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A couple of the technicians gave Drucker curious or hostile looks as they helped him into his pressure suit. His fellow pilots weren’t the only ones who knew about his troubles with the higher-ups, of course. But then one of the techs said, “Good to see you cleared for launch again, sir.”
“Thanks, Helmut,” Drucker answered. “I’ve been away too long. Going back will feel good.” It will certainly feel a hell of a lot better than getting thrown in the guardhouse and handed over to the blackshirts for interrogation.
But, as he rode the elevator to the upper stage of the A-45, he wondered about that. If the new Fuhrer really was crazy enough to go to war with the Lizards over Poland, how long would the German spacecraft in Earth orbit last? For that matter, how much longer would the Hermann Goring last, out in the asteroid belt?
He shrugged. He couldn’t do anything about that. And if the Race blew him out of orbit, odds were he’d be dead before he knew it. He wouldn’t be able to say that if the SS got its hooks into him.
Hans-Ulrich’s Bus. That was the name painted on the upper stage’s flank. When Drucker climbed into the bus, he discovered it had seen better days. Everything looked worn, shabby; he half expected to find cigarette butts under the leather-covered acceleration couch. But, as he went through the checks, he found everything in working order. A good thing, too, because they were going to launch him any which way. A technician slammed the entry port shut. Drucker dogged it. Conversations with the launch crew were quicker, more perfunctory, than they had been before the crisis. They wanted to get him out there, and only some obviously looming disaster would keep them from doing it.
It would be a disaster for me if they aborted, all right, Drucker thought.
But they didn’t. The last numbers of the countdown sounded in his earphones, and then the great thunder of the A-45’s main engine sounded in every fiber of his body. Acceleration slammed him back into the seat. He wondered whether Hans Ulrich’s Bus had an old-model seat, or if it was simply that he hadn’t gone up for a while. Whichever it was, the kick in the pants seemed harder than usual.
All the instruments read as they should have. As far as they could judge, the flight was perfect. When acceleration cut off, with the upper stage in its proper orbit, Drucker’s stomach lurched a couple of times before settling down. I’ve been away too long, he thought with something approaching horror. He was normally one of the minority who enjoyed weightlessness.
And then, as he’d known it would, the radio squawked into life: “Lieutenant Colonel Drucker! Lieutenant Colonel Drucker! Do you read me, Lieutenant Colonel Drucker?”
“Not very well-your signal is breaking up,” he lied.
It didn’t matter. The radio operator on the other end of the circuit went right on talking: “You are to land your upper stage immediately, Lieutenant Colonel. Ground telemetry has discovered an oxygen-line leak. Your safety is endangered.”
In normal times, that would have got him down in a hurry. Now he smiled and said, “My instruments say everything is normal. The Reich needs me here. I’ll take the chance and stay.”
“Your patriotism is appreciated”-I’ll bet, Drucker thought-“but we cannot take the risk. You are ordered to return to Earth as soon as possible.”
“For the sake of the Vaterland, I must disobey this order.” Drucker’s smile got bigger. Two hypocrites were trying to outlie each other.
The radioman cajoled. He talked about the blemish on Drucker’s sterling service record. He talked about disciplinary action after Drucker did land. Before very long, he faded out of range. Another one would pick up the thread soon. Drucker was sure of it. But that didn’t matter. They couldn’t talk him down. He didn’t think they’d have another flier in an upper stage try to shoot him down. His smile slipped then. No, they’d save that for the Lizards-and the Lizards were all too likely to be able to pull it off.
19
Jonathan Yeager’s voice broke in exasperation, something that hadn’t happened to him in a couple of years. “But, Mom!” he cried.
“No,” his mother repeated. “N-O. No. You are not going up there while the Race and the Germans are liable to start throwing things at each other any minute now, and that’s final.”
“Your mother’s right,” his father said. “It’s just too dangerous right now. Let’s wait and see how things work out. Kassquit’s not going anywhere.”
