Microcosmic God (53 page)

“Oh, it’s a peculiar kind of hypnotism. For some reason, certain persons are subject to attacks of what you might call ‘abject imitativeness.’ Their minds slip into rapport with that of another individual, and they have to imitate him. Sometimes they don’t realize what they’re doing, more often they do and can’t help it.”

“That’s the most extraord’ry thing I ever heard,” said McCarthy. “What starts it?”

“Depends on the individual. Generally a jumper’ll start imitating someone when his attention is suddenly and forcibly attracted to another person. Richter’s was, you know. He was shocked and surprised when Obermeier bellowed at him. Did you notice that he was entranced all the while that Obermeier faced him, and as soon as Obermeier turned he began to move in perfect synchronization with him? Some jumpers get the condition so badly that they slip into a state of
latah
for no reason at all.”

“How long does it last?”

“Seconds or weeks. I remember reading about a Malayan who followed his high priest around that way for two solid months. The priest decided that the man was possessed, and that he himself was haunted. But he couldn’t get anyone to kill the fellow, because the tribal laws prohibited laying hands on a priest, and the tribe regarded
the two of them as one and the same person. So the priest walked up a river bank, made a sharp turn and started across a cane bridge. The man in
latah
made the right turn at the same time, but there wasn’t any bridge. He cured his
latah
all right. The poor beggar drowned.”

McCarthy grunted and got out his pipe. “Drowned, did he?” he said around the stem. “Hm-m-m. I find that most interesting.”

Thinking it over, I did, too.

What account Richter gave to the adjutant for his peculiar actions, I’ll never know. He was on sick leave for three days, and in the guardhouse for four, and he was much sobered when he resumed his duties. The prisoners and the guard left each other tensely alone, but we knew that it was only a matter of time before he would start his peculiar brand of torture again. He did, and he started on me.

My legs were still shaky, and I was making my way over to my favorite bench one afternoon when I became conscious of a faint creaking. For a nasty moment I thought it was me, for with every step I took I heard a creak; a long one for my right leg, a short one for my left. I stopped; so did the noise. I took two more steps.
C-r-r-r—ik!
Puzzled, I looked around me, and saw Richter standing just inside the old summerhouse, airily looking at all the world but me. He had one hand on the doorknob, and it was that door that needed the oiling, not my leg. I ground my teeth and said nothing; and all the way over to the bench he kept up the crude stunt. I made myself so busy packing my pipe that I jumped when I realized McCarthy had seated himself beside me.

“I saw that,” said Mac casually, nodding toward the summerhouse.

“Yep,” I said. “Here we go again.”

Mac shook his head. “Things are going to be a bit different,” he said. “Let’s us make that jumper jump.”

“Have you been thinking about that, too?” I grinned.

“Right-o. Let’s see what we can do with him before he gets too rambunctious.” He swiftly outlined his plan. It was a honey.

I got up and limped over to the summerhouse. “Richter!”

He stood sullenly at attention, his little pig eyes roving up and down me, finally settling insultingly on my crooked leg.

“How do you feel?” I said conversationally.

He looked out at the castle, saw that the coast was clear, and leaned up against the doorpost. “
Gut,”
he grunted, and spat out the door just past my head.

The finest of the filthy spray settled on my cheek. I gasped with rage, got a four-handed grip on myself. “You know, you remind me of my cousin Julius in Winnipeg,” I chatted.

He regarded me with a sort of disgusted wonder on his face as I gabbled on in disconnected sentences. He was completely at a loss. Just as he was about to burst into my prattle, I heard a faint tap on the wall of the summerhouse. I don’t think I have ever moved faster in my life.

I reached out, took him by the shoulders and hauled him out of the door, spinning him around at the same time. McCarthy, who had been stealthily circling the building while I held the Nazi in conversation, leaped out of hiding with a rush, four feet in front of us. Richter froze, scared out of his wits.

For an interminable moment I was in doubt. Mac and the German held each other’s eyes while I held Richter’s shoulders, and all three of us were afraid to breathe. Then Mac knotted his jaw, turned around and walked off. Richter shuddered, moaned a very tiny moan, and—followed him.

“Got him!” I cried happily.

“Good stuff,” said two voices, speaking as one. It was an astonishing effect. Mac stopped and turned around. “What are we going to do with the blighter?” they asked me.

“Can’t do much with the two of you as close together as that,” I said. “Steer him into the wall.”

