Colonization_ Aftershocks Part 24

By writing out what he wanted, Auerbach got the concierge to call him a cab. It showed up a few minutes later: a battered Volkswagen. "Where to?" the cabby asked. He was smoking a cigarette like the one Rance had had, but he'd worked it down to a tiny little b.u.t.t.

"I would like... to go... to the refugee center... to the north... of the city." Auerbach spoke slowly, and as carefully as he could. Sometimes the locals would understand him, sometimes not.

This time, the driver nodded. "Oui, monsieur," "Oui, monsieur," he said, and opened the door so Penny and Rance could get into the back seat. Auerbach grunted and grimaced as he squeezed himself into the narrow s.p.a.ce. He ended up knee to knee with Penny, which was pleasant, but not so pleasant as to keep him from wishing he had more room. he said, and opened the door so Penny and Rance could get into the back seat. Auerbach grunted and grimaced as he squeezed himself into the narrow s.p.a.ce. He ended up knee to knee with Penny, which was pleasant, but not so pleasant as to keep him from wishing he had more room.

The road north skirted the Vieux Pont, the inlet at the heart of the city. It also skirted the worst of the wreckage from the bomb. Rance eyed the ruins with fascination. He'd seen plenty of pictures of the kind of damage explosive-metal bombs produced, but never the real thing till now. Everything looked to have been blasted out from a central point, which, he supposed, was exactly what had happened. It happened with ordinary bombs, too, but not on such a scale. He wondered how many had died when the bomb went off. Then he wondered if anybody knew, even to the nearest ten thousand.

But a lot of people remained very much alive, too. The tent city north of town was enormous. Penny wrinkled her nose. "Smells like the septic tank just backed up," she said.

"It's a wonder they don't have disease." Rance spoke with the authority of a former officer. "They will before too long, if they don't do something about their sanitation pretty d.a.m.n quick."

"Dix-huit francs, monsieur," the driven said as he brought the Volkswagen to a halt. Eighteen francs was about three bucks-it would have been high for the trip back in the States, but not outrageously so. Auerbach dug in his pocket and found two shiny ten-franc coins. They didn't weigh anything to speak of; they were stamped from aluminum, which struck him as money for cheapskates. The driver seemed glad enough to get them, though. the driven said as he brought the Volkswagen to a halt. Eighteen francs was about three bucks-it would have been high for the trip back in the States, but not outrageously so. Auerbach dug in his pocket and found two shiny ten-franc coins. They didn't weigh anything to speak of; they were stamped from aluminum, which struck him as money for cheapskates. The driver seemed glad enough to get them, though. "Merci beaucoup," "Merci beaucoup," he told Rance. he told Rance.

Then Auerbach had to tell him the same thing, because the fellow and Penny had to work together to extract him from the back seat of the VW. Rance normally hated standing up, which made his ruined leg hold more weight than it really felt like bearing. Compared to being crammed into that miserable back seat, standing up wasn't half bad. He took as much of his weight as he could on his stick and his good leg.

A dumpy little woman a few years younger than Penny came up to them. "You are the Americans?" she asked. Rance's eyes snapped toward her the minute she started to speak: if she didn't have a bedroom voice, he'd never heard one. Not much to look at, but she'd be something between the sheets in the dank.

He had to remind himself he needed to answer. "Yes, we are the Americans," he said in his slow, Texas-flavored Parisian French. "And you?"

"I'm Lucie," she told him. "I'm Pierre's friend. Come with me."

They came. Even without running water, the tent city had better order than Rance would have guessed from the smell on his arrival. There were latrine trenches off in the distance. Just too many people, and they've been here too long, Just too many people, and they've been here too long, he thought. He knew about that; he and Penny had been stuck in a refugee camp for a while after the first round of fighting ended. Kids in short pants ran by, making a G.o.dawful racket. Rance almost tripped over a yappy little dog. he thought. He knew about that; he and Penny had been stuck in a refugee camp for a while after the first round of fighting ended. Kids in short pants ran by, making a G.o.dawful racket. Rance almost tripped over a yappy little dog.

The tent in which Lucie and Pierre lived was a good-sized affair whose canvas had been bleached by sun and rain. Ducking through the tent flap wasn't easy for Rance, either, but he managed, leaning on the stick. When he straightened up again, he said, "Oh, h.e.l.lo," rather foolishly, in English, because another woman was in the tent with Pierre and Lucie. She was younger than the ginger dealer, but they had a family look to them-though she was better looking than old Pierre the t.u.r.d ever dreamt of being.

