Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

jumpy, and it took him several minutes to thaw out his lock so that the key would work.

“Dorfman,” someone called from behind, and Deland nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Wollen She mil mir gehen?”

Deland had tried to be a loner, but with Rudy Schlechter, a mathematician in fuel management systems, it was nearly impossible. The man had an infectious grin and manner. Even when his superiors were chastising him for one thing or another (he was also a practical joker), they’d be doing it with a grin.

He was a tall man, somewhat on the thin side, with graying temples that would have made him look distinguished except for the fact he always seemed to be dressed in crumpled suits, his tie dirty and his shirt stained. He stood by the open door of his Volkswagen—one of the new Hitler cars—grinning. How he managed to get the car in the first place was a mystery, matched only by the mystery of how he managed to get gasoline ration coupons.

“Come on, Dorfman, we’ll tie your bicycle on the roof. You can ride up there on it, if you wish.”

Deland laughed, forcing himself to sound natural. He walked his bike across the roadway. “I suppose you have some wine and cheese in there. Perhaps a fat sausage.”

“And dancing girls. Don’t forget the dancing girls,” Schlechter laughed, helping Deland raise his bicycle onto the roof of the tiny car. He got some twine out of the trunk, and they tied the bicycle frame to the front and rear bumpers.

Ordinarily, Deland would have refused such an offer, but he had been very carefully cultivating the other man. Schlechter had an enormous intelligence potential. As the fuel flows, so does the rocket. In another time, Deland thought, he and Schlechter could have been friends. It was saddening.

“It will be among your more difficult problems over there,” one of his instructors had told him. “There will be no safe haven. Unlike here at home, where you can make friends freely, without worry, in Nazi Germany you will be watched twenty-four hours a day. Never forget it. Your life may depend upon your remembering it.”

They pulled away from the parking lot and headed west on the main island highway that led to the ferry to Wolgast. A half dozen heavy Army trucks passed them on their way to the station. Schlechter glanced in the rearview mirror after them.

“We’re supposed to have a storm tonight. I don’t think they’ll be able to fire the rocket tomorrow.”

Deland looked sharply at the man. Was it some sort of a test, or was the man being a fool? “I don’t think we should talk about that sort of thing, Rudy,” he said.

Schlechter glanced at him and laughed. “You’re right, of course. They’d probably hang me by the thumbs.” Careful, Deland told himself. “Are you fellows having problems over in C-Hut?”

This time Schlechter laughed out loud. “Problems! It’s not the word for the mess we’re in. No one knows what’s going on. Von Braun himself was in today, ranting and raving about what incompetent fools we were.” He chuckled. “When he left, he forgot his hat and gloves.”

“They have us working on the Irish thing.”

“What’s that?” Schlechter asked casually. Too casually.

“Oh, you know, trajectories for the V9 and V10.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Forget it,” Deland mumbled, his stomach churning. He wished he had ridden his bicycle.

“No, I’m serious. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I have my own questions.” Deland said nothing.

“They took us off the alcohol problem, and we’re supposed to be designing pumps for corrosive liquids. But they never tell us exactly what sort of liquids we’d be working with. Have you any idea what the hell they mean?”

“They are working on new fuels; I did hear that. Supposedly much more powerful than alcohol. But they’d still need liquid oxygen. I can’t see any way “around that.”

“There’re ways,” Schlechter said. “But we’ve not been asked to do away with the Lox pumps, just to design a pump to move corrosive liquids at very high speeds.” Schlechter shook his head.

“It’s crazy, you know, Dorfman, but we’re probably losing the war, so none of this will matter much in the end.”

“Don’t talk that way, Rudy,” Deland said sharply.

“Sorry.” Schlechter shook his head again.

They passed through the tiny village of Bannemin, then a few kilometers later crossed the Peene River into Wolgast, the wind kicking up whitecaps on the water.

Before the war, Wolgast had been a commercial fishing center of about ten thousand people. But the work at Peenemunde had swollen its population by nearly half. Deland lived in a rooming house on the far north side of the city, and he was about to direct Schlechter that way when the man pulled up and parked in the square downtown.

“What’s this?” Deland asked.

“Just hold on there, Dorfman; I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

“I really …”

Schlechter turned off the ignition, opened the door, and jumped out of the car. “You can stay here and freeze in the car, if you’d like, but I really need a big favor from you. It won’t take much of your time. But it’ll be worth it. You’ll see.”

Deland laughed after a moment, his earlier dark mood deepening.

His gut was killing him and his heart was hammering, but there was no way of refusing this man without arousing suspicion. He had only known Schlechter for a few months, since the man had transferred in from the research station at Bleicherode. Before that, he said, he had been at Kummersdorf West, near Berlin.

Until today, Deland had liked the man, so far as a Nazi could be liked. But he was getting a bad feeling about him now. Something was not quite right.

He got out of the car, nevertheless, a grin on his face. He was either going to stay and do the job he had been sent to do, or he was going to turn tail and get the hell out. He wasn’t going to sit