The fellow who had burst into their hiding-place wore a bushy black beard. "We had better get out of-" Again Nehru broke off in midsentence, this time because the oxcart driver was throwing off the coverings that concealed his two pa.s.sengers.

Nehru started to get to his feet so he could try to scramble out and run. Too late-a rifle barrel that looked wide as a tunnel was shoved in his face as a German came dashing up to the. cart.

The big curved magazine said the gun was one of the automatic a.s.sault rifles that had wreaked such havoc among the British infantry. A burst would turn a man into b.l.o.o.d.y hash. Nehru sank back in despair.

Gandhi, less spry than his friend, had only sat up in the bottom of the cart. "Good day, gentlemen," he said to the Germans peering down at him. His tone took no notice of their weapons.

"Down." The word was in such gutturally accented Hindi that Gandhi hardly understood it, but the accompanying gesture with a rifle was unmistakable.

Face a mask of misery, Nehru got out of the cart. A German helped Gandhi descend.

"Danke," he said. The soldier nodded gruffly. He pointed the barrel of his rifle-toward the armored personnel carrier.

"My rupees!" the black-bearded man shouted.

Nehru turned on him, so quickly he almost got shot for it. "Your thirty pieces of silver, you mean," he cried.

"Ah, a British education," Gandhi murmured. No one was listening to him.

"My rupees," the man repeated. He did not understand Nehru; so often, Gandhi thought sadly, that was at the root of everything.

"You'll get them," promised the sergeant leading the German squad. Gandhi wondered if he was telling the truth. Probably so, he decided. The British had had centuries to build a network of Indian clients. Here but a matter of months, the Germans would need all they could find.

"In." The soldier with a few words of Hindi nodded to the back of the armored personnel carrier. Up close, the vehicle took on a war-battered individuality its kind had lacked when they were just big, intimidating shapes rumbling down the highway. It was bullet-scarred and patched in a couple of places, with sheets of steel crudely welded on.

Inside, the jagged lips of the bullet holes had been hammered down so they did not gouge a man's back. The carrier smelled of leather, sweat, tobacco, smokeless powder, and exhaust fumes. It was crowded, all the more so with the two Indians added to its usual contingent. The motor's roar when it started up challenged even Gandhi's equanimity.

Not, he thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, that that equanimity had done him much good.

"They are here, sir," Lasch told Model, then, at the field marshal's blank look amplified: "Gandhi and Nehru."

Model's eyebrow came down toward his monocle. "I won't bother with Nehru. Now that we have him, take him out and give him a noodle"-army slang for a bullet in the back of the neck-"but don't waste my time over him. Gandhi, now, is interesting. Fetch him in." "Yes, sir," the major sighed. Model smiled. Lasch did not find Gandhi interesting. Lasch would never carry a field marshal's baton, not if he lived to be ninety.

Model waved away the soldiers who escorted Gandhi into his office. Either of them could have broken the little Indian like a stick. "Have a care," Gandhi said. "If I am the desperate criminal bandit you have styled me, I may overpower you and escape."

"If you do, you will have earned it," Model retorted. "Sit, if you care to."

"Thank you." Gandhi sat. "They took Jawaharlal away. Why have you summoned me instead?"

"To talk for a while, before you join him." Model saw that Gandhi knew what he meant, and that the old man remained unafraid. Not that that would change anything, Model thought, although he respected his opponent's courage the more for his keeping it in the last extremity.

"I will talk, in the hope of persuading you to have mercy on my people. For myself I ask nothing."

Model shrugged. "I was as merciful as the circ.u.mstances of war allowed, until you began your campaign against us. Since then, I have done what I needed to restore order. When it returns, I may be milder again."

"You seem a decent man," Gandhi said, puzzlement in his voice. "How can you so callously ma.s.sacre people who have done you no harm?"

"I never would have, had you not urged them to folly."

"Seeking freedom is not folly."

"It is when you cannot gain it-and you cannot. Already your people are losing their stomach for-what do you call it? Pa.s.sive resistance? A silly notion. A pa.s.sive resister simply ends up dead, with no chance to hit back at his foe."

That hit a nerve, Model thought. Gandhi's voice was less detached as he answered, "Satyagraha strikes the oppressor's soul, not his body. You must be without honor or conscience, to fail to feel your victims' anguish."

Nettled in turn, the field marshal snapped, "I have honor. I follow the oath of obedience I swore with the army to the Fuhrer and through him to the Reich. I need consider nothing past that."

Now Gandhi's calm was gone. "But he is a madman! What has he done to the Jews of Europe?"

"Removed them," Model said matter-of-factly; Einsatzgruppe B had followed Army Group Central to Moscow and beyond. "They were capitalists or Bolsheviks, and either way enemies of the Reich. When an enemy falls into a man's hands, what else is there to do but destroy him, lest he revive to turn the tables one day?"

Gandhi had buried his face in his hands. Without looking at Model, he said, "Make him a friend."

"Even the British knew better than that, or they would not have held India as long as they did," the field marshal snorted. "They must have begun to forget, though, or your movement would have got what it deserves long ago. You first made the mistake of confusing us with them long ago, by the way." He touched a fat dossier on his desk.