She surprised him by answering in English: "h.e.l.lo. I am Monique Dutourd, Pierre's soeur- soeur-his sister."

He went back to his own bad French: "How is it that you speak English?"

"I am a professor of Roman history," she said, and then, with a flash of bitterness, "A professor too long without a position. I read English and German much better than I speak them." Her mouth narrowed into a thin line. "I hope never to speak German again."

"Any language can be useful," Pierre Dutourd said, first in English and then in the language of the Race. He went on in the latter tongue: "Is that not a truth?"

Rance and Penny had spent too much time in the company of Lizards over the past few years. They both made the Race's affirmative hand gesture at the same time. Lucie laughed, which raised a couple of gooseb.u.mps on Rance's arms. Penny gave him a sour look; she must have known what the Frenchwoman's voice was doing to him.

Lucie hefted a green gla.s.s bottle. "Wine?" she asked.

"Merci," Auerbach said, and Penny nodded. Rance would have preferred either real booze or beer, but this was France, so what could you do? Auerbach said, and Penny nodded. Rance would have preferred either real booze or beer, but this was France, so what could you do?

Pierre Dutourd raised his gla.s.s in salute. "This is a better meeting than our last one," he said.

"Amen!" Rance exclaimed, and drank. He fumbled for words. "No n.a.z.is with rifles, no trouble, no fear."

"Less fear, anyhow," the ginger dealer said. "Less trouble. The Lizards-the Lizards in authority-still do not love us. With France as she is today, this causes certain difficulties."

"But you're getting around them," Penny said after Auerbach translated for her. He started to turn that back into French, but Pierre's sister did the job faster and better than he could have.

"Yes, we are." This time, Pierre Dutourd spoke the language of the Race. "Do we all understand this speech?" Everyone did but Monique, and she seemed not particularly unhappy at being excluded. "Good," Pierre said. "Now-I am given to understand you have some of the herb you are interested in selling me?"

"Truth," Penny said.

"Congratulations on getting it into this not-empire," Dutourd said. "That is more difficult these days. Officials are altogether too friendly with the Race. Some of my former suppliers are having troubles, which is a pity: there are many males and females hereabouts who are longing for a taste."

"I hope Basil Roundbush is one of those suppliers," Rance said.

"As a matter of fact, he is," Pierre said. "You know him?" He waited for Rance to nod, then went on, "He is, I believe, fixing his troubles now."

"I hope he does not," Auerbach said, and used an emphatic cough.

"Ah?" Dutourd raised an eyebrow, scenting scandal.

"Dealing with Penny and me will mean you have less need to deal with him," Rance said. "I aim to hunt his business if I can." He didn't wait for the French ginger dealer to ask why, but went on to explain his run-in with Roundbush in Edmonton and the way the Englishman was hounding David Goldfarb.

Pierre Dutourd listened, but didn't seem much impressed. Business is business to him, the son of a b.i.t.c.h, Business is business to him, the son of a b.i.t.c.h, Auerbach thought. But when he mentioned Goldfarb's name, Monique Dutourd perked up. She and her brother went back and forth in rapid-fire French, most of it too fast for Rance to keep up with. He gathered Pierre was filling her in on what he'd said. Auerbach thought. But when he mentioned Goldfarb's name, Monique Dutourd perked up. She and her brother went back and forth in rapid-fire French, most of it too fast for Rance to keep up with. He gathered Pierre was filling her in on what he'd said.

Then she seemed to slow down deliberately, to give Auerbach a chance to understand her next words: "I think that, if it is possible for you to do without the Englishman and his ginger, you should. Anyone who would send a Jew-and a Jew who did not speak even so much as a word of French-in among the n.a.z.is is not a man who deserves to be trusted. If he has the chance to betray you, he will take it."

"I have been guarding my back for many years, Monique," Pierre said with amused affection. "I do not need you to tell me how to do it."

His sister glared at him. Auerbach was sure he'd lost the play. But then Lucie said, "It could be Monique has reason. I have never trusted this Roundbush, either. He is too friendly. He is too handsome. He thinks too much of himself. Such men are not to be relied upon-and now we have another choice."

Rance had been trying to keep up with a translation for Penny, but he caught that. With a nod to good old Pierre the t.u.r.d, he said, "C'est vrai. "C'est vrai. Now you have another choice." Now you have another choice."

"It could be," Dutourd said. Auerbach carefully didn't smile. He knew a nibble on the hook when he felt one.

