Kathe got back into the VW and drove away. Drucker hurried into the barracks and threw on the uniform that hung in the closet. “What’s up?” he called to another space flier who was dressing with as much frantic haste as he.
“Damned if I know,” his comrade answered. “Whatever it is, though, it can’t be good. I’d bet on that.”
“Not with me, you wouldn’t, because I think you’re right,” Drucker told him.
They hurried toward the administrative center. Drucker looked at his wristwatch. Less than half an hour had gone by since the telephone rang. He couldn’t get in trouble for being late, not when he’d had to come from Greifswald… could he? He resolved to raise a big stink if anyone complained.
No one did. He checked off his name on the duty roster and hurried into the auditorium to which soldiers in military-police metal gorgets were directing people. The auditorium was already almost full; even though he’d done everything as fast as he could, he remained a latecomer. He slid into a chair near the back of the hall and shot disapproving glances at the men who came in after him.
General Dornberger stepped up onto the stage. Even from his distant seat, Drucker thought the commandant at Peenemunde looked worried. He couldn’t have been the only man who thought so, either; the buzz in the hail rose abruptly, then died as Dornberger held up his hand for quiet.
“Soldiers of the Reich, our beloved fatherland is in danger,” Dornberger said into that silence. “In their arrogance, the Lizards in Poland have attempted to impose limits on our sovereignty, the first step toward bringing the Reich under their rule. The Committee of Eight has warned them that their demands are intolerable to a free and independent people, but they have paid no attention to our just and proper protests.”
He building up toward a declaration of war, Drucker thought. Ice ran through him. He knew the Reich could hurt the Race. But, probably better than any man who’d never been into space, he also know what the Race could do to the Reich. He felt like a dead man walking. The only hope he had for his family’s survival was the wind blowing the fallout from Peenemunde out to sea or toward Poland rather than onto Greifswald. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“No state of war as yet exists between the Greater German Reich and the Race,” Dornberger went on, “but we must show the Lizards that we are not to be intimidated by their threats and impositions. Accordingly, the Reich is now formally placed on a footing of Kriegsgefahr. Because of this war danger order, the armed forces are being brought to a maximum alert-which is why you are here.”
It won’t happen right this minute, then, Drucker thought. Thank God for so much. His wasn’t the only soft sigh of relief in the auditorium.
“If the worst should befall, we shall not stand alone,” General Dornberger said. “The governments of Hungary and Romania and Slovakia stand foursquare behind us, as loyal allies should. And we have also received an expression of support and best wishes from the British government.”
That mixed good news and bad. Of course the allies stood by the Reich: if they didn’t, they’d fall over, and in a hurry, too. If England really was supporting Germany, that was good news, very good indeed. The English were bastards, but they were tough bastards, no two ways about it.
But Dornberger hadn’t said a word about Finland and Sweden. What were they doing? Sitting on their hands, Drucker thought. Hoping that when the axe falls, it doesn’t land on their necks.
Sitting where they were, he might have done the same thing. That didn’t mean he was happy they were staying quiet-far from it. But they had a better chance of coming through an all-out exchange between the Race and the Reich in one piece than a place like Greifswald did. Damn them.
“We are going to put as many men into space as fast as we can,” the commandant said. “Once up there, they will await orders or await developments. If we down here fall, they shall avenge us. Heil — ” He broke off, looking confused for a moment. He couldn’t say “Heil Himmler!” any more, and “Heil the Committee of Eight!” sounded absurd. But he found a way around the difficulty: “Heil the Reich!”
“Heil!” Along with everyone else in the hall, Drucker gave back the acclamation. And, no doubt along with everyone else, he wondered what would happen next.
The enormous roar of an A-45 blasting off penetrated the auditorium’s soundprooflng. Sure enough, the Reich wasn’t wasting any time getting its pieces on the board so it could play them. Those upper stages wouldn’t do Germany any good if they got destroyed on the ground.
“Have we got a schedule yet for who’s going into orbit when?” Drucker asked, hoping someone around him would know.
A couple of people said, “No.” A couple of others laughed. Somebody remarked, “The way things are right now, we’re damned lucky we know which side we’re on.” That brought a couple of more laughs, and told Drucker everything he needed to know. He wondered why everyone had been summoned so urgently if things were no better organized than this. We might as well be Frenchmen, he thought scornfully.
Major Neufeld pushed through the crowd toward him. General Dornberger’s adjutant looked dyspeptic even when he was happy. When he wasn’t, as now, he looked as if he belonged in the hospital. “Drucker!” he called urgently.
Drucker waved to show he’d heard. “What is it?” he asked. Whatever it was, he would have bet it wasn’t anything good. Had it been good, Neufeld would have left him alone to do his job, just as the dour major was doing with everyone else.
Sure enough, Neufeld said, “The commandant wants to see you in his office right this minute.”
“Jawohl!” Drucker obeyed without asking why. That was the Army way. Asking why wouldn’t have done him any good, anyhow. He knew that only too well. Several people gave him curious looks as he left the auditorium. Hardly anyone knew why he’d had run-ins with higher-ups, but practically everyone knew that he’d had them.
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” he said when he got to Dornberger’s office.
“Come in, Drucker.” Walter Dornberger took a puff on one of the fat cigars he favored, then set it in the ashtray. “Sit down, if you care to.”
“Thank you, sir.” As Drucker sat, he wondered if the commandant was going to offer him a blindfold and a cigarette next. Dornberger was usually brusque. Today he seemed almost courtly. Drucker asked, “What’s up, sir?” He’d been asking that since he got to Peenemunde. If anyone knew, if anyone would tell him, the commandant was the man.
Dornberger picked up the cigar, looked at it, and set it down without putting it in his mouth. In conversational tones, he remarked, “I wish Field Marshal Manstein were as good a politician as he is a soldier.”
“Do you?” Drucker asked, nothing at all in his voice. He didn’t need a road map to see where that led. “The SS is in charge of the Committee of Eight?”
“And the Party, and Goebbels’ lapdogs,” General Dornberger answered. “Manstein knows better than to provoke the Lizards, or I assume he does. This-this is madness. We can defend ourselves against the Race, yes, certainly. But win an offensive struggle? Anyone who has dealt with them knows better.”
“Yes, sir,” Drucker said. Why was the commandant telling him this? Most likely because no one in authority trusted him, which, in an odd sort of way, made him safe. “Anyone who’s been in space knows what they’ve got up there, that’s for sure.”
“Of course.” Dornberger’s nod was jerky. “Yes. Of course. And that brings me to the main reason I called you here, Lieutenant Colonel. Changes in the alignment of the Committee of Eight affect more than the broad foreign policy of the Reich. I must tell you that you will not be allowed into space during this crisis. I am sorry, but you are reckoned to be politically unreliable.”