He crossed out REPEAT SINGLE.
— COMPLEX HOUSES THREE THOUSAND TECHNICIANS AND WORKERS STOP MANY GUARDS STOP—
He crossed out TECHNICIANS AND.
— PROJECT DEFINITELY ATOMIC STOP SUCCESS IMMINENT STOP END MESSAGE VAN G-8
He contemplated the last sentences. Not strictly necessary. But sure as hell dramatic. Make Corny jump for that scrambler phone to Washington. What the hell. He'd leave it in.
It was time.
He opened one of the cracked, grimy windows. It faced a water tower on the far side of a service road running across the tracks and a semaphore signal on the shack side. He'd already decided to string his antenna wire from the window to the signal post. It would blend in with the other wires. As soon as that was done he'd encipher his message, send the damn thing — and get the hell out.
He dropped the antenna wire through the window and walked out of the shack….
Helmut Zander put the old binoculars to his eyes. Yes, the Scheisskerl—the shitbum — was finally coming out of the shack again. He saw him look around and then walk to the far side and disappear around the corner. Helmut took the binoculars down in annoyance and resentment. He hated those damned foreign workers. A shiftless, untrustworthy mob they were. That one down there by the shack near Semaphore Signal #17 was typical. Shirking work. Verdammter Faulenzer! — damned slacker!
He'd seen the man arrive some time before — and had watched him through his binoculars. It was a slow time at his post up in the tower of Switching Station IV. It was always slow late in the afternoon — before shift break. The men had completed most of the switching lists by then. The yardman down there — without doubt a damned foreigner — had come pushing a bicycle with a sack strapped to the handlebars. Tools? He'd watched him unstrap the sack and lay his bicycle down among the debris at the shack. Typical. A German would have leaned it against the wall. The orderly way of doing it. And he'd watched the man go into the shack.
That was quite a while ago. What the devil was he doing in there? As if he didn't know. The damned, no-good Ausländer. Loafing, of course! Instead of doing an honest day's work for his keep. Rabble. That's what they were. Malingering rabble…
He glanced at his binoculars. They gave him something to do during the dull periods on station. They had been his father's. An old pair. French Army Issue. His father had brought them back after World War I. He sighed. The bitter lines around his mouth deepened. At least his father had brought back something. He himself had been less fortunate. He had left a leg.
He felt trapped sitting up in the switching station tower. It was so damned difficult to climb the steep ladder with his crutches that, once up there, he stayed until relieved. He hated to be a cripple.
He raised the binoculars and surveyed the shack. He had a clear view of it — beyond the salvage storage shed below him on the right, flanking the terminal sidings on the left, where the damaged rolling stock had been collected. The man was out of sight, but his bike was still lying there in the rubble. A thought suddenly struck him. The bastard probably hid the bike that way so it would be less noticeable; so a German foreman wouldn't spot it — while he took it easy. Flagrant loafing. Damned foreigner… Foreigners and cripples, that's who. That's who ran the verschissene railroad yard these days.
That worthless stiff down there. He should not be allowed to get away with it, dammit! Zander smiled a vindictive little smile. He'd cook his damned foreign-ass goose!
He picked up the direct line to the Central Control Tower and cranked the handle vigorously. He would bring the matter up with Günther. It was his responsibility, that foreign rabble. A nice cushy office job, Günther had. They called him by a nickname. Raupe—the caterpillar — because he'd gotten where he was by crawling.
“Günther,” he said into the mouthpiece, his voice oily. “Hier Helmut.” He paused conspiratorially. “Hör mal—listen. I just thought I'd let you know. Whatever is wrong with Semaphore Seventeen down by the watering tower — don't look for it to be finished for a long time.”
He listened.
“What am I talking about? Mensch—I'm talking about that foreign bum you sent down to fix it. The lazy stiff is laying down on the job. He has even tried to cover his criminal idling. Hidden his damned bicycle in the rubbish. Didn't count on me and my binoculars, though!”
He listened again. He frowned.
“Do as you damned well please, Günther,” he said acridly. “I could not care less. If you say there is no one there — then there is no one there. That must be the bastard I am watching!”
He slammed the receiver down.
He looked through the binoculars. The man was still behind the shack. Or he had gone back in. To snooze, no doubt…
Angrily he banged the binoculars down on his desk.
Günther, the Raupe, bit his lip. What was all that about a foreign worker loafing on the job? At Semaphore 17? He remembered no trouble with that signal. Or the watering tower. He'd sent nobody to fix anything. He frowned. He pulled a sheaf of work orders from a rusty nail and leafed through them. Nothing.
Could the General Yardmaster himself have dispatched someone? Not likely. Still—if he had, it might not be a bad idea to show him that he, Günther, was alert to the fact. Make him look good….
Yardmaster Schindler was irritated. That little ass-kisser Günther had come sniveling to him with some cock-and-bull story about a foreign worker loafing on the job. Good God! Didn't they all? He'd sent the idiot packing, of course. He had more important things to worry about. That Gestapo officer who'd just showed up in Hechingen had insisted that security throughout the yard be doubled. Impossible. He could not play police and run the yard at the same time. He deeply resented the Gestapo meddling in yard affairs. He glanced at an official order lying on his desk, arrived only that morning. “Immediate reports are to be made of anything unusual,” it read. Over the signature “Harbicht.”
He suddenly smiled.
So the Herr Standartenführer Harbicht wanted strict security. Immediate notification of anything out of the ordinary. Schon gut! — Very well! Perhaps he would like to take care of the mysterious, malingering foreign worker and his hidden bicycle at Semaphore 17!
He turned to his assistant.
“Get me the Gestapo,” he said.
Harbicht slammed the receiver down.
“Rauner!” he bellowed as he hurriedly shrugged into his uniform jacket. “Rauner!”
The door burst open and the startled Obersturmführer came rushing in. Harbicht at once barked at him.
“I want two trucks. Personnel carriers. Twenty men. With Schmeissers! Sofort! — At once!” He strapped on his belt, began to check his Walther automatic. “You take one of them. I'll take the other. And get that — peasant Eichler. Bring him along.”
“Jawohl, Herr Standartenführer. Where—”
“The railroad yard,” Harbicht snapped. “The hump switching yard. I'll brief you. Get that detail together! Los!”
“Jawohl!”
Rauner left at a run.
By God! A foreigner acting furtively! A hidden bicycle! By God! His case could be breaking even sooner than he thought.