Well, maybe he would be in position. Part of that would depend on how close he was to Nuremberg and Peenemunde, and whether he could get to either one as he came out of orbit.
“Still, the Fuhrer wouldn’t want to find out the hard way,” Drucker murmured, “not if he’s smart, he wouldn’t.”
The transmitter was off. He almost wished it weren’t. The Reich trusted him to fly with atomic weapons. He wouldn’t have minded putting a flea in the ear of some Party bigwigs: a man who flew with atomic weapons was probably not a good man to annoy. Anyone with any brains should have been able to figure that out for himself. Drucker wasn’t so sure how many Party bigwigs had any brains.
Once upon a time, he’d read somewhere, the Americans had flown a rattlesnake flag with the legend don’t tread on me. Drucker slowly nodded. He had two fangs of his own. If people pushed him too hard, he might use them.
Flight Lieutenant David Goldfarb felt as if he were moving back through time. He’d flown from Jerusalem to London in one of the Lizards’ jets, a machine as modern as next year. Then he’d taken the train from London to Liverpool, a technology less than a century and a half old-on Earth, anyhow. And then he’d traveled from Liverpool to Belfast on a ferry, and the waves of the Irish Sea had made him as miserably sick as any passenger in any boat since the dawn of time.
Back on solid ground, he’d recovered fast. Seeing Naomi and his children again hadn’t hurt, either. Nor had returning to work. He even seemed to have won some small amount of respect for going into Germany and coming out in one piece.
None of that, though, made him feel as if he’d put the dreadful time behind him. He knew what would. Only a matter of waiting, he thought, and didn’t expect he’d have to wait long.
And he was right. When he came off duty after his second day back at the radar installation, a familiar voice called, “Welcome home, old chap!” There came Group Captain Roundbush, a broad smile on his handsome face, his right hand extended.
Instead of clasping it, Goldfarb came to attention and saluted. “Sir,” he said.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” Roundbush said. “You’re not going to take it that way, I hope?”
“Sir-” Goldfarb looked around before going on. No, no one else was close enough to hear what he had to say to Basil Roundbush. He took a deep breath. “Fuck you, sir.”
Roundbush blinked, but didn’t quite lose his smile. “I can understand why you might feel that way, old man, but really, you mustn’t.” He sounded as cheerful, as ingratiating, as ever. “Here, I’ve got a motorcar laid on. Come along with me to Robinsons. We’ll put down some Guinness, and then the world will seem a happier place.” He turned to go, confident Goldfarb would follow.
Goldfarb didn’t. After a couple of steps, Group Captain Roundbush noticed. He turned back, puzzlement on his features. Goldfarb said, “Sir, from now on I’m not having one bloody thing to do with you that isn’t strictly required by duty. So no, I’m bloody well not going to Robinsons with you, or anywhere else, either.”
Now Roundbush looked grave. “I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I’m afraid I do-so sod off,” Goldfarb answered. “Excuse me. Sod off-sir.” His right hand slipped to the holster of his pistol. “The way I feel right now, for half a crown I’d blow your fucking head off.”
He didn’t think he could put Roundbush in fear. The medals on the group captain’s chest said he didn’t frighten easily, if at all. But bravery and goodness didn’t necessarily go hand in hand. If the Nazis didn’t prove that, the Russians did. Still, Goldfarb wanted him to know he meant what he was saying.
Roundbush did know it. His eyes narrowed, which left him a little less handsome and a lot more dangerous-looking. “You do want to have a care about what you’re saying, you know,” he remarked.
“Why?” Goldfarb didn’t bother hiding his bitterness. “What kind of trouble can my big mouth get me into that’s worse than what my big nose has already done?”
“I’d say you were doing your best to find out,” Group Captain Roundbush answered. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but-”
“You don’t bloody know the tenth part of it,” David broke in.
“Perhaps I don’t,” Roundbush said. “If you like, I shall be happy to admit I don’t. But what I do know”-he fixed Goldfarb with a cool and menacing stare-“is that you will find yourself in more trouble than you ever dreamt of if you don’t button your lip this very minute.”
“I’ve already been in more trouble than I ever dreamt of,” David Goldfarb said. “I’ve been in more trouble than you and your pals could buy me in a thousand years. And so, sir, with all due respect, as far as I’m concerned, you can bend over and kiss my bleeding arse.”
“You will regret this foolish outburst,” Roundbush said. That, David thought, was very likely to be true. But he would have regretted going along with Roundbush and the ginger smugglers even more. The senior RAF officer went on, “And I am afraid your military career has just taken a large shell to the engine.”
“Go peddle your papers.” Goldfarb enjoyed defiance. It tingled through his veins, heady as good whiskey. He doubted the RAF could give him an assignment a great deal worse than the one he already had. He didn’t say that, though, as he was certain his former colleague and current oppressor would move heaven and earth to prove him wrong.
Roundbush said, “Do bear in mind that your family may suffer on account of your pigheadedness.”
“You’ve talked about my family too much,” Goldfarb answered. “Now I’m going to say something about them: If any harm-any harm at all, mind you-comes to them, something will happen to you, too. Have you got that?”
“Your spirit does you credit,” Basil Roundbush said. “You would be better off if your good sense did, too.” He nodded to Goldfarb, then turned and walked away, shaking his head as if washing his hands of the other RAF officer.
Goldfarb watched him go. As if after combat, reaction began to set in. Goldfarb’s knees wobbled. His hands shook. He was panting as if he’d run a long way. He began to think he’d been a fool after all.
If he ran after Roundbush and begged forgiveness, he was sure he would get it. Why not? He remained useful to the group captain and his ginger-smuggling pals. They were, and prided themselves on being, businessmen. Personal animosity? They’d wave it aside.
He stayed where he was. He didn’t want Roundbush and his associates to forgive him. He wanted them to leave him alone. Maybe, if he wasn’t useful to them, they’d do just that. Maybe they wouldn’t, too. Again, his hand glided toward his holster. If Group Captain Roundbush thought he’d been kidding when he made his warning, the much-decorated officer was badly mistaken.
The motorcar in which Roundbush would have taken him to the pub rolled away. Goldfarb sighed and headed for his bicycle. It was the sort of transportation he was more used to, anyhow.
When he got back to the quarters he shared with his family, his first words were, “Pour me a whiskey, darling, would you please?”
“Of course,” Naomi said, and did. The request was unusual from him, but not unheard of. The way he knocked back the smoky amber liquid, though, made her raise an eyebrow. “You had a bad day?”
“I had about the worst day a man could have, as a matter of fact.” He held out the glass to her. “Fill me up again. I’m going to get drunk and beat you, the way my father said the Poles would do to their wives.”
His wife got him another drink. When he sipped it instead of gulping it down, she nodded in approval and relief; maybe, even after all these years of marriage, she’d taken him literally when she shouldn’t have. She let him get about halfway down the glass before she said, “Don’t you think you should tell me about it? The children are all out doing one thing or another. You don’t have to be shy.”