"Most irregular," the woman sniffed. She didn't seem to see that things were different in the Reich Reich nowadays. But, after another glance at the weaponry festooning the other fellow, she stopped arguing. nowadays. But, after another glance at the weaponry festooning the other fellow, she stopped arguing.

"Thanks, pal," the stranger said to Drucker. "Appreciate it. Some people have trouble getting the idea that times have changed through their thick heads."

After a moment, Drucker placed the man's secondary accent. He'd heard it before, thicker, in Poland and the Soviet Union before the Lizards landed. Yiddish, that was it. "You're a Jew," he blurted.

With an ironic bow, the other man nodded. "And you're a German. I love you, too," he said. "Mordechai Anielewicz, at your service. I'm trying to find my family after some of you n.a.z.i b.a.s.t.a.r.ds hauled them out of Poland."

All Drucker said was, "I'm trying to find my family, too. They were in Greifswald, but they aren't any more, and not much of the town is left." He paused, staring at the other man. "Mordechai Anielewicz? Jesus: I know you. A million years ago"-actually, back in the first round of fighting against the Race-"I was Colonel Heinrich Jager's panzer driver." He gave his own name.

"Were you?" Anielewicz's eyes narrowed. you?" Anielewicz's eyes narrowed. "Gottenyu, "Gottenyu, maybe you were. And if you were, maybe you're not quite a n.a.z.i b.a.s.t.a.r.d after all. Maybe. My younger son is named for Heinrich Jager." maybe you were. And if you were, maybe you're not quite a n.a.z.i b.a.s.t.a.r.d after all. Maybe. My younger son is named for Heinrich Jager."

"My older son is," Drucker said. "What happened to him after that Russian pilot took him off to Poland?" He didn't mention how he and his fellow tank crewmen had killed several SS men to make Jager's escape possible.

"He married her," the Jew answered. "He's dead now. You know the explosive-metal bomb Skorzeny tried to set off inside Lodz? We stopped that, he and Ludmila and I. We all breathed in some nerve gas doing it, too. It hit him hardest; he was never quite right afterwards, and he died twelve, thirteen years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear it," Drucker said, "but thanks for telling me. He was a good man-one of the best officers I ever served under-and I always wondered what happened to him once he got away."

"He was one of the best." Mordechai Anielewicz eyed Drucker. "You drove a panzer then. What have you been doing since?"

"I stayed in the Wehrmacht, Wehrmacht," Drucker replied. "I ended up in the upper stage of an A-45. The Lizards captured me after I shot two missiles at one of their starships. If they hadn't knocked both of them down, I don't suppose they would have bothered taking me alive, but they did. Eventually, they set me down in Nuremberg. I had a devil of a time getting here, but I managed. Now if I could manage to find my wife and kids..."

Anielewicz looked at him as if he'd failed a test. "You served under Heinrich Jager, and you stayed in the Wehrmacht? Wehrmacht? He had the sense to get away." He had the sense to get away."

"Don't get high and mighty with me," Drucker snapped. "I know something about what the Reich Reich was doing to Jews. I didn't do any of that. I had it done to me, in fact." was doing to Jews. I didn't do any of that. I had it done to me, in fact."

"You had it done to you?" Anielewicz snarled. "You son of a b.i.t.c.h, you"-he cursed in Yiddish and Polish-"what do you know about it?" He looked ready to grab one of his weapons and start shooting. Drucker had thought him a dangerous man a generation before, and saw no reason to change his mind now. He slid his legs into a position from which he could better open fire, too.

But, instead of grabbing for his pistol, he answered Anielewicz in a low, urgent voice: "I'll tell you what I know about it. The SS grabbed my wife because they got wind she had a Jewish grandmother, that's what." He'd never thought he would tell that to anyone, but who in the Reich Reich ever imagined talking with a Jew? ever imagined talking with a Jew?

And it worked. Mordechai Anielewicz relaxed, suddenly and completely. "All right, then," he said. "You do do know something." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "From what you've said, you got her back. How'd you manage that? I know a thing or two about the SS." know something." He c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "From what you've said, you got her back. How'd you manage that? I know a thing or two about the SS."

