'To take part in the actual design, as an engineer, which I should have been, and not just collecting Jews and Poles for our labour force.'

Kryzystina stretched out beside him, now knowing him, fitting to him, and asked, breathing warmly in his ear: 'A labour force only for Projekt Saucer? Is that why you're rounding up those people? To work for Projekt Saucer in the camps?'

Ernst felt impatient, his thoughts scattered by his erection. 'No,' he said. 'Don't be ridiculous. There are no research plants in the camps. Those I select don't go to the camps; they're sent to our growing number of advanced weapons factories, scattered over Germany and Bavaria and hidden underground or inside mountains. There they'll perform the heavy labour required. They'll certainly be worked very hard, but at least they might live.'

He said it with confidence as he rolled between her spreading thighs and inserted himself into the velvet glove that could make his thoughts reel; but he knew, when he had finished, when his thoughts had scattered and returned intact, that he had not told the truth, as even those being used by Projekt Saucer would not necessarily live long. Recalling the tour that Himmler had given him through the immense tunnel being hacked out of the densely forested hills of Thuringia to contain the planned underground factories at Nordhausen and nearby Bleicherode, he remembered the armed SS guards and the cracking of their bullwhips, which then, as now, were an indication that the welfare of the labour force would not be considered. And that labour force was being sent out by train from most of the major cities of Poland, to the increasing number of factories hidden underground, from the Harz Mountains to Thuringia, south of Prague and across to Mahren... a vast network of secret factories devoted to the design and construction of advanced weaponry and aircraft, including the rockets of Wernher von Braun and the flying saucer of the obsessed American, Wilson... factories in which the work force would, if necessary, be worked to death. A brutal truth that appeared to have given Wilson no qualms at all.

'He has one other obsession,' Ernst confided to Kryzystina as they rested after their s.e.xual exertions. 'An obsession with longevity though that also is treated as part of his work. Wilson is old in his mid-sixties, I think - but he looks and acts fifteen years younger than that. This, he insists, is due to a lifelong strict diet no cigarettes or alcohol, no fatty foods; only fruit juice, cereals, fruit, and nuts and, oddly, no exercise other than lots of walking. He also ascribed it to a lack of emotional entanglements, which he said were, apart from their well-known psychological effects, an inducement to quicker physical deterioration.'

'What about s.e.x?' Kryzystina asked.

'I gather that it's fine,' Ernst replied, amused, 'so long as it's performed unemotionally for the reasons I've already stated. s.e.x as pure exercise is healthy, but romantic love or s.e.x used for emotional release are both damaging to physical as well as mental health.'

'You poor man,' Kryzystina crooned in his ear, reaching down for his p.e.n.i.s. 'Let me arouse you s.e.xually, therefore emotionally, and thus ruin your health.'

Ernst slapped her hand away. He was grinning, but felt uneasy. There were times when you couldn't help wondering just how right or wrong Wilson was.

'What's so strange,' he said, hoping to talk out his troubled thoughts, 'is that this particular obsession has also been dragged into his work as everything is with him, sooner or later. It's as if he's treating even his own life as material for research. And so the state of his health and the possibilities of longevity, while important to him on a personal level, are more important for what they can add to his envisaged Super Race. Which is why some of those sent to the camps will have a fate worse than death.'

'What fate?'

Realizing that he had already said more than he should, Ernst shook his head and said, 'Nothing. Forget it.'

He lit a cigarette he had started smoking only recently and realized that he could not forget it. Indeed, who could forget the hideous 'anthropological' experiments already being conducted, with Wilson's sly encouragement and at Himmler's command, in the surgeries and operating theatres of certain concentration camps, as well as in secret SS laboratories located all over Germany?

Even now Ernst was haunted by the memory of the infamous Crystal Night of thirteen months ago, when, in a fit of perversity or perhaps overwhelming frustration, he'd driven Wilson through Berlin's violent, blazing streets to a n.a.z.i hospital on the outskirts of the city. There, in the laboratory, he'd shown him the contorted limbs, frozen anguish, and, in some cases, dismembered heads of those who had died on the operating table in some of his requested experiments. Wilson had remained unmoved, insisting that science was all that mattered. He wanted the secret of immortality, or at least longevity, and would do anything, no matter how cruel, to uncover it.

And he had insisted that he was not a monster, but just a man with a mission.

What kind of man?

Already depressed, Ernst suddenly felt crushed by fear, so he stubbed his cigarette out, rolled onto Kryzystina, and tried to lose himself in her body, where nothing could reach him.

Ernst snapped to attention in the office of his superior officer, Major Riedel, gave the n.a.z.i salute, and said, 'Heil Hitler!' Riedel returned the salute with a weary wave of his hand, told Ernst to stand at ease, and gazed up from his desk in a thoughtful, searching manner.

Ernst's former friend, the s.a.d.i.s.tic Lieutenant Franck Ritter, was standing at the other end of the desk, wearing his black SS uniform and trying hard not to smile.

Major Riedel waved his hand again, this time indicating the many photographs pinned up on the wall behind him.

'You've seen these photos before, Captain?'

'Yes, sir,' Ernst replied.

'Then you know what they are, do you not?'

'Yes, sir,' Ernst said, getting the distinct feeling that he was in trouble, but unable to guess why. 'They're photographs of Polish resistance fighters being hunted by the Gestapo. The SS also have orders to keep a watch out for them or anyone suspected of knowing or harbouring them.'

'Correct.' Major Riedel glanced at Ritter, then stood up and planted his finger on one of the photographs. 'Do you know this man, Captain Stoll?'

'No, sir.'

'Can you see him properly from where you're standing?'

'No, sir, but I don't know anyone on that list.'

'Please step forward and check the photograph properly.'

Ernst did as he was told, walking around the far side of the desk and glaring at Ritter. He then stood beside Riedel to study the photograph up close. He saw a handsome young Pole with sensitive features and unusually bright, fearless eyes. When he had studied the young man's face, he shook his head and said, 'No, sir, I don't know him.' Then he marched back around the desk and stood stiffly in front of it.

He noticed Ritter's thin smile. Major Riedel nodded and glanced at Ritter, then sat in the chair behind his desk, where he clasped his hands under his chin and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

'The man is Andrzej Pialowicz,' he said. 'Does the name mean anything to you?'

'Yes, sir,' Ernst said, growing more confused and nervous. 'It's the name of a leading Polish resistance fighter, presently on a Gestapo and SS death list.'

'Correct again, Captain. I'm glad to note that you are, at least, reading the directives being sent out from this office.'

Ernst did not reply, as there was no reply to give. He simply glanced at Ritter and noticed his triumphant smirk.