Monique Dutourd looked up from the letter she was writing. She wondered how many applications she'd sent out to universities all over France. She also wondered how many of those universities still existed at the moment, and how many had vanished off the face of the earth in an instant of explosive-metal fine.

And she wondered how many letters she'd sent to universities still extant had got where they were addressed. The situation with the mail in newly independent France remained shockingly bad. The n.a.z.is would never have tolerated such inefficiency. Of course, the n.a.z.is would have read a lot of the letters in the mailstream along with delivering them. Monique dared hope the officials of the Republique Francaise Republique Francaise weren't doing the same. weren't doing the same.

She also dared hope department chairmen were were reading the letters she sent them. She had very little on which to base that hope. Only three or four letters had come back to the tent city outside Ma.r.s.eille. None of them showed the least interest in acquiring the services of a new Romanist. reading the letters she sent them. She had very little on which to base that hope. Only three or four letters had come back to the tent city outside Ma.r.s.eille. None of them showed the least interest in acquiring the services of a new Romanist.

Because n.o.body cared about her academic specialty, she remained stuck with her brother and Lucie. She wished she could get away, but they were the ones who had the money-they had plenty of it. They were generous about sharing it with her: more generous, probably, than she would have been were roles reversed. But being dependent on a couple of ginger dealers rankled.

Not for the first time, Monique wished she'd studied something useful instead of Latin and Greek. Then she could have struck out on her own, got work for herself. As things were, she had to stay here unless she wanted to spend the rest of her days as a shopgirl or a maid of all work.

Pierre glanced over to her and said, "Do you really think I ought to tell the Englishman to go peddle his papers? He and I have done business for a long time, and who can be sure if these Americans are reliable?"

"You're asking me about your business?" Monique said, more than a little astonished. "You've never asked me about business before, except when it had to do with that cochon cochon from the from the Gestapo." Gestapo."

"I knew plenty about him without asking you, too," her brother said. "But he did make a nuisance of himself when he connected the two of us."

"A nuisance of himself!" Now Monique had to fight to keep from exploding. Dieter Kuhn might have hounded Pierre, but he'd not only hounded Monique but also subjected her to a full-scale n.a.z.i-style interrogation and then forced his way into her bed. As far as she was concerned, the one good thing about the explosive-metal bomb that had burst on Ma.r.s.eille was that it turned Kuhn to radioactive dust.

"A nuisance," Pierre repeated placidly. Monique glared at him. He ignored the glare. His thoughts were fixed firmly on himself, on his own affairs. "You did not answer what I asked about the Americans."

"Yes, I think you should work with them," Monique answered. "If you have a choice between someone with a conscience and someone without, would you not rather work with the side that has one?"

"You're probably right," Pierre said. "If I have none myself, people with a conscience are easier to take advantage of."

"Impossible man!" Monique exclaimed. "What would our mother and father say if they knew what you'd turned into?"

"What would they say? I like to think they'd say, 'Congratulations, Pierre. We never expected that anyone in the family would get rich, and now you've gone and done it.' " Monique's brother raised an eyebrow. "Getting rich does not seem to be anything you're in severe danger of doing. When you were teaching, you weren't getting much, and now you can't even find a job."

"I was doing what I wanted to do," Monique said. "If I weren't your sister, I'd still be doing what I wanted to do."

"If you weren't my sister, you'd be dead," Pierre said coldly. "You'd have been living back at your old flat, and it was a lot closer to where the bomb went off than my place in the Porte d'Aix was. Next time you feel like calling me nasty names or asking about our parents, kindly bear that in mind."

He was, infuriatingly, bound to be right. That didn't make Monique resent him any less-on the contrary. But it would make her more careful about saying what was on her mind. "All right." Even she could hear how grudging she sounded. "But I have spent a lot of time learning to be a historian. I've never spent any time learning the ginger business."

"It's all common sense," her brother told her. "Common sense and a good ear for what's true and what's a lie-and the nerve not to let anyone cheat you. People-and Lizards-have to know you'll never let anybody cheat you."

A historian needed the first two traits. The third... Monique wondered how many people Pierre and his henchmen had killed. He'd been willing enough-more than willing enough-to use his Lizard friends to try to arrange Dieter Kuhn's untimely demise. It hadn't worked; the Lizard a.s.sa.s.sin, unable to tell one human from another, had gunned down a fish merchant by mistake. Of course, that effort had been in Pierre's interest as well as Monique's. She wondered if he ever did anything not in his own interest.