"How?" Drucker chuckled mirthlessly. "I told you-I was an A-45 pilot. I had connections. My CO was General Dornberger-he's Fuhrer Fuhrer now, wherever the devil he is. I had enough pull to bring it off. Officially, Kathe got a clean pedigree." now, wherever the devil he is. I had enough pull to bring it off. Officially, Kathe got a clean pedigree."

"If you have pull, you should use it," Anielewicz agreed. His face clouded again. "Back in the 1940s, there were an awful lot of Jews who didn't have any."

Drucker didn't know how to reply to that. All he could do was nod. He hadn't thought much about Jews, or had much use for them, before Kathe got in trouble with the blackshirts. At last, he said, "The only thing I want to do now is find out if my family is alive, and get them back if they are."

"Fair enough. We're in the same boat there, no matter how we got dropped into it." Anielewicz pointed at Drucker. "If you know the Fuhrer, Fuhrer, why aren't you using your pull now to have him help you look for your kin?" why aren't you using your pull now to have him help you look for your kin?"

"Two main reasons, I suppose," Drucker answered after a little thought. "I wanted to do it myself, and... I'm not sure there's anyone to find."

"Yes, knowing they're dead would be pretty final, wouldn't it?" Anielewicz's voice was grim. "Still and all, if you've got a card left to play, don't you think it's time to play it?"

Drucker considered, then slowly nodded. He raised an eyebrow. "And if I try to find out for myself, maybe I should try to find out for you, too?"

"That thought did cross my mind," Mordechai Anielewicz allowed. "I've "I've got pull with the Lizards, myself. Shall we trade?" Drucker considered again, but not for long. He stuck out his hand. Anielewicz shook it. got pull with the Lizards, myself. Shall we trade?" Drucker considered again, but not for long. He stuck out his hand. Anielewicz shook it.

Sam Yeager had never imagined that a jail could be so comfortable. His place of confinement didn't look like a jail. It looked like, and was, a farmhouse somewhere in... n.o.body had told him exactly where he was, but it had to be Colorado or New Mexico. He could watch television, though no station came in real well. He could read Denver and Albuquerque papers. He could do almost anything he wanted-except go outside or write a letter or use a computer. His guards were very polite but very firm.

"Why are you keeping me here?" he demanded of them one morning, for about the five hundredth time.

"Orders," replied the one who answered to Fred.

Yeager had heard that about five hundred times, too. "You can't keep me forever," he said, though he had no evidence that that was true. "What will you do with me?"

"Whatever we get told to do," answered the one called John. "So far, n.o.body's told us to do anything except keep you on ice." He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you ought to count your blessings about that, Lieutenant Colonel."

By which he no doubt meant they could have buried Yeager in the yard behind the house without anyone's being the wiser. That was probably-no, that was certainly-true. "But I haven't done anything," Sam said, knowing full well he was lying. "And you haven't even tried to find out whether I've done anything," which was the G.o.d's truth.

Fred looked at John. John looked at the one named Charlie, who hardly ever said anything. He didn't say anything now, either-he only shrugged. John, who seemed to be the boss, answered, "We haven't had any orders to interrogate you, either. Maybe they don't want us knowing whatever you know. I don't ask questions. I just do what I'm told."

"But I don't know anything," Sam protested, another great, thumping lie.

Fred chuckled. "Maybe they don't want us catching ignorance, then." Of the three there that day, and of the other three who spelled them in weekly shifts, he was the only one with even a vestigial sense of humor. He pointed at Sam's empty cup. "You want some more coffee there?"

"Sure," Yeager answered, and the-agent?-poured the cup full again. After a couple of sips, Sam tried a question he hadn't asked before: "By whose orders are you keeping me here? I'm an officer in the U.S. Army, after all."

He didn't really expect to get an answer. Charlie just sat there looking sour. Fred shrugged, as if to say he was pretending he hadn't heard the question. But John said, "Whose orders? I'll tell you. Why the h.e.l.l not? You're here on the orders of the president of the United States, Mister Officer in the U.S. Army."

"The president?" Sam yelped. "What the d.i.c.kens does President Warren care about me? I haven't done anything."

"He must think you did," John said. "And if the president thinks you did something, buddy, you did it."