“It’s not just Kassquit,” Jonathan said. “It’s the chance to do all this stuff, to go up there, to talk with the Lizards.” He felt his ears getting hot just the same. It wasn’t just Kassquit, but a lot of it was.
His father shook his head. “Wait,” he said. “After things settle down-if things settle down-the invitation will still be open.”
“Dad…” Jonathan took a deep breath. “Dad, the invitation was for me, you know. If the Lizards want me up there, if they’ll take me up there, I can go.”
“You can,” his mother said. “You can, but you may not. You do not have our permission.”
Another deep breath-and then one more for luck. “I’d like your permission, sure, but I don’t have to have it. I’m twenty-one now. If they’ll take me, I’m going to go, and that’s flat.”
“You’re doing no such thing,” his mother said through clenched teeth.
“Barbara-” his father said in a tone of voice that made his mother look as if she’d been stabbed in the back. His father took a deep breath of his own, then went on, “I was eighteen when I left the farm, you know.”
“You weren’t heading off to places where the world could blow up any minute, though,” Jonathan’s mother said.
“No, but I might have if I’d been a little older,” his father answered. “Plenty of boys Jonathan’s age couldn’t get off the farm fast enough to go fight in the trenches. And I tried to join the Army after Pearl Harbor, but they wouldn’t have me.” He opened his mouth and tapped one of the front teeth on his upper plate. “They took me after the Lizards landed, but they took anybody who was breathing then.”
If they’d taken him earlier I wouldn’t be here, because he never would have met Mom, Jonathan thought. His mind shied away from things like that. Dealing with what was seemed hard enough; might-have-beens were a lot worse.
“Let him go, Barbara,” his father said. “It’s what he wants to do-and the Lizards have a lot of ships out there. Even if the worst happens, odds are he’ll be fine.”
“Odds!” His mother made it into the filthiest word in the language. She turned on her heel and walked back to the bedroom with long, furious strides. She slammed the door after her when she went in there. Jonathan couldn’t remember her ever doing that before.
“Congratulations,” his father said. “You’ve won. Go pack a bag. Your mom’s right about this much: you may be up there longer than you expect.”
“Okay. Jesus, Dad, thanks!” Jonathan bounced to his feet. He started to hurry off to his own room, then stopped and turned back. Hesitantly, he asked, “How much trouble will you get into for this?”
“As long as you come home safe, nothing that won’t blow over.” His father hesitated, too. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be in too much trouble with myself to worry about what your mother does.”
Jonathan didn’t care to think about that, so he didn’t. He hurried into his bedroom and packed shorts and underwear and socks, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a razor and a pack of blades. He wasn’t worried about food; if the Lizards had fed Kassquit all these years, they could take care of him, too. And he packed something he’d bought at a drugstore he didn’t usually go to: a box of Trojans.
His father took care of the arrangements with the Race and with his own superiors. At supper that evening-as brittle a meal as Jonathan had ever eaten-his dad said, “Launch from the Race’s shuttlecraft is a little past four tomorrow afternoon. I’ll drive you to the airport.”
“Okay,” Jonathan said. By his mother’s closed expression, she didn’t think it was anywhere close to okay. His d
ad didn’t look convinced, either. Neither one of them contradicted him out loud, though.
He thought about calling Karen. In the end, he didn’t. What could he say, considering why he was going into space? Either nothing or a pack of lies. Nothing seemed better.
He took care of Mickey and Donald the next day, knowing he wouldn’t for a while. He waved to them. “I’m going away, but I’ll come back pretty soon. Bye-bye.” They waved back. Mickey made a noise that might have been bye-bye, but it might not have, too. He and Donald talked more than baby Lizards had any business doing, but less than baby people.
His father took him up to the airport. Cops-no, they were soldiers-escorted the car to the shuttlecraft’s landing area. “Thanks, Dad,” Jonathan said as he got out.
“I’m not so sure you’re welcome,” his father answered, but then he stuck out his hand. Jonathan leaned back in to shake it.