“Right-o,” they said in unison. Mac gauged his distances, walked up to the corner of the summerhouse, left-faced and disappeared around the corner. Richter marched up to the wall, hit it with a bump, and kept on marching futilely. I moved over to where I could see both of them.

“How’s this?” asked Richter. It was Mac speaking, but he was too far away for me to hear the low-voiced question. Talk about your wireless transmission!

“That’s dandy,” I said. They both stopped and turned; Mac came back to me while Richter plowed through flower beds. When the Englishman reached me, Richter was well out in the open spot where Mac used to do his tumbling.

“Now what?” asked Mac.

“Now Herr Richter is going to put on a bit of a show,” I said gleefully. “See if you can make the silly fool get his gun out.”

He began fumbling about the region of his side pocket. He had to make eight or ten passes, but finally got it right.

“Up in the air,” I said. “Just once.”

The Mauser roared. Richter, carefully guided by Mac and me, holstered it and stared raptly into the sky. A thudding of boots, and Rausch skidded to a stop in front of him. In rather low German, he wanted to know what the hell. Fortunately, Mac’s German was flawless.

“Didn’t you see it?” said Richter. “A Hawker Hurricane!”

Rausch was big and dumb. He stared up into the sky, and then said he didn’t see any airplane.

“Of course you don’t,” said Richter. “I shot him down.” He beckoned Rausch closer and whispered, “It was Rudolph Hess flying back.” Rausch went a little popeyed. “He had to get out,” said Richter. “The British Isles have been torpedoed and sunk.” They gazed solemnly at each other, and then Richter burst into rich Northumberland laughter. He slapped Rausch on the back, and Rausch, suddenly conscious that he was being kidded, uttered a complementary guffaw, took a deep breath, forced out another laugh, and then beat a hasty retreat.

“Halt!” snapped Richter. “Come back here, my friend. I want to tell you a fine English joke I learned from one of these dirty prisoners. You don’t speak any English, do you?”

Rausch shook his head.

“All the better,” said Richter jovially. “Now listen to me. The next time you see Herr Obermeier, you say these words in English.” He repeated a phrase a few times, and the gullible Rausch said it over and over until he had it right.

I have always regretted that I wasn’t around when Rausch walked into Obermeier’s quarters and said, “Thumbs up, you old prince!” (I think it was “prince” he was told to say.) “There’ll always be an England!”

Richter stood out there humming an air called “The Tinker He Went Walking” that Mac hadn’t learned in Sunday school until Obermeier erupted violently out into the garden. “Richter!”

“Ja! Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” sputtered the adjutant. “Are you responsible for sending that blockhead in to me with those seditious utterances?”

Richter put a finger to his lips. “There’s going to be a revolution,” he said gravely.

“A revolution? Traitor! Marxist! Jew!”

“It is the truth, Herr Obermeier. Look.” And Richter rose off the ground in a perfect back somersault. Obermeier stepped back in alarm. Richter spread his hands and smiled. “You see? There was a revolution. I revolved, no?”

Obermeier’s face went into travail and delivered a laugh. Once he had laughed out loud he found that it was an easy and pleasant thing to do, and he roared until the tears ran down his cheeks. “Richter,” he gasped after a time. “I have thought hardly of you. I have never credited you with a sense of humor.” His features suddenly went wooden. “But this is war. This for such foolishness is no time.”

Richter said easily, “Hate is all the stronger if you give it a rest. I respectfully suggest to the adjutant that the prisoners should be served beer this evening.”

“A profound thought,” said the adjutant, after thinking it over. “That will do, Richter.” He eased his conscience by speaking very severely. “And hereafter curb your nonsense!” He went briskly into the castle. As he went through the door his voice drifted back—“Revolution. Hah!
Das is gut!”

“What are we going to do with the fool now?” asked Mac. I looked out at the fine young specimen of Aryan manhood and grunted. “Pity we can’t send him to Berchtesgaden,” I said. “I’d like to pull that
‘There’ll always be an England’ gag on der Fuehrer.”

“That would be jolly—fine.” Mac swayed suddenly, mumbled something.

“What?” I asked.

“Jolly—
Ach! Ich neine
—
“
He shook his head drunkenly.

“Mac!” I rapped. “Mac! What’s the matter?”

Sirens suddenly screamed outside the walls. As they died down I heard the growl of many motors. Torn between Mac and the noises outside, I dragged him to the door and looked up. There was a clutter of aircraft in the sky, attack bombers and pursuits. A formation of Messerschmitts climbed into the sky, and three lovely P
-37S
howled down to meet them.