That, unfortunately, was likely to be correct. And Sam knew only too well what Earl Warren was liable to think he'd done. He'd done it, too, even if these goons didn't know, or want to know, that. He had to keep up a bold front, though. If he didn't, he was ruined. And so he said, "Tell the president that I want to talk to him about it, man to man. Tell him it's important that I do. Not just for me. For the country." He remembered the papers he'd given Straha and the things he'd told Barbara and Jonathan. It was important, all right.

"c.r.a.p," Charlie said-from him, an oration.

John said the same thing in a different way: "President Warren's a busy man. Why should he want to talk to one not particularly important lieutenant colonel?"

"Why should he want to make one not particularly important lieutenant colonel disappear?" Sam returned.

"That's not for us to worry about," John answered. "We got told to put you on ice and keep you on ice, and that's what we're doing."

Yeager didn't say anything. He just sat there and smiled his most unpleasant smile.

Charlie didn't get it. Yeager hadn't expected anything else. John didn't get it, either. That disappointed Yeager. After a few seconds' silence, Fred said, "Uh, John, I think he's saying the big boss might want to see him for the same reason he had him put on ice, whatever the h.e.l.l that is."

"Bingo," Sam said happily.

John didn't sound or look happy. "Like I care what he's saying." He sent Sam an unpleasant look of his own. "Other thing he's been saying all along is that he doesn't know why he got nabbed. If he's lying about that, who knows what else he's been lying about?"

What that translated to was, Who knows what we're liable to have to try to squeeze out of him? Who knows what we're liable to have to try to squeeze out of him? Back in his baseball days, Sam had known a fair number of small-time, small-town hoodlums, men who thought of themselves as tough guys. It had been a good many years, but the breed didn't seem to have changed much, even if these fellows got their money from a much more important boss. Back in his baseball days, Sam had known a fair number of small-time, small-town hoodlums, men who thought of themselves as tough guys. It had been a good many years, but the breed didn't seem to have changed much, even if these fellows got their money from a much more important boss.

At this point, Sam had two choices of his own. He could say something like, Anything happens to me, you'll be sorry. Anything happens to me, you'll be sorry. Or he could just sit tight. He decided to sit tight. These guys struck him as the sort who would take a warning as a sign of weakness, not as a sign of strength. Or he could just sit tight. He decided to sit tight. These guys struck him as the sort who would take a warning as a sign of weakness, not as a sign of strength.

He wondered if Straha had yet decided he was really missing, and whether the ex-shiplord had looked at the papers he'd given him. Sam had his doubts. If Straha had seen those papers, wouldn't he have got them to the Lizards in Cairo just as fast as he could? Yeager's bet was that he would have. And if he had, the fur would have started flying by now. Sam was sure of that.

Maybe his captors had been expecting him to speak up and warn them. When he sat tight, they didn't seem to know what to make of it. Were they unused to people who could bargain from a position of strength? Or were they just too dumb-and too far down on the totem pole-to realize he had some strength in this bargaining match?

Fred was the one who looked to have a clue. He gathered up the other two by eye and said, "I think we need to talk about this."

They couldn't go off into another room and leave Sam unattended. If they did, he was liable to be out the door like a shot. He didn't know where the next closest house was-he'd come here at night, and had no idea how big a farm this was-but he might well make life difficult for these guys. Of course, they might shoot him if they caught up with him. It would be too bad if they did, too bad for him and, very possibly, too bad for the USA and the whole world.

He wondered if he could slide out of here while they talked among themselves. No sooner had the idea crossed his mind than John said, "Don't even think about it, buddy." Yeager wondered how he'd given himself away. Had his eyes slid longingly toward the door? Whatever the answer, he sat where he was.

After a couple of minutes, his guards broke apart. "Tell you what we're going to do," Fred said, his voice so full of sweet reason, Sam instantly grew suspicious. "We're going to do just like you say, Lieutenant Colonel. We'll pa.s.s your request along, and we'll see what comes of it. If it gets turned down, it's not our fault. Is that fair?" He beamed at Yeager.

"I don't think kidnapping me in the first place was exactly fair," Sam answered. "Besides, how do I know I can believe you? You can say you'll pa.s.s it along and then just forget about it. How would I know you're telling the truth?"

