Ib Melchior
The Marcus Device
For Cleo
Acknowledgments
I should like to express my appreciation for the valuable assistance in my research given me by:
The United States Air Force
USAF Flight Test Center, Edwards Air Force Base
Death Valley National Monument Rangers
Elliott L. Markoff, M.D., Ph.D.,
Associate Clinical Professor of Psychiatry,
University of Southern California
Haus Am Checkpoint Charlie, West Berlin
The vastly intricate human mind is encased in a space some seven-inches wide, but is still vulnerable. Although we possess much knowledge of it — it is still largely a wilderness, a seven-inch wilderness…
The USAF devices and equipment described in the story are in fact undergoing development and testing and are not figments of the author's imagination. The medical diagnoses and conditions are psychiatrically and neurosurgically authentic.
I.M.
PHASE I
1
He could hear their heavy, hobnailed boots pounding down the cobblestone street in pursuit. There must be at least six of them, he thought. The steady tramp hammered on his ears and reverberated in his battered mind. His breath came in convulsive gulps, and a sharp sting in his side knifed through him with every step. But he forced himself to go on.
A few steps ahead of him he could make out the shadowy form of Willi as he followed his friend down the dark and empty street of the little Bavarian village.
There was a nightmare unreality to the whole thing. He had an eerie feeling of being outside himself, watching his own struggle, caught in the trap he had set for himself. Why had he ever thought they could succceed in escaping?
He ran. Ahead, the square, cupola-topped church tower disappeared into the overcast night sky. Next to him, almost brushing his side as he hugged the shadows of the buildings, Christ labored under the cross on his way to Golgotha, and the Virgin Mary looked down on him benevolently — fresco paintings that adorned nearly every house in Oberammergau.
HOTEL ALTE POST, he read as he raced by. High on the wall, Christ hung on the cross. The houses thinned out. The streets were utterly deserted. Wartime Oberammergau had retreated into itself. A wire fence stretched before them. They ran on. Unseen — but inexorably heard — their pursuers were gaining. The massive building dead ahead of him began to take form. He knew what it was. The Passion Play Theater. The huge open-air stage where the Passion Play was performed once every decade.
He followed Willi as his friend entered the auditorium area. Desperately he tried to keep up as he clambered onto the great stage, open to the majestic Bavarian mountains beyond, dominated by the looming Kofel Mountain. He raced across the expanse of the stage.
He didn't see it in the dark. It was only an old plank left lying in the open. His running step hit the edge. His ankle twisted under him, buckled — and he fell, hitting the floor hard.
From the stage floor he saw Willi running for the wooded hills beyond — being quickly swallowed by the blacknesss.
He struggled to his feet. Pain lanced up through his leg. He knew he could not follow his friend. Frantically he looked around. There. In the wings. An open door…
He stumbled toward it. Perhaps. Perhaps the pursuers would follow Willi.
He slipped through the door. For a moment he leaned against the wall, trying to quiet his breath and his racing heart. He could hear the pursuers pound through the auditorium toward the stage…
A flight of stairs led to the area below the stage. Painfully he hobbled down…
Corridors. Turns. Right. Left. He limped on… Doors. Some open. Some locked. He lost himself, his sense of direction — of time — as he hobbled on…
He found himself in a large, high-ceilinged room. Row upon row of racks filled with costumes on hangers. Biblical costumes for the Passion Play. Used only once every ten years. The robes of priests and Pharisees; the simple garments of Hebrew men and women; the togas and tunics of Roman nobles and soldiers. He brushed between them, breathing their musty smell.
Through another door. Another room. Props. All kinds of props. Crude wooden furniture — the benches for the Last Supper — sharing space with Roman shields, swords and spears, helmets and standards — the tools of war.
He stopped. Spent. He sank down behind a rough-hewn cart with huge wheels.
And he heard it.
The dull thumps of heavy boots on the wooden floor. He sobbed. He knew he could run no more.
The beam from the flashlight struck him in the face. He blinked — but remained huddled on the floor.
There were three of them. Black-clad SS men, their red swastika armbands looking like bloody wounds; the silver death's-heads gleaming in evil mockery from their black caps. All three were carrying Schmeisser submachine guns.
“You!” one of them growled. “Get up.”
Holding on to the cart, he pulled himself to his feet.
“Where is the other Scheisskerl?” the SS man snapped.
He shook his head.
“Who is he?” the man demanded. “His name?”
Wearily he looked at the SS men who stood glowering over him. He said nothing.
Suddenly one of the men jabbed a gun butt into his back in a crushing blow. A ball of livid pain exploded and spat fire through his entire body. He fell to his knees. Tears of agony burned his eyes, blinding him.
“His name?” the SS man barked.
“Krebbs.” He forced the word from his lips. It did not matter. They would find out soon anyway. “Wilhelm — Krebbs… Dr. Wilhelm Krebbs.”
The SS man placed the gun muzzle under his chin and lifted up his head. “You,” he growled. “Your name?”
“Marcus,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with despair. “Dr. Theodor Marcus.”
The three SS men came to attention as a young officer strode into the room. Arms akimbo, legs spread slightly apart, his trim black uniform strangely at odds with the colorful Biblical robes, he stood looking at the man huddled on the floor.
A thin smile played on his lips. He took a small object from his pocket and began to flip it into the air, catching it as he contemplated the captive.
Marcus followed the little oblong metal object as it rose and fell with hypnotic rhythm. He shivered, dread turning his blood cold. He knew what the young SS officer was playing with. The identification disk of the Gestapo…
The officer glanced at one of the SS men with an inquiring look and nodded toward the man on the floor.
The soldier snapped to attention. “Dr. Theodor Marcus, Herr Obersturmführer,” he called. “The other one, a Dr. Wilhelm Krebbs, got away.”
The young Gestapo officer nodded. He returned his eyes to Marcus.
“Dr. Marcus,” he said. He flashed him a quick smile which stretched his lips while his eyes remained cold. Gestapo Deputy Chief Heydrich himself had once told him that under certain conditions a smile was far more frightening than a frown. He had never forgotten. “Dr. Marcus, I am SS Obersturmführer Gerhardt Scharff.” He paused. He smiled. “Gestapo.”
“I have three questions for you, Herr Doktor. Three.” Another quick smile. “I shall expect an immediate answer to each one.”