Bill, The Galactic Hero 6 - on the Planet Of The Hippies From Hell (15 page)

Not so the other man in the room. The seated man looked up from a neatly arranged desk. He was an older man, with graying, slicked-back hair. He wore a tie and round spectacles. He looked up and scowled.

“How did you jokers get in?”

“Through the door!” Elliot sneered. “You are Kraft-Nibbling — the editor of ASTOUNDING. Don't deny it!”

“William Kraft-Nibbling? Father of the atomic bomb? Hardly,” said the owlish-looking man, blinking with surprise. “But I am editor of SADO-MASO SUPERMEN!”

Elliot shook his head as though to clear it. “The father of the atomic bomb — something's wrong here. Who are you?”

“Why, Maxwell Perkins, of course. Remember that name as you leave.”

Bill of course had never heard of Perkins; however, Elliot, keen student of history, apparently had. He nonetheless checked his Time Ticker to be certain.

“Maxwell Perkins — famous editor at Scribners. Editor of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Thomas Wolfe, amongst others?” he said, looking down at the digital readout.

“Yes, you finally got something correct. In fact, that's Thomas Wolfe right over there beside that refrigerator.... How's it going, Tom?”

“...of wandering forever and her breasts again ... of seed-time, bloom and the mellow-dropping oversexed juveniles. And the flowers, the rich flower genitalia of the countryside....” The gigantic, rumpled author muttered like a man possessed. He finished the page and then dropped it into the milk crate.

“Yes! Sounds quite excellent, Thomas!” Maxwell Perkins looked over at the new arrivals. “It'll need some trimming, of course, for comix continuity. Wolfe does go on. But then, that's what I'm paid for. Tom's writing the new serial for TITILLATIONS — a juicy item titled LINGAM AND YONI ON THE RIVER OF LOVE. In a way it is kind of a sequel to Fitzgerald's GREAT GATSBY'S GREAT ORGAN.”

“Wait a minute,” said Elliot. “Thomas Wolfe and F. Scott Fitzgerald never wrote horny-porny comix!”

“Well of course they write horny-porny!” said Perkins, indignant. “They are the greatest writers of our time — and horny-porny is the greatest literary innovation of the twentieth century!”

Bill was looking at the covers on display. He read the titles of stories out loud. “THE ERECTION ALSO RISES by Ernest Hemingway. THE SEX-CREATURES FROM THE SOUTH by William Faulkner. Wow! Sounds like great stuff.”

“Something's wrong,” said Elliot, shaking his head morosely. “Something's definitely wrong! Either Sir Dudley put us in an alternate universe. Or that hippie went back much further in time!”

Bill was tapping on a framed cover. “I don't suppose you'd have a comix adaptation of THE PREVERTS OF MAGIC MOUNTAIN STRIKE BACK by Thomas Mann, would you? That looks like a really hot story!”

“Incredible stylistic advances!” said Perkins. “Art and sex bound together. And does it sell!”

“Wait a minute ... you say that Kraft-Nibbling invented the atomic bomb?”

“That's right.”

“But it's not supposed to be this way ... there's been a terrible mistake.” He noticed a newspaper clipping on the desk, picked it up, and read the headline. “COMMUNIST TRAITORS EXECUTED FOR STEALING NUCLEAR SECRETS FOR RUSSIANS. What's all this — fiction?”

“Nope — hard fact,” said Perkins. “The Chief of the S.S. caught them red-handed!”

“S.S.!” said Elliot. “You mean to tell me that the United States is run by a Nazi government?”

“Please, we don't use that term anymore since Uncle Adolph changed it in 1936. It's now the 'National Capitalists.'”

“The Nakies?” said Bill.

“How astute. Some say it's a shame about the colored people, but boy, my train from Connecticut sure gets to the station on time now!”

Grasping for understanding, Elliot turned to Perkins. “But you say that Kraft-Nibbling invented the nuclear bomb — and wait a minute — Thomas Wolfe is supposed to be dead now....”

The large, gangling writer suddenly took notice. “Horny-porny comix saved my life!” he said with total conviction. “Why, when I first read 'THE SEXUAL ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN,' by Mark Twain, I knew I'd found my mode of expression!”

“I don't understand,” said Elliot, totally baffled. “A Fascist American government? Publishing dominated by horny-porny! We're going to have to go and consult with Dudley again. We've got bigger problems here than I thought possible! Come on, Bill!”