"What do you want us to do?" John asked. "Put it in writing?"

"That'd be nice," Yeager said dryly.

Everybody laughed, as if they were good buddies sitting around shooting the breeze somewhere. n.o.body was going to put anything in writing. If some people hadn't put this, that, and the other thing in writing, Sam wouldn't have been where he was now. In a lot of different ways, he wished he weren't.

He decided to press just a little: "When you do pa.s.s the word along, you might want to let people know it's already liable to be later than they think."

"c.r.a.p," Charlie said again.

"If you say so," Sam answered. "But I think it's important for the president to know everything that's going on."

"Now you listen up, Lieutenant Colonel," John said. "You aren't in a real good place to start telling people what to do. Nothing's happened to your family-yet. You want to make real sure nothing does, you know what I mean?"

"Why, you son of a-" Sam surged to his feet.

He took half a step forward, but only half a step. All three of his watchdogs packed Army .45s. All three of them had the pistols out and pointed at his brisket in less time than he would have imagined possible. The difference between these guys and the small-town muscle he'd known in his younger days suddenly became obvious. The small-town punks had been minor leaguers, same as he'd been in those days. These fellows could have played in Yankee Stadium, and made the all-star team every year, too. Yeah, they were b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but they were awfully d.a.m.n good at what they did.

Very slowly, Yeager sat down again. John nodded. "Smart boy," he said. His .45 disappeared again. So did Fred's. Charlie held on to his. He looked disappointed that Sam hadn't given him the chance to use it. John went on, "You really don't want to get your a.s.s in an uproar, Lieutenant Colonel, honest to G.o.d you don't. We said we'd pa.s.s things along, and we will."

Sam studied him. "Saying things is easy. Really doing them-that's something different. I'm telling you, President Warren needs to talk to me. He doesn't know how much trouble he may end up in if he doesn't."

"Talk is cheap," John said.

"That's what I just told you," Yeager answered. "But how many laws are you guys breaking by holding me here like this, not letting me see my lawyer, not letting me know what the charges against me are, or even if there are any charges against me?"

"National security," Charlie intoned, as if reciting Holy Writ.

Yeager might have guessed he would say that. Yeager had, in fact, guessed he would say that. And he had a comeback ready: "If it turns out you're right and everything works out okay, you guys are heroes. But if things go wrong, who's going to end up with egg on his face? You guys will, because whoever's over you sure as h.e.l.l isn't going to sit still and take the blame."

"That's not for you to worry about, Lieutenant Colonel," Fred said. "That's for us to worry about-and do we look worried?"

"No," Sam admitted. "But the point is, maybe you ought to."

"c.r.a.p," Charlie said: a man of strong opinions and limited vocabulary. John and Fred didn't contradict him-and, dammit, they didn't didn't look worried. Sam had to hope he'd planted some seeds of doubt... and that planting seeds of doubt mattered. look worried. Sam had to hope he'd planted some seeds of doubt... and that planting seeds of doubt mattered.

Because of the time he'd spent in s.p.a.ce, Jonathan Yeager was going to graduate from UCLA a couple of quarters later than he would have otherwise. That had been the biggest thing on his mind when he got back to Gardena-till his father disappeared. He and his mother both knew, or thought they knew, why his father had disappeared. If they went to the papers, they might raise enough of a stink to get his dad released. They hadn't done it, not yet. The stink they would raise might turn out to be a lot bigger and messier than that.

And so, now that cla.s.ses had started again, Jonathan drove up to Westwood every day feeling as if he were in limbo. He didn't know where his dad was, or when-or if-he might return. The police were supposed to be looking for Sam Yeager. So was the Army. So was the FBI. n.o.body'd had any luck. Jonathan feared n.o.body was likely to have any luck, either.

He felt in limbo at UCLA, too. Because he'd dropped a couple of quarters behind, he wasn't in so many cla.s.ses with his friends-they'd gone on, and he hadn't. What he'd learned from Ka.s.squit and from the Race was and would be immensely valuable to him, but it wasn't the sort of thing that fit into the university curriculum.

