took Montag to Kupfer's office, and Kupfer, through a connecting door, delivered him to Landgraf's, saluting as he entered. "Heil Hitler," he barked; it was their first meeting of the day, and the formality was required.

"Heil Hitler." Lieutenant Colonel Karl Gustaf Richard Landgraf neglected to stand. If necessary, he could claim exemption on the basis of a war wound received as a young cavalry officer on the Vistula. That had been in August 1915; the German army had fought on an eastern front before.

It was an injury that hampered him only when convenient. "Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer," Kupfer said, "this is Herr Montag, a psychic turned over to us at the Gestapo office in Kempten yesterday. His papers are on your desk."

"I have looked at them. Thank you, Kupfer, you may leave. I will speak with Herr Montag."

He looked calmly at this newcomer he thought of as young. "I see you are married, Herr Montag. Are you worried about your wife? How she will get by in your absence? Do not be concerned. Here you will have no expenses. We will take good care of you; even your cigarette ration costs you nothing. And being restricted to the grounds, you will need no money for visits to town. Your pay will be that of a lance corporal, and all but five marks a month will be sent to your wife."

Montag stood as if all this was incomprehensible. Reading auras while looking dull and confused had taken practice, but he did it well. Landgraf looked like the stereotypic Prussian aristocrat, erect, in charge, autocratic-and in fact he was. He wore black riding breeches, and glossy black riding boots that reached his knees; Macurdy wondered how he got them off.

But his aura reflected a mildness, a humanity that might make him one of a kind in the SS.

And he was a lieutenant colonel. The officer in charge of the Occult Bureau, Colonel von Sievers, was only one rank higher. Perhaps Landgraf had brought his rank with him from some earlier command. Or did an aristocratic family still count for something in the Third Reich?

"Yessir, Herr General sir!" Montag barked.

General? thought Landgraf. When Schmidt wrote "retarded" on the form, he was at least marginally correct. "I am not a general," Landgraf replied mildly. "Call me-" He paused. Keep it simple, he cautioned himself. "Call me colonel."

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

You must work with what God sends you, Karl, the colonel thought. "Tell me, Herr Montag, do you ever get angry?"

"No sir, colonel sir!"

"Never?"

"Hardly ever."

"Ah. If someone does something to you that is very unjust, what do you do about it?"

"I try to keep away from him, colonel sir."

"Um. And p you want something very much, what are you willing to do to get it?"

"I would work very very hard, sir."

"When you are very angry at someone, is there something you sometimes do about it?"

"Sometimes I beat them up. After that they left me alone.'I see. Now-" He paused meaningfully. "If there were some very bad people who wanted to destroy your country and your Fuhrer, would you want to do something to prevent that?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Would you be willing to destroy them?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Good. Because there are such people, and we want to teach you to do something that will destroy them."

Landgraf took a cigarette holder from his desk and put a cigarette in it. "I am told you can light my cigarette with your finger. Show me how you do that."

He put the holder between his teeth, and Montag lit the cigarette, Landgraf watching with interest.

"Very good, Herr Montag. That was well done. Now suppose I am on one side of the room and you are on the other, and I want you to light my cigarette. How would you do that?"

"I would walk over to you."

"And if you were unable to walk over to me?"

"I-" Montag stopped.

"Well… Can you get the idea of lighting my cigarette from across the room?"

Montag's features reflected confusion. "Yessir, colonel sir!"

"How might you do that?"

Montag stared blankly.

"No matter. Now I want you to imagine someone very bad. Can you imagine shouting angrily at him?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"What is the worst thing you can imagine shouting at him?" There was a long pause. "Pig."

"Nothing worse than that?"

Montag swallowed, seeming visibly troubled. "Cow turd?"

"Very good, Herr Montag. If you could shout something at them that would make them roll on the ground screaming, would you do that? for your Fuhrer?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Good. We will give you a chance to do that."

Kupfer had left the door open between the two offices, the usual procedure, and Landgraf raised his voice instead of pushing the intercom button. "Hauptsturmfuhrer Kupfer, came in here please."

Kupfer stepped in, and Landgraf told him to take Montag to "Baron Greszak." They'd left then, Kupfer steering Monta with a hand on the arm. When they were gone, Landgraf shoo his head tiredly Here we have someone who tries hard to be civilized, and it is my duty to de-civilize him. What kind of world are we trying to make?

Kupfer led Montag up to third-floor main. As they went, Macurdy considered what he'd read in Landgrafs aura. The colonel was a discouraged man, and Montag's demonstration had not noticeably changed that. Perhaps some of the others had also given good demonstrations, then failed to improve sufficiently.

They stopped at an unmarked door, and the captain knocked. "Kommen Sie rein," called a voice, and they went in. Inside stood easily the tallest man Macurdy had ever seen, intimidating not only by his height, but by presence and strangeness. He wore a semi-fitted black coverall that emphasized his rawboned slenderness. A tall, bag-like black cap with red splints and a knit, dark-green band covered his forehead, accentuating an almost albino-white face. His piercing eyes were as green as Varia's, but their resemblance ended with their color. These eyes were cold, impersonal. Macurdy felt like a bug on a pin.

"Good Morning, Baron Greszak," Kupfer said. There was no Heil Hitler. "We have a new student for you. This is Herr Montag, from East Prussia."

This giant was one of the reported foreigners, that was obvious. A German might conceivably have that build, those features, perhaps even that name, but the aura was distinctive; different than any human aura Macurdy had seen before, ever. Different in kind.

Greszak didn't trouble to acknowledge Kupfer's greeting. Instead he examined Macurdy thoroughly. "And what is it, Herr Montag, that causes you to be considered psychic?"

"I can start fires. I can light your cigarette. With my finger!"

"Hmm. Show me. Light Captain Kupfer's cigarette." Grimacing sourly, Kupfer took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Then Montag created a brilliant bead of glowing plasma an inch from his fingertip, and a minute later the cigarette was smoking.

The Voitu did not change expression. "What else can you do?"

"If someone is cold, I can warm him with my hands." Greszak stepped around his table and reached out a very long hand. "Warm it," he ordered, and Montag did. Greszak regarded him for a moment, then without speaking, turned and went into a connecting room, closing the door behind him. "Arrogant swine!" Kupfer muttered. Macurdy wasn't sure how much of Greszak's attitude was arrogance, and how much simply foreignness. He looked toward the two stacks of books on the table-from their spines, all were in German-and wondered if Greszak intended actually to read them. And if he did, how far he'd gotten. Certainly his German seemed fluent, what little he'd heard.