The Bavarian Gate

23

The Voltar

Shortly after breakfast the next morning, Schurz took Montag to Kupfer's office, and Kupfer, through a connecting door, delivered him to Landgraf's, saluting as he entered. "Heil Hitler," he barked; it was their first meeting of the day, and the formality was required.

"Heil Hitler." Lieutenant Colonel Karl Gustaf Richard Landgraf neglected to stand. If necessary, he could claim exemption on the basis of a war wound received as a young cavalry officer on the Vistula. That had been in August 1915; the German army had fought on an eastern front before.

It was an injury that hampered him only when convenient. "Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer," Kupfer said, "this is Herr Montag, a psychic turned over to us at the Gestapo office in Kempten yesterday. His papers are on your desk."

"I have looked at them. Thank you, Kupfer, you may leave. I will speak with Herr Montag."

He looked calmly at this newcomer he thought of as young. "I see you are married, Herr Montag. Are you worried about your wife? How she will get by in your absence? Do not be concerned. Here you will have no expenses. We will take good care of you; even your cigarette ration costs you nothing. And being restricted to the grounds, you will need no money for visits to town. Your pay will be that of a lance corporal, and all but five marks a month will be sent to your wife."

Montag stood as if all this was incomprehensible. Reading auras while looking dull and confused had taken practice, but he did it well. Landgraf looked like the stereotypic Prussian aristocrat, erect, in charge, autocratic-and in fact he was. He wore black riding breeches, and glossy black riding boots that reached his knees; Macurdy wondered how he got them off.

But his aura reflected a mildness, a humanity that might make him one of a kind in the SS.

And he was a lieutenant colonel. The officer in charge of the Occult Bureau, Colonel von Sievers, was only one rank higher. Perhaps Landgraf had brought his rank with him from some earlier command. Or did an aristocratic family still count for something in the Third Reich?

"Yessir, Herr General sir!" Montag barked.

General? thought Landgraf. When Schmidt wrote "retarded" on the form, he was at least marginally correct. "I am not a general," Landgraf replied mildly. "Call me-" He paused. Keep it simple, he cautioned himself. "Call me colonel."

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

You must work with what God sends you, Karl, the colonel thought. "Tell me, Herr Montag, do you ever get angry?"

"No sir, colonel sir!"

"Never?"

"Hardly ever."

"Ah. If someone does something to you that is very unjust, what do you do about it?"

"I try to keep away from him, colonel sir."

"Um. And p you want something very much, what are you willing to do to get it?"

"I would work very very hard, sir."

"When you are very angry at someone, is there something you sometimes do about it?"

"Sometimes I beat them up. After that they left me alone.'I see. Now-" He paused meaningfully. "If there were some very bad people who wanted to destroy your country and your Fuhrer, would you want to do something to prevent that?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Would you be willing to destroy them?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Good. Because there are such people, and we want to teach you to do something that will destroy them."

Landgraf took a cigarette holder from his desk and put a cigarette in it. "I am told you can light my cigarette with your finger. Show me how you do that."

He put the holder between his teeth, and Montag lit the cigarette, Landgraf watching with interest.

"Very good, Herr Montag. That was well done. Now suppose I am on one side of the room and you are on the other, and I want you to light my cigarette. How would you do that?"

"I would walk over to you."

"And if you were unable to walk over to me?"

"I-" Montag stopped.

"Well… Can you get the idea of lighting my cigarette from across the room?"

Montag's features reflected confusion. "Yessir, colonel sir!"

"How might you do that?"

Montag stared blankly.

"No matter. Now I want you to imagine someone very bad. Can you imagine shouting angrily at him?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"What is the worst thing you can imagine shouting at him?" There was a long pause. "Pig."

"Nothing worse than that?"

Montag swallowed, seeming visibly troubled. "Cow turd?"

"Very good, Herr Montag. If you could shout something at them that would make them roll on the ground screaming, would you do that? for your Fuhrer?"

"Yessir, colonel sir!"

"Good. We will give you a chance to do that."

Kupfer had left the door open between the two offices, the usual procedure, and Landgraf raised his voice instead of pushing the intercom button. "Hauptsturmfuhrer Kupfer, came in here please."

Kupfer stepped in, and Landgraf told him to take Montag to "Baron Greszak." They'd left then, Kupfer steering Monta with a hand on the arm. When they were gone, Landgraf shoo his head tiredly Here we have someone who tries hard to be civilized, and it is my duty to de-civilize him. What kind of world are we trying to make?