That was on his mind as he left his modern political science cla.s.s-modern, of course, meaning of course, meaning since the coming of the Lizards- since the coming of the Lizards-and headed out to the gra.s.s between Royce Hall and Powell Library to eat the ham sandwich and orange and cookies he'd brought from home. Brown-bagging it was cheaper than buying lunch from any of the campus greasy spoons, and his mom had started watching every penny since his dad hadn't come home from Desert Center. "After all," she'd said once, "you never know, I might disappear next."

He was just sitting down when Karen walked by. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he waved. "Hi!" he said. "You got a few minutes?"

She paused, obviously thinking it over. They'd been an item-they'd been more than an item; they'd been drifting toward getting married-till he went up to the starship to instruct Ka.s.squit about Tosevite s.e.xual customs. Since then... since then, things had been tense, no two ways about it. He'd known they would be when he rode the shuttlecraft into s.p.a.ce. He hadn't known the war between the Reich Reich and the Race would strand him up there for so long-which only made things between Karen and him that much tenser. and the Race would strand him up there for so long-which only made things between Karen and him that much tenser.

At last, though frowning, she nodded. "How are you?" she asked, leaving the walkway to sit down beside him. "Any word about your father?" She sounded genuinely worried there. They'd known each other since high school, and she'd always got on well with his folks.

"Nothing," Jonathan answered with a grimace. "Zero. Zip. Zilch. I wish to G.o.d there were."

"I'm sorry," she said, and brushed a lock of red hair back from her face. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks and shoulders; she sunburned if you looked at her sideways. Despite that, she wore a flesh-colored halter top to show off the body paint that alleged she was a military communications specialist: like a lot of people of their generation, she was as pa.s.sionately interested in the Lizards as was Jonathan. After a moment, she found another safe question to ask: "How are Mickey and Donald?"

She'd been there when they hatched from their eggs. Jonathan supposed that was a breach of security, but he hadn't cared at the time, and his father had let him get away with it. "They're fine," he answered. "Growing like weeds, and learning new words all the time." He hesitated, then plunged: "You know they always think it's hot when you come over to see them."

"Do they?" Karen's voice wasn't hot; it was colder than winter in Los Angeles ever got. "I like seeing them. I like seeing your mom, too. You... that hasn't worked out so well since you got back, and you know it hasn't."

Jonathan's sack lunch lay by him, forgotten. "Go easy," he said. "I've told you and told you-what happened up there wasn't what I thought it was going to be when I left."

"I know," she said. "It lasted longer, so you had more fun than you figured you would when you left. But you went up there intending to have fun. That's the long and short of things, isn't it, Jonathan?"

He admitted what he could scarcely deny: "That's some of it, yeah. But it's not all. It was almost like what fooling around with a real Lizard would be. We both learned a lot from it."

"I'll bet you did," Karen said.

"I didn't mean it like that, darn it," Jonathan said. "Now she's thinking about coming down here to see what life among the Big Uglies is like, and all she ever wanted to do before was stay on the starship and pretend she was a Lizard."

"And what would she do if she did come down here?" Karen demanded. "Whatever it was, would she do it with you?"

Jonathan's ears heated. That had nothing to do with the weather, even though the day, like a lot of allegedly early-autumn days in Los Angeles, was well up into the eighties. "I don't know," he muttered. "It's research, is what it is."

"Is that what you call it?" Karen said. "How would you like it if I were doing research research like that?" She laced the word with scorn. like that?" She laced the word with scorn.

And Jonathan knew he wouldn't like it for h.e.l.l. He took a deep breath. "There's one way that wouldn't happen, even if Ka.s.squit did come down to Earth," he said.

"Sure there is-if she landed in Moscow," Karen said.

"That's not what I meant," Jonathan said. "Not even close. She knows about marriage-I don't think she really understands it, but she knows what it means. That's why"-he blushed again-"that's why my dad wasn't up there being experimental, if you know what I mean."

"And so?" Karen said.

"And so..." Jonathan plunged: "And so, if I were engaged to you, it wouldn't be the same as married, but it would be on the way to the same thing, and she'd see that it meant she and I couldn't do, uh, anything any more." He brought the words out in a quick, almost desperate rush.

Karen's eyes widened-widened more, in fact, than Jonathan had ever seen them do. Ever so slowly, she said, "Are you asking me to marry you?"