Дэймон Найт - Orbit 11

“Two hundred percent Aryan, we assure you.”

They wore one pair of gloves between them, open umbrella in gloved right hand, portable TV in gloved left, a pack of cards.

“Take a card. Any one.”

Fast trick? Portnoygraphy? Ambivalence chaser? Frank Boguslaw hesitated, then grabbed a card. The others huddled with him to study squiggly lines on a scrap of graph paper. The twins clicked the inner pair of heels and bowed.

“Servus. Graf Emil und Franz von und zu Zwim.” Each had a regular tic in his dueling scar. “We are with Das Reisebüro.” The twinkle in Emil’s monocle said he meant an underground travel bureau offering Fluchthilfe for a price. “Do you mind if we turn on the Fernsehen” —they glanced at Ben Copeland—”or, as you might put it, the telavivzion. Two cannot be too careful.”

Franz switched the set on and raised the volume as if to over talk, but neither twin said more. The tourists shot gazes to the screen as a voice-over told them they were watching a documentary on the design of the Defense Wall.

A section of Wall by night. A man amoebaed out of darkness, crept toward the Wall, climbed the first fence, made for the second. Touching the second fence set off an alarm that froze him a moment, then he took the fence. He crossed the dog run before the German shepherds got there, but tripped a flare that brought him under searchlights and machine guns. He raced across asphalt as armored cars sped down from both ends. He left a stagger of footprints in plowed earth that came next, jumped the anti-facist tank ditch, and dashed over a hundred-foot strip of cinders under mercury-vapor lamps that almost bleached him out of being. A hidden six-inch steel spike pierced his foot but he tore free and limped to the Wall. He gathered himself, sprang. His hands reached, curved over, but slid off the too-big, too-smooth pipe coping the Wall. His dead flesh still twitched to machine-gun bullets and voice-over. “This is how we save our people from the clutches of the capitalist imperialists.” Franz switched the set off.

“See what you’re up against? You need our help. But we can’t stand here talking.” Emil pointed to children of the Freie Deutsche Jugend patrolling the street looking for TV antennas oriented to pull in the Western signal. “Meet us at Des Pudels Kern. We’ll take a taxi now. Wait five minutes and follow.”

Des Pudels Kern proved a Restaurant zur Forelle; through plate glass they saw a large tank of live trout in the main room; through the tank the Graf’s monocles swam in come-hither.

The lettering swam on Ben’s menu. He ordered what came to mind, a Schmarren; he felt unsatisfied but unhungry on finishing it. The rest gave in to the frowning monocles and ordered trout. The twins had already ordered and each ate enough Rindfleisch mit Ananas und Kirschen for two. Carol shared her fried potatoes with Martin; she and Martin were both watching her figure.

As napkins came into play, Franz gripped his handlebar mustache and steered his head in a sweep of the table, keenly monocling Ben and Carol and Frank and Sue and Martin and Liza and, with a start, Emil. The Venus flytrap in Franz’s lapel spat out the husk of an olive-colored bug.

“We can talk now. Due to the nature of our business, we can’t show you references, but we serve a worldwide clientele. We’ve been around. We’ve seen the River Dodder meander and the River Meander dodder. We’ve woven irenics in Poland and polemics in Ireland. No false modesty. We know our jobs. You want out: here’s your chance. We’ll guarantee to spirit you out of East Germany. The fee’s a measly thousand dollars or West German measly equivalent. Half now, half on delivery.”

The twins looked away, both ways, boredly. The tourists eyed one another, then nodded and got up five hundred dollars, which the twins pocketed absently.

“Stay put another quarter hour, when it will be midnight, then slip out the back. A Lastkraftwagen will be waiting, license plate JWD. Got that? Good.”

The Graf rose, clicked, and left. The waiter appeared and handed the tourists the tab. He was long time coming back with their change and they saw through the trout tank Grepo, Vopo, Trapo, and Kripo pull up out front in the resurrected Hertz VW. Pretending to head for Herren and Damen, the tourists made a controlled run to the rear.

An LKW idled out back in the parallel street, license plate JWD. Red flags jutted fore and aft and “SPRENGSTOFF” blazed in luminous paint on the tarpaulin. The LKW started without them. Ben runningboarded the cab, found the Graf there, monocleless, bereted, and with Che Guevara beards that hid the dueling scars. The van braked. Franz was a bit behindhand concealing a button on the dashboard. The lettering, Torschlusspanikknopf, meant nothing to Ben at the moment. Emil tapped the crystal of his wristwatch.

“Fourteen past twelve.”

“I know, but we couldn’t help it.”

“A bad job. We don’t like the smell of it.”

“They were trying to hold us back but we got away.”

“That doesn’t make the odor nicer. Well, all right, but we’ve got to hurry.”

Ben jumped down and joined the others at the rear. After a tug of war the twins fell out Emil’s side, hurried to the back, unlashed tarp, and lowered tailgate. Ben and Martin joined hands, the women mounted the Spitzbubenleiter, the men climbed aboard. The twins upped tailgate, lashed tarp, and ran to the cab. The LKW pulled away.

Heehaw heehaw.

“Stephen bleiben!” Grepo’s voice.

Slugs tore through the tarp and ricocheted off metal. The tourists tensed against no future, but the firing stopped as the LKW drew away. Through the bullet holes they saw Grepo, Kripo, Trapo, and Vopo jump and wave to commandeer a car.

The LKW sped on. After a kilometer it slowed for a sharp turn; the passengers stumbled backward toward the front, their calves striking metal. Six steel boxes formed a bench across the floor. They sat bouncily on the boxes as the LKW picked up speed. Suddenly remembering the words Sprengstoff and Torschlusspanikknopf, Ben got up and felt around; welds held the box to the floor, a padlock secured the lid. He sat down gingerly. The others knew what had crossed his mind; they were sitting on TNT: if the police caught up, the Graf had only to press the button to do away with the evidence.

Franz intercommed. “There’s a picnic hamper if you’re hungry.”

They made out the hamper in a corner. “Thanks.”

Silence but for the slick sound of the road underwheel, then, “They are tailing us, Emil.”

“Karambolage is in order, Franz.”

The passengers shot to their feet and peered through the bullet holes. Grepo, Kripo, Vopo, and Trapo hung out of a PKW that wove in and out of traffic to the notes of Trapo’s Martinshorn. The heehawing grew louder. The fugitives saw a window in the cab crank open and heard two shots crack out.

Behind them and ahead of the pursuing car a truck hauling hundreds of pigs slewed and struck a tank truck full of salvaged crankcase oil; both trucks overturned. Oil purled around independent pigs, slithered vehicles into a massive pileup, then the autobahn stretched out empty behind the LKW. Horns, squeals, grunts, curses, screams faded in a dying heehaw.

The LKW took the next exit. The cab spotlight picked out chalkings on gateposts and utility poles and these Zinken drew the LKW along trafficless back roads, with only an occasional “Darf! darf!” from some farmyard. The LKW pulled up without warning. The twins unlashed tarp and lowered tailgate. The tourists climbed out onto a dark byroad in the shelter of trees.