And she didn't like the way he was eyeing her now. In musing tones, he said, "If I go with the Americans, little sister, you could be useful to me-you know English, after all. Even if I find the Americans don't work out, I'll go back to the Englishman-and you could be useful with him, too."

"Suppose I don't want to be... useful?" Monique had never-well, never this side of Dieter Kuhn-heard a word whose sound she liked less.

Her brother, as she'd already seen, was a relentless pragmatist. With a shrug, he answered, "I've carried you for a while now, Monique. Don't you think it's time you started earning your keep, one way on another?"

"I'm trying to do just that." She held up the letter she was working on. "I haven't had any luck, that's all."

"One way or another, I said." Pierre sighed. "I admire you for trying to go on doing what you had done, truly I do. You can even go on trying to do it. I have no objection whatsoever, and I will congratulate you if you get a position. But if you don't..." His smile was sad and oddly charming. "If you don't, you can work for me."

"I was just thinking you hadn't been cruel enough to say anything like that to me," Monique replied, her voice bitter. She snapped her fingers. "So much for that."

"You don't have to make up your mind right away," Pierre said. "But do remember, I pulled wires to get you away from the purification police. I hoped you might want to show you were grateful."

Monique scornfully tossed her head. "If you weren't my brother, you'd be using that line to get me to go to bed with you." All of a sudden, the prospect of being a maid of all work didn't look so bad.

"Thank you, but no. I would not be interested even then-I've never had much use for women who argue and talk back all the time," Pierre replied with wounding dignity. Monique wondered how well he knew himself. Lucie was anything but a shrinking violet.

But that thought flickered in her mind and then was gone. She wanted to hit back, to wound. "I believe you there," she said. "The only time you'd want them to open their mouths would be to swallow something-just like that d.a.m.ned SS man. I'm surprised you didn't jump to put on your own black shirt. They'd have paid you well, after all, and what else is there?"

Pierre surprised her with an immediate, emphatic answer: "Not being told what to do, of course. I had a bellyful of orders in the Army. I've done my best not to have to take them ever since."

"You don't care to take them, that could be," Monique snarled. "But you don't mind giving them, do you? No, you don't mind that a bit."

Her brother spread his hands in a startlingly philosophical gesture. "If one does not take orders, it is because he can give them, n'est ce-pas? n'est ce-pas? Do you see any other arrangement?" Do you see any other arrangement?"

"I had had another arrangement, till being your sister turned my life upside down," Monique said. "I taught my cla.s.ses, and outside of that I studied what I wanted, what interested me. No one made me do it. No one would have been interested in making me do anything. People another arrangement, till being your sister turned my life upside down," Monique said. "I taught my cla.s.ses, and outside of that I studied what I wanted, what interested me. No one made me do it. No one would have been interested in making me do anything. People let me alone. let me alone. Do you understand what that means? Do you have any idea what that means?" Do you understand what that means? Do you have any idea what that means?"

"It means you were very lucky," Pierre said. "If you get another position, you will be lucky again. But if you are not so lucky, what then? Why, then you have to work for a living, just like everyone else."

"There is a difference between working for a living and playing the wh.o.r.e," Monique said. "Maybe you can't understand that, but the Germans already made me play the wh.o.r.e. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I let my brother do the same."

She threw down the letter-why not? it was bound to be useless, anyhow-and stormed out of the tent. She fled not just the tent but the whole tent city as if it were accursed. It might as well have been, as far as she was concerned. If she'd had a little lead tablet and thought inscribing a curse in the name of the G.o.ds would have wiped the miserable place from the face of the earth, she would have done it in a heartbeat. As things were, all she could do was storm away.

Ma.r.s.eille was a great racket of bulldozers and jackhammers and saws and ordinary hammers and tools for which she didn't even have names. Wrecked buildings were coming down. New buildings were going up. Most of those new buildings were supposed to be blocks of flats. Monique didn't see the tent city shrinking, though. She had a pretty good idea what that meant: somebody's pockets were getting lined.

She didn't want to look at the buildings. Looking at them reminded her she wasn't living in one of them, that she wouldn't be able to afford to live in one of them. They had things she could buy-unless Pierre cut off all her money. What would I do then? What would I do then? she wondered. she wondered. Could I stand his business? Could I stand his business? She doubted it. And yet... She doubted it. And yet...

A man smoking a pipe called out a lewd proposition. Monique rounded on him and, in a voice that could be heard all over the square, suggested that he ask his mother for the same service. He turned very red. He turned even redder when people jeered him and cheered her. Puffing furiously at the pipe, he withdrew in disorder.