Mac said, “Feel deuced queer, old boy. I—” Suddenly he whipped away from me, snarling.
“Schmutzig Englisch schweinhund, du!”
he spat, and he clawed at his hip, pulled a nonexistent Mauser out of his nonexistent holster, filled me full of imaginary holes. Every time his forefinger twitched there was a report outside. Richter had his gun out, was banging away at the garden wall. The sound of his shots was lost in the unholy racket from above.

“Mac!” I screamed, shaking him, slapping him. “Mac! What’s—”

He closed his eyes, opened them slowly. “This bloody thing works both ways,” he gritted. “The damned—goosestepper’s—fighting—” He rallied and said briskly, “What’s going on—air raid?”

“Yes. Mac, are you all right?”

“I can hold him off, I th—Ah-h-h!
Heil, mein Fuehrer! Der fleigand
—
”
He drifted off into a hopeless jumble of words. Then, “LaFarge,” he said, “remember I said I’d like a chance at that air field if I ever get out of here? Well, I probably won’t, but maybe I can give someone else a break. I’ll wager those lads up there don’t know they have anything like that right under them. Are the Huns sending up any planes from here?”

I looked out. “No. Dammit, you’re right! They’ve got it camouflaged. They don’t want it bombed, and it’s likely because they have a man-sized gasoline dump around here!”

“We’ve got to—get word—” He groaned, came back strongly. He seemed to be putting up a tremendous battle. “Richter’s getting
the knack of it,” he said grimly. “For a minute there I thought I was out in the garden. I ran my tongue around my mouth and felt a lot of rotten teeth. Ugh!” He shuddered. “Got—shaving mirror?” I had one of those unbreakable trench mirrors in my tunic. Mac waved me outside. “Give it to the Hun,” he said. “Right hand. Hurry, now, I don’t know if I—” And he went into one of those bilingual paroxysms. I ran out to Richter.

As I thrust the mirror into his hand he eyed me viciously, reached for his gun, paused, grinned. “Good stuff, chum,” he said. “Thumbs—
für der Reich
—be an England!”

It occurred to me what Mac had wanted him to have the mirror for. Heliograph. But what was the use of that puny flash of sunlight? How could it attract the attention of a pilot in a dogfight? Off chance. Why didn’t he want me to get out there and signal? I glanced around, saw guards on the walls, Obermeier running around like a brood hen. Richter
might
not be noticed, standing there in the garden with the mirror in his palm. I hobbled back to the summerhouse and ducked inside.

“Give me your watch,” said Mac. For the moment he was completely himself. I handed it to him, and he moved into the doorway where the late, bright afternoon sun streamed in. He let it play on the back of the watch, threw a spot on the ceiling, and began twitching his wrist steadily. Out in the garden Richter stood firm, eyes upward, right hand extended. Mac began to send.

Dot-dash-dot. Dot-dash. Dot-dot-dash-dot. R.A.F
.

I don’t know how long that went on. Mac and Richter were engaged in a monumental struggle, weaving now and then on their feet, features working, sweat—and all the while, almost without a break, Mac sent those three letters. Twice he screamed in pain, and both times it was in Richter’s guttural tones. McCarthy. Renfrew McCarthy, of Northumberlandshire. Never was there such a man!

Once Richter threw the mirror from him, and I had to limp out and put it in his hand again. And Mac kept sending.

There was a growing, screaming roar. I looked up and saw a Messerschmitt 110 on the tail of a P-37. They seemed to be heading
right for us, coming down, coming incredibly fast. At about two hundred feet, the Curtiss began to pull out of it. The Me began to try. The Curtiss made it. The Me didn’t. God bless the Nazis for building ships that are sloppy on the turns! The Me whipped low over my head, crashed into the garden wall. The P-37 groaned upward, lost speed, stalled into a wingover, and began to circle at about eight hundred feet.

“Mac!” I screamed. “He’s seen us! He’s seen us!”

Mac, his face green-white and beaded, chuckled hoarsely and kept sending. Fascinated, I watched that bouncing spot of light on the ceiling. Now it said.
“Cam.—air field
—
300 yds—SSE.”
He repeated it, repeated it again. Now he was sending,
“Castle—munition dump.”
And then the two of them were mixed:
“Camstle
—
300 munition—SSE.”