"When was that?" Gandhi asked indifferently. The man was beaten now, Model thought with a touch of pride: he had succeeded where a generation of degenerate, decadent Englishmen had failed. Of course, the field marshal told himself, he had beaten the British too. He opened the dossier, riffled through it. "Here we are," he said, nodding in satisfaction. "It was after Kristallnacht, eh, in 1938, when you urged the German Jews to play at the same game of pa.s.sive resistance you were using here. Had they been fools enough to try it, we would have thanked you, you know: it would have let us bag the enemies of the Reich all the more easily."

"Yes, I made a mistake," Gandhi said. Now he was looking at the field marshal, looking at him with such fierceness that for a moment Model thought he would attack him despite advanced age and effete philosophy. But Gandhi only continued sorrowfully, "I made the mistake of thinking I faced a regime ruled by conscience, one that could at the very least be shamed into doing that which is right."

Model refused to be baited. "We do what is right for our Volk, for our Reich. We are meant to rule, and rule we do-as you see." The field marshal tapped the dossier again. "You could be sentenced to death for this earlier meddling in the affairs of the fatherland, you know, even without these later acts of insane defiance you have caused."

"History will judge us," Gandhi warned as the field marshal rose to have him taken away.

Model smiled then. "Winners write history." He watched the two strapping German guards lead the old man off. "A very good morning's work," the field marshal told Lasch when Gandhi was gone. "What's on the menu for lunch?"

"Blood sausage and sauerkraut, I believe."

"Ah, good. Something to look forward to." Model sat down. He went back to work.

Mules in Horses' Harness

MICHAEL Ca.s.sUTT.

I.

In the humid depths of August downtown Atlanta looked like a tomb and smelled like a charnel house, or so Gene imagined, There was less traffic than one would find on a Secession Day weekend and in all the streets between the Peachtree Tunnel and Butler House Gene counted no more than a dozen men in suits. The fragrance of nearby darktown settled on the scene like a noxious cloud. Yet each corner had its cl.u.s.ter of the usual painted and preening entrepreneurs of both s.e.xes. Gene noted that the prost.i.tutes outnumbered their potential customers, making him wonder, again, just how accurate those frightening stories out of New Orleans were.

He left the car with the contract valet at the hotel and took his time getting to the Atrium.

Shelby would be late, of course; the only question for Gene was how late. So he was quite surprised to find her already seated and drinking iced tea.

"Have you called Daddy lately?" she said as soon as they'd kissed.

"Is this what pa.s.ses for 'h.e.l.lo' at Bradley these days?" Gene said. Brother and sister were both fair and slight, though Shelby's Confederate princess camouflage made her dishwater blond hair look positively golden and reddened her lips so that most men (though not Gene) would have described them as luscious. Only when she rolled her eyes, as she did now, did Shelby truly resemble Gene, becoming, if only for a moment, a twelve-year-old-the proper age for a younger sister, in Gene's opinion. In December she would be twenty-one. "As a matter of fact, I haven't. Don't tell me you have."

"Gene ..." This was an argument that, in one form or another, had been going on since the divorce ten years ago. "He's our father."

"Only chemically," Gene said. "In every other way he separated himself from our life in 1978. He's got a new wife who is exactly your age-" He was exaggerating for effect. Their step-mother was closer to twenty-three. "-and the perfect new heir. Dylan James Tyler. Christ, how pretentious can you get? I'm only surprised that he hasn't filed suit to get me to change my name." Dad was Gene, Sr. "If he gets disgusted enough, maybe he'll change his." Gene smiled.

Shelby sighed. "Never mind. I was only asking."

"Fair enough. You didn't invite me to the Atrium to ask me about Daddy, though."

"No." Shelby was suddenly distant, in a way that was uniquely hers. Confederate princesses-at least those few whose company Gene had tolerated, however briefly-were trained to pay, in any encounter between the s.e.xes, supreme and total attention to the man.

The waiter arrived to take up one of the four places at the table. Gene ordered a whiskey, which caused Shelby to frown. "I only did it to get your attention," he said.

"I don't believe you."

"And how is school?" "Boring."

"That's a great thing to say about the finest school for women in eleven states including Cuba." He was kidding her, but the answer disturbed him. Without parental support- there was some money from Mom, but not enough to cover more than a fraction of the tuition and costs- Shelby had worked hard to earn a scholarship. To Gene's pleasure and pride, she had chosen to study medicine, one of the few fields in which a woman could find a career these days.

"Oh, you know what I mean. It's summer. It's hot and there's no one around-"

"There's no one around Bradley in the winter, darling."

"Then you can imagine what it's like in summer." She was playing with her iced tea, drawing figures in the condensation. "Maybe I miss being . . . young."

"Oh, you miss being dragged all over the Confederacy by Daddy so you could wait in a hotel room while he did his 'bidness'? Or is it the custody battle you're thinking of? Now that was a lot of fun-"

"Gene, stop it. You know exactly what I mean."