They stood at a busy city intersection. Elliot was consulting his Time Ticker.

“Queens,” he said. “That's where Sir Dudley said he was going. It is a portion of New York City where they are having a fair or carnival of some kind. Looks like we have to take a subway to get there.”

“What on Earth — or under the Earth — is a subway?” asked Bill.

“What I mean, of course, is a subway 'train,' Bill. And, according to the directions displayed on this machine, we should take the 'N' train, and there is an entrance right up here at the corner.”

“Why can't we take a sky cab?” complained Bill, not enamored of underground journeys in ancient apparatus.

“Because right now we are back in time way before sky cabs, Bill. And I don't have enough local currency to take a regular cab. According to the Ticker, the subway only costs a nickel — which is five of the cents here — and I found this twenty-five cent piece on the ground. Understand any of this higher mathematics?”

Bill grunted monosyllabically. In truth he had not been paying attention to the sums but had been admiring the sign, BAR, on a building ahead.

“How about a beer?” he suggested.

“No money, no time. Down here.” Elliot led him down a set of cement steps toward the dim and subterranean world of New York transportation.

They did not notice the figure in the gray trench coat, brim of hat tilted low, hands shoved in pockets, black armband labeled 'SS,' furtively following them.

The subway train was an ancient and stinking piece of machinery that swayed back and forth most noisily. Bill began to feel more than a trifle ill. To take his mind off his stomach, he settled down on his seat and examined the line of advertisements running along the top of the car.

“Uncle Adolf loves you!”

“Smoke 'Panzer Strike' Cigarettes!”

“Buy German-American!”

“Drink Bavarian Beer — Or Else!”

The subway train rolled through Queens. All of the passengers got off at stations along the line, except for Bill, Elliot and the guy wearing the trench coat and the hat sitting way down on the other side of the car.

The car wrenched onward, lights sputtering. The contents of Bill's digestive system gurgled sympathetically. Elliot the Time Cop didn't seem to be bothered by the motion and was lost in his Time Ticker, his face wearing a totally baffled expression. “It just doesn't follow,” he murmured, shaking his head mournfully. “Effects indicate a cause ... but I can't follow this back along the Time Flow.”

All of which set Bill's mind onto what for him might be considered a decidedly philosophical bent. Things seemed so bleak, so depressing, here in this subway car rattling through New York City in a Nazi America of 1939. Which was bad. What was worse was that in addition to being nauseous, he was getting hungry because he hadn't eaten in a long time. He felt black despair descending upon him.

Now, most of the time, this wasn't a problem. Trooper food was usually so full of ego-dissolving chemicals — and the Military Muzak that piped through the official speakers so filled with stress- and identity-reducing subliminals — that Troopers not directly being ripped to pieces in action against the Chingers were usually so doped and droned out they seldom had self-examination difficulties and seldom fell into depression or despair. In fact, the number of Trooper corpses with smiles on their faces since the advent of this Psycho-Cram program was quite phenomenal.

Any other problems were usually self-medicated with alcohol — as Bill had learned so efficiently.

However, if a Trooper did have problems of a psychological nature, all he had to do was to go to the Service Chaplain or Shrink who would let some blood, give a neuro-massage or tap, or, if all else failed, simply do a Brainectomy, which was actually the most efficient method for dealing with emotional and psychological problems, although radical even for the Troopers. However the standard treatment was for a psycho-technician to place two credits in the victim's palm and tell him to go buy a drink on the Emperor.

However, Bill had been gone long enough that he now felt a bit of a psychological withdrawal from all the psycho-soothing he'd received as a servant of Empire. So, now, belly growling and complaining, in a dirty metal coffin rolling underground to the heart of Queens, he began to experience a truly twentieth-century type of angst.

What was the Meaning of Life, anyway? Bill thought, his mind wrenching with self-doubt and his lower extremities rumbling counterpoint.

Suddenly, Bill was filled with sadness.

Oh, how he missed Phigerinadon II.

Oh, how he missed his Mom! Though he couldn't remember her at all.

And most of all, how he missed his robo-mule!

Abdominal distress momentarily forgotten, Bill began to sing the Phigerinadon farm boy's lullaby to his robo-mule.

Bill didn't exactly know what the words meant, but it had a sweet melody and so he'd sung it to his robo-mule every day after working in the field before he oiled him and put him in the shed. The robo-mule — whose name was Ned — seemed to enjoy it and he never once broke down.