"Nicely done, Professor Dutourd," someone behind Monique said. "A boor like that deserves whatever happens to him."

She whirled. The world whirled around her. There stood Sturmbannfuhrer Sturmbannfuhrer Dieter Kuhn. In civilian clothes, he looked like a Frenchman, but his accent declared who and what he was. "In that case, you deserved to be blown to the devil," she snapped. "I thought you were. I Dieter Kuhn. In civilian clothes, he looked like a Frenchman, but his accent declared who and what he was. "In that case, you deserved to be blown to the devil," she snapped. "I thought you were. I prayed prayed you were." you were."

He smiled the smile he no doubt thought so charming. "No such luck, I'm afraid. I was sent back to the Vaterland Vaterland two days before the bomb fell here. They were going to put me in a panzer unit, but the two days before the bomb fell here. They were going to put me in a panzer unit, but the Reich Reich surrendered before they could." He shrugged. surrendered before they could." He shrugged. "C'est la vie." "C'est la vie."

"What are you doing here here again?" Monique asked. again?" Monique asked.

"Why, I am a tourist, of course. I have a pa.s.sport and visa to prove it," the SS man replied with another of those not quite charming smiles.

"And what are you here to see?" Monique's wave took in ruin and reconstruction. "There isn't much left to to see." see."

"Oh, but Ma.r.s.eille is still the home of so many wonderful herbs," Kuhn said blandly. Christ, Christ, Monique thought. Monique thought. He's still in the ginger business. The He's still in the ginger business. The Reich Reich is still in the ginger business. He'll be looking for Pierre. And if I start working for Pierre, he'll be looking for me, too. is still in the ginger business. He'll be looking for Pierre. And if I start working for Pierre, he'll be looking for me, too.

Every time David Goldfarb crossed a street, he didn't just look both ways. He made careful calculations. If a car suddenly sped up, could it get him? Or could he scramble up onto the sidewalk and something close to safety? Nothing like almost getting killed to make one consider such things.

Of course, that fellow who'd tried to run him down wasn't the first driver in Edmonton who'd almost killed him-just the first one who'd meant to. David had a lifetime of looking left first before stepping off the curb. But Canadians, like their American cousins, drove on the right. That was a recipe for attempted suicide. Goldfarb didn't try to do himself in quite so often as he had after first crossing the Atlantic, but it still happened in moments of absentmindedness.

This morning, he got to the Saskatchewan River Widget Works unscathed by either would-be murderers or drivers he didn't notice till too late. "h.e.l.lo, there," Hal Walsh said. As usual, the boss was there before any of the people who worked for him. He pointed to a Russian-style samovar he'd recently installed. "Make yourself some tea, get your brains lubricated, and go to town."

As usual, Goldfarb complained about the samovar: "Why couldn't you leave the honest kettle? That d.a.m.n thing is a heathen invention."

"You're a fine one to talk about heathens, pal," Walsh retorted. Every now and again, he would make cracks about David's Judaism. Things being as they were in Britain, that had made Goldfarb nervous. But Hal Walsh, unlike Sin Oswald Mosley and his ilk, didn't mean anything nasty by it. He gave Jack Devereaux a hand time about being French-Canadian, and also derided his own Anglo-Saxon and Celtic ancestors. Goldfarb had decided he could live with that.

He did get himself a cup of tea. "b.l.o.o.d.y miracle you set out milk for it," he said. "With this contraption, I'd think you'd want us to drink it Russian-style, with just sugar. My parents do that. Not me, though."

"You're acculturated," Walsh said. Goldfarb must have looked blank, because his boss explained: "England was your mother country, so you got used to doing things the way Englishmen do."

"Too right I did," Goldfarb said, and explained how he was in danger of doing himself an injury every time he tried to cross the street.

Walsh laughed, then stopped abruptly. "My brother went to London a couple of years ago, and I remember him complaining because he kept looking the wrong way. I hadn't thought about your being in the same boat here."

"What boat's that?" asked Jack Devereaux. He made straight for the samovar and got himself a cup of tea. He didn't worry that the gleaming gadget was un-British; he wasn't British himself, not by blood, though he spoke English far more fluently than French. "David, did you take the t.i.tanic?" t.i.tanic?"

"Of course, and you're daft if you think I didn't have fun rigging a sail on the iceberg afterwards so I could finish getting over here," Goldfarb retorted.

Devereaux gave him a quizzical look. "What all have you got in that teacup?" he asked, and then, before David could answer, "Can I have some, too?"