Yes, he did. She was thinking of summers on the lake and in the fields behind the big house in Marietta. Their land bordered a state park dedicated to the battle of Stone Mountain, and so, aside from park rangers and the occasional Northern tourists, they had the run of acres of woodland. And before the divorce Gene, Sr., had kept horses. "Sorry. This time of year gets to me, too."

"Why don't you go someplace? G.o.d knows you've got vacation coming to you."

"Why, sister dear, the project would fall apart without me." He laid on a thick accent, the kind they'd heard from the contractees at the Marietta house. It never failed to make her laugh.

"Differential computation is the best hope of the Confederacy. Taking a vacation would be- unpatriotic."

"I thought you were under the lash of some sissy professors at Emory."

"Sociology professors at Emory," he corrected, his eyes narrowing. "I'll have you know there are no sissies in the Confederacy."

Gene knew this was dangerous ground, even between loving brother and sister, but battle was postponed. Shelby was on her feet, a beauty-queen smile on her face, waving. "Over here!"

Before Gene could turn around, a handsome young man in a gray suit was at the table, kissing Shelby in a manner generally reserved, in public at least, for family members. Then he offered his hand to Gene. "I'm Charlie Holder," he said.

"My fiance," Shelby said.

Gene tried hard not to despise Holder on sight, a task made unusually difficult by the speed with which this prospective brother-in-law made himself at home, and by the deference shown him by the waiter. He didn't even ask for Mr. Holder's order. In the s.p.a.ce of seconds, without any proper signs at all, Gene found himself no longer host, but guest. Holder had even interposed his tanned, well-exercised frame between Gene and Shelby.

"I perceive that you've been here before, Mr. Holder," Gene said, smiling so pleasantly his lips ached.

Shelby, who recognized the coming fury, reached out for Gene's hand. "Charlie works for Sumner and Horn," she said, naming with what Gene took to be excessive enthusiasm the biggest law firm in the state. "Their offices are right across the street."

"I'm just an a.s.sociate, of course," Holder said. "On what they pay me I'm lucky if I can eat here twice a month." "Does that mean supporting my dear sister will be especially . . . challenging?" Gene said this while looking at Shelby, who had given up anger and was now attempting to soothe him by looking hurt. He said, "Now don't you worry, sister. I'm not seriously questioning Mr. Holder's abilities-"

"Please call me Charlie."

"Charlie it is." He made it sound like a disease. "But I am the senior male in the family. I have certain responsibilities regarding my sister's welfare." He turned to Shelby. "Charlie understands that."

Holder smiled right back. "Perfectly."

"Then," Shelby said, "dear brother, you'll be pleased to know that Charlie has been nominated for a partnership. He'll have it long before the wedding."

With those words Shelby let him know that she had gone over to the other side. Gene felt like Longstreet at the Last Redoubt: out of ammunition, Sherman's blue hordes swarming up the parapet. The war was over; lunch was only beginning.

Current popular wisdom suggested that a diet of greens was one way to ward off the summer vapors. Like Shelby and Holder, Gene found himself staring at a Cantonese salad for which he now had even less enthusiasm than ever. He signaled the waiter and got a second drink. Shelby was so busy t.i.ttering at Holder that she didn't even notice.

Exactly on cue, two bites into the salad, Holder looked up. "Shelby tells me you work in differentials. That must be an exciting field."

"Well, I'm sure it can't compare to contract law," Gene said.

"Come on." Holder was determined not to let Gene insult him. "It's the cutting edge of Confederate technology. Without your-what do they call them?-bugs and counters we'd be nothing but a warmer Canada." He stabbed at the salad, and dabbed at his mouth. "We handle all D.C.D.'s work, you know."

Differential Calculating Devices was the Atlanta conglomerate that dominated the global market. There wasn't a government that functioned without the machines, not even the government of the United States of America, which would sooner buy from Satan than from the Confederacy. The company had the further bonus of being Gene's ostensible employer. "If you're involved in D.C.D., then you know more about our 'importance' than I do. I'm just a soldier."

"A soldier who's fighting a particularly interesting war, I hear. Project Deconstruction, isn't it?"

Gene's glance shifted from Holder, who was impa.s.sive in his command of the situation, to Shelby, who allowed herself a wiggle of triumph at the obvious perfection of her catch. "That's not a name I'm used to hearing at city lunches," Gene said finally, hoping that a bit of dignified reproach might be sufficient to raise him back to equal standing with this person.

"Certainly not," Holder said. "It's privileged. Family stuff. But, then, we're all family here, aren't we, Shel?" Not only did Holder suddenly use what had heretofore been Gene's private name for Shelby, but he caused her to blush, confirming to Gene that she had, indeed, spilled to Holder all of the many "privileged" details she knew about Deconstruction.

Gene examined the bottom of his drink and wished for a sudden outbreak of war-or death- anything to deliver him from this lunch. But fate declined to oblige.

Shelby was saying, "You know, I've heard bits and pieces of this, but never quite the whole story. I'm dying to know. That is, if it's all right." "I have no objection . . . if your brother doesn't," Holder said, neatly positioning Gene