A sad and self-indulgent tear dribbled down Bill's cheek. “I miss you, Ned,” he moaned. “I really miss you, big guy!”

“Have you gone out of your mind?” Elliot asked. “What's wrong with you?”

Bill knuckled his eye and swallowed. “Something in my eye, maybe.”

“I'm not surprised. This is a particularly filthy form of transportation.”

Just then, Bill became aware that the man in the trench coat at the far end of the car had moved up and was now standing in front of them, looking dark, sinister and dangerous.

“Here,” the man said, handing Bill a handkerchief. “I zee you got something in der eye.”

“Thanks,” said Bill. He took the hanky and dabbed at his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Bitte schoen.” The man looked around to see if they were being watched. He then produced a nasty-looking Luger. “How you like mine little schusser? His name is Otto. Otto says, you vill tell me who you are and vere you are from!”

“Bill...” said Elliot. “It's a Nazi!”

Elliot, showing sudden wild courage, grabbed for the man in the trench coat — but the Luger barked three times before he could reach him. One bullet smashed the Time Ticker, another went through Elliot's neck and the last one went straight through his heart in a bright flower-explosion of blood.

Elliot gurgled, then keeled over onto the subway floor.

Bill looked down at the dead man. He was alone now in a Nazi 1939 New York subway train with a Luger pointed at his head. Bill thought to himself that he'd probably been in worse fixes before, but he couldn't quite remember one right off the top of his head.

“Now perhaps you vill tell me who you are and vere you are vrom,” said the Nazi Secret Policeman, for that is surely what he must have been.

“Speak, schweinhund. Now tell me. Vot is your name? Wilhelm?”

“Bill. With two Ls.”

“Ja. You are a member of der Time Police?”

“No. That was my friend Elliot. Me, I'm just a harmless Galactic Trooper. Really I'm out of my jurisdiction here, and I'm not supposed to kill Nazis, I'm supposed to kill Chingers. So you're safe.”

The Nazi agent chuckled. “I am relieved. Now, you vill tell me about your dead Time Police friend und how you got from the future. Und maybe along the vay, you vill give me some stock market information, ja?”

“Stock.... No, Mr. Nazi. You don't understand. I'm from the far, far future. I don't even know what a stock market is. There aren't many markets of any kind any more since the Emperor pretty much owns everything.”

“Very interesting. Now ... you vill tell me the truth! Vy are you spying on us? Vat vere you doing talking to Max Perkins, vere are you going ... and ven vill the Berlin Panzerblitzen baseball team finally vin der Vurld Series?”

“I — I don't really know!” said Bill. “I mean ... Elliot and I ... we're just trying to stop the history of the world from being changed, that's all. You see, Nazis aren't supposed to be in control of things back here. There's something terribly wrong. So if you'll just give me that gun and come along quietly —”

“Der information!” said the Time Nazi. “I vant der info!”

Bill could see that he was in a bit of a serious jam. But wasn't he a Trooper? Hadn't he been trained for combat? Why couldn't he remember what he had been taught? What was the hold you applied to a wrist of the hand holding a gun? He stood slowly and backed away from the menacing Nazi who pushed the gun forward.

Bill stepped back again — stepped into the pool of blood. And slipped. His foot came up as he fell and kicked the gun from his attacker's hand.

The Nazi agent screamed and floundered backwards.

Bill, seeing his chance, leaped on the man.

The two fell onto the subway floor, flopping and flapping about like a pair of landed fish as they fought over the Luger, which the agent grabbed up again.

“Schweinhund!” cried the Nazi agent. “You will die, I say! Die!”

Bill said nothing, too involved in keeping the gun from pointing to his stomach.

The Nazi, recovered somewhat, and with a sudden burst of effort, managed to hurl Bill from him. He stood up, gasping in air and pointed the nasty, thin gun down at Bill where he lay on the subway floor.

“I do not care what mine superiors say! No vun attacks me and survives! You vill die!”

The Nazi's hat had come off in the struggle and Bill could see that his hair was blonde and his straight Aryan features were twisted in a cruel smile.

Even crueler blue eyes flashed as the Nazi aimed the Luger at Bill.

“Heh heh heh!” said the Nazi.

Bill tensed himself for one last lunge before the gun fired.

However, even as the Nazi was pulling the trigger, a sudden ray beam sizzled from nowhere, blasting the man's head clean off his shoulders.