Kupfer led Montag up to third-floor main. As they went, Macurdy considered what he'd read in Landgrafs aura. The colonel was a discouraged man, and Montag's demonstration had not noticeably changed that. Perhaps some of the others had also given good demonstrations, then failed to improve sufficiently.

They stopped at an unmarked door, and the captain knocked. "Kommen Sie rein," called a voice, and they went in. Inside stood easily the tallest man Macurdy had ever seen, intimidating not only by his height, but by presence and strangeness. He wore a semi-fitted black coverall that emphasized his rawboned slenderness. A tall, bag-like black cap with red splints and a knit, dark-green band covered his forehead, accentuating an almost albino-white face. His piercing eyes were as green as Varia's, but their resemblance ended with their color. These eyes were cold, impersonal. Macurdy felt like a bug on a pin.

"Good Morning, Baron Greszak," Kupfer said. There was no Heil Hitler. "We have a new student for you. This is Herr Montag, from East Prussia."

This giant was one of the reported foreigners, that was obvious. A German might conceivably have that build, those features, perhaps even that name, but the aura was distinctive; different than any human aura Macurdy had seen before, ever. Different in kind.

Greszak didn't trouble to acknowledge Kupfer's greeting. Instead he examined Macurdy thoroughly. "And what is it, Herr Montag, that causes you to be considered psychic?"

"I can start fires. I can light your cigarette. With my finger!"

"Hmm. Show me. Light Captain Kupfer's cigarette." Grimacing sourly, Kupfer took out a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Then Montag created a brilliant bead of glowing plasma an inch from his fingertip, and a minute later the cigarette was smoking.

The Voitu did not change expression. "What else can you do?"

"If someone is cold, I can warm him with my hands." Greszak stepped around his table and reached out a very long hand. "Warm it," he ordered, and Montag did. Greszak regarded him for a moment, then without speaking, turned and went into a connecting room, closing the door behind him. "Arrogant swine!" Kupfer muttered. Macurdy wasn't sure how much of Greszak's attitude was arrogance, and how much simply foreignness. He looked toward the two stacks of books on the table-from their spines, all were in German-and wondered if Greszak intended actually to read them. And if he did, how far he'd gotten. Certainly his German seemed fluent, what little he'd heard.

The door opened again in half a minute, and Greszak gestured him in, closing it after him, leaving Montag alone with a man almost a head taller than Greszak, more than seven and a half feet, Macurdy guessed. He had the same pale skin and green eyes, the same black coverall that might be a uniform. The same slender build, the same peculiarities of aura.

"Kurt Montag," he said, "I am Kronprinz Kurqosz. Baron Greszak told me what you showed him. What else can you do?" Montag simply stared. Suddenly Kurqosz pulled off his strange cap, tossing it on the table-the move uncovering his ears, like two goat's ears, perhaps six inches long and pointed, covered with the same copper-red hair that, stiffened, covered his skull and formed a sort of crest on its meridian. "Now perhaps you have something to say."

Montag stared, his awe more genuine than pretended. "Jawohl, Herr Kronprinz," he answered. "What planet is the Herr Kronprinz from?"

For just a moment Kurqosz stared, then laughed a single loud whoop. "Der rote Planet," he answered. The Red Planet. He knew the German for Mars, but had translated literally from his own language. Macurdy might have taken him seriously, except for his laugh, and an auric reaction that in a human coincided with amusement.

"If you do not satisfy me, I will give you ears like mine. Now, show me how large a fireball you can make."

Montag made one perhaps an inch in diameter, which floated a couple of inches from his fingertip. Kurqosz stepped toward him, and reaching, tested it for heat, seeming surprised when, at several inches distance, it was uncomfortably hot, though Montag showed no indication of discomfort.

"Does it not burn?" he asked.

The question took Macurdy by surprise; he hadn't thought about it before. "No, Herr Kronprinz. It is my fire. It cannot burn me."

Kurqosz pursed his lips. "Interesting, interesting. Make it be thirty centimeters away."

"I-cannot, Herr Kronprinz. I-don't know how:" Kurqosz turned, gestured, and above a table, a hawk-like bird materialized, hovering on loudly thrumming wings that scattered papers from a table. Its head was like a great bat's, eyes glowing red, gaping mouth showing needle-teeth. "It can be killed by casting your fireball at it," Kurqosz said. "I will count to five, and if you have not killed it by then, I will have it attack you! One, two…"

At five, the thing darted forward. Montag's large right hand snatched, caught its head and crushed it. He felt its weight, its blood in his fist, its briefly flailing wings. "I'm sorry, Herr Kronprinz!" he cried, "I'm sorry! It was going to do something bad to me!"

Kurqosz stared, then grinned, cocking a quizzical eye. "Do not be concerned, Herr Montag. I can make as many of them as I wish." Without raising his voice, he spoke to the closed door: "Greszak, come and take Herr Montag back to his keeper. I am done with him for now. Tell the Hauptsturmfuhrer we may be able to do something worthwhile with this one."

When the bird had appeared, Macurdy assumed it was an illusion. But when it was launched toward him, or launched itself, his gut reaction was to defend himself. And it seemed well that he had, considering how real how physical!-it had proven. Sorcery like Kurqosz's exceeded by far anything he'd witnessed in Yuulith. What were these Voitar? Could they really have come from Mars?

And like Landgraf, Kurqosz had realized at once his ability-or at any rate his potential-to throw plasma balls. So much for secrecy.

Going down the stairs to Landgrafs office, a notion struck Macurdy. Opening his hand, he looked at it, willing the blood gone. And abruptly it was. Apparently Kurqosz's fierce bird was only conditionally real after all.

Macurdy found himself in a classroom. Nargosz was about Greszak's height but seemed older, and had less presence. He didn't dominate a room as Greszak did, let alone the Crown Prince. The students-Otto, Anna Hofstetter, and the elderly female psychic-were on break, Otto and the old woman sitting quietly, doing nothing. Anna, on the other hand, walked briskly around the room swinging her arms, perhaps the only physical activity she got, Macurdy thought.

Nargosz assigned Montag a seat, and after two or three minutes had Anna sit down. Then he had them all do a drill, in which they sat with closed eyes, visualizing. At varying intervals he had them visualize something different. They continued this for two hours without a break, then were released for lunch. After lunch, Macurdy thought of faking it-the drill seemed useless-but didn't. Clearly these Voitar were powerful magicians; perhaps the drills would take. He'd never thought of monotony as particularly instructive though.

By 2:00 PM he'd turned on a peculiar mental phenomenon: He was groggy felt desperately sleepy-but did not doze off. His head lolled as if his neck were a string, he slobbered, felt an intense, an excruciating longing to curl up on the floor. If only he could nap, just for a minute, he'd sit back up and continue the drill. Somehow he continued anyway, struggling, almost whimpering-then the condition faded, the longing passed, and the drill went easier. A little later, Nargosz gave them a ten-minute break, requiring all of them to get up and move around.

Afterward they sat in a row, facing a blank wall, imagining scenes with their eyes open and unfocused: a pleasant scene, then an unpleasant scene, on command. This continued without a break until 4:30. By that time, Macurdy had thrown in a "pleasant" scene of himself strangling Nargosz, which elicited no response from the instructor. Apparently the Voitu wasn't telepathic, or wasn't monitoring him, or just didn't care. The great ravens, sharing a hive mind, had a sort of racial telepathy, with free access to each others' minds and experiences, but not to those of any other species. He recalled Blue Wing's caustic comment that he was glad he didn't have to share minds with humans. Perhaps these Voitar felt that way.

Landgraf buzzed the duty room. Two minutes later a guardsman arrived, and took Kurt Montag to the recreation room, where he ordered him to wait. Being alone, Macurdy picked up a seventeen-year-old copy of Mitteilungen der Gesellschaft fur Parapsychologie. The articles looked interesting, but most interesting was the masthead: the publisher and managing editor had been K.G.R. Landgraf, Phil. Doc. Landgraf might have no psychic talent at all, Macurdy told himself. He might simply know a lot, and have lots of contacts who knew and worked with psychics.

Meanwhile, sitting there half reading, half contemplating, he realized something about the two Voitar: While their auras were like those of humans in important respects, they resembled even more those of the great ravens of Yuulith. And the great ravens shared minds-had what Blue Wing had termed a "hive mind." He wondered if perhaps the Voitar did too.

If they did, then what on, the others knew, at least if they troubled to look.

