The Daleth Effect

19

The Jaguar saloon moved steadily north along the coast, staying exacdy at the posted speed limit. Nils drove easily with one hand while he tried to find some music on the radio.

“We are starting out a little late,” he said. “Do you have to stop in Helsingor?”

“I have to go to the post office. It will only take a minute,” Martha said.

“What’s so important?” He found a Swedish station that was playing a peasant polka, all yipping and stomping.

“I have to send off some film for developing.”

“What’s wrong with the photography shop next to the grocer in Rungsted?”

“They’re too slow. This is a special place in Copenhagen. If you think 111 make you late just drop me off by the ferry and you can go on by yourself.”

He took a quick look out of the corner of his eye, but she was looking ahead, her face expressionless.

“Come on! This is a holiday—of course I’ll wait. I just don’t want us to miss the launching—or ascension or whatever you want to call it. You’ll love it. These tugs will just drift down and latch onto the ship and lift it right up out of the ways. They’ll install the drive on the Moon.”

They had to wait at the ferry slip while a fussy little steam engine pulled a string of Swedish boxcars across the road.

“Look at that yard donkey,” Nils said. “Leaking steam and oil from every joint—and still dragging trains off the ferry. Do you know how old it is?” Martha apparently did not know, nor did she appear too interested in the answer.

“I’ll tell you. It’s on that plate on the side of the cab. Eighteen ninety-two that antique was built, and still on the job. We Danes never throw anything away while it still works. A very practical people.”

“As opposed to we Americans who build cars and things to break down at once and be discarded?”

He did not answer, but drove past the station and turned down Jernbanevej to the post office at the rear of the terminal. He parked and she got out, carrying the small package. Film. He wondered how long she had had it in the camera. She certainly had not taken any pictures since this holiday began. Some holiday. Bitchy, he thought, during my entire leave. He wondered what could possibly be bothering her; he could think of nothing. He saw that he had parked next to a hot dog stand, and his stomach gave an interested rumble at the sight. They would be sure to have a late lunch and he ought to be prepared. He went in and ordered two of them—raw onion, ketchup and mustard—then canceled the onion when he remembered that they would be at the launching with all the politicians and bigwigs. He had to remember this place; they had beer too, so he washed the polser down with a cold bottle of Tuborg Gold.

What was the matter with Martha? She was not unresponsive, but there was a coldness that made her roll away from him in bed at night. Perhaps it was the tension of the Moon flights, the sabotage and all that. You never could tell about women. Funny damn creatures. Given to moods. He saw her coming out of the post office and hurriedly finished the beer.

Nils never had a moment of doubt. Nor had he once, ever since that Sunday afternoon, ever even thought about Inger.