After a while the corporal returned, and Macurdy, slackjawed, pretended he was simply leafing the journal idly. He was taken back to Greszak's office, where a man stood waiting. He wore a coverall like those of the Voitar, but no cap. About Macurdy's height and width, he looked as strong, perhaps stronger, and somehow dangerous. But his hair approached Voitik red, his skin was almost Voitik-fair, and his eyes were Voitik green. His ears weren't nearly as long, but they were prominent and pointed.

He scowled at Montag as if disliking him on sight. Macurdy guessed he was from wherever the Voitar were from, although his aura was essentially human.

"Tsulgax," Greszak said in German, "take Herr Montag to Nargosz." Then he turned his attention to the book he held open, and they left. As they walked together down the corridornot more than fifty feet -Tsulgax's hostility was almost palpable, and Macurdy wondered why. He also wondered why Greszak hadn't taken him there himself, or simply sent him. Was it something to do with rank and status? Intimidation?

All in all, his first day in class had been difficult, but after it was over, rather interesting. Hopefully something worthwhile would develop. If nothing else, he thought wryly, he might at least develop a tolerance of monotony.

That evening in the rec room, Macurdy avoided Berta Starks glances. Perhaps later. Just then he could see nothing useful in that direction. Briefly he thumbed through magazines, but to simply sit and read, he felt, would be at odds with his persona as marginally retarded. So he picked up a pack of cards and began to play a disinterested solitaire, thinking that his spare time threatened to be as boring as class had been.

It wasn't, because solitaire permitted his mind to wander, albeit unproductively for the most part. Among other things, he thought about Tsulgax, and wondered if the creature was a hybrid between a Voitu and a human. If he was, then where the Voitar were from, presumably there were humans, too.

For the rest of the week, classes were more of the same. Sieges of desperate sleepiness recurred, but briefer and less intensely, and Macurdy found his visual images growing stronger, sharper, more detailed. By the end of class on Saturday he was experimenting with color, both bright and pastels, and had increased image complexity without loss of resolution.

Perhaps, he thought, the Voitar knew what they were doing after all, though how it would benefit his psychic talents, he had no idea. Meanwhile he was concerned that he was getting out of shape physically, which under the circumstances seemed dangerous. So he began doing pushups, situps, and knee-bends during class breaks. When Nargosz asked why, he replied that in school at home they had always done that. "So we would be strong for Germany," he added.

For whatever reason, apparently the Voitar considered the notion favorably. Sundays were off-days, and previously the psychics had simply loafed around. On the next Sunday, however, they were mustered at 9 AM and issued army field jackets, ankle-length SS boots, heavy knit caps with earflaps, and mittens with trigger forgers. At 10 AM, with Schurz in command, they went for a walk outside, accompanied by two disgusted-looking guardsmen. The weather had turned wintry again, with snow on the ground and in the air, so they walked fast to keep warm.

While the psychics walked, Colonel Landgraf and Captain Kupfer passed, wearing greatcoats and riding a pair of beautiful saddle horses. Both belonged to the colonel, Macurdy supposed. Landgraf rode like someone born to it. No doubt he had been; even his name was aristocratic.

An hour later the psychics were back in the schloss, and most of them napped after lunch. After his own nap, Macurdy went to the rec room and sat with his thoughts. So far he'd learned nothing very useful about the project, beyond the strange physical appearance of the Voitar. He needed to learn a lot more than that.

As for the stringent "off-limits" status of parts of the building: The north wing he could understand. It held the quarters, storage, and administrative activities of the SS platoon. And the south wing seemed to be Voitik country, though why so few needed so much room was not clear. So far as he knew, there were only six of them, plus Tsulgax, but even if there were twice that many… Perhaps it simply reflected the status of Kurqosz and Greszak-a crown prince and a baron, if that's what they really were.

But the cellar?

Even invisible, investigating would be dangerous. A case could be made for playing it safe, of simply pursuing the training, and seeing what it would teach him about the project's purpose. But by not snooping, he might be missing something very important.

That night, when Schurz and the others were asleep, Macurdy cloaked himself and went to the door, which opened inward. Leaning into the corridor, he peered at the guards, one at each ell. They stood more or less at order arms, looking reasonably military, but by his aura, the nearest, at least, was daydreaming. He'd been spoiled by such routinely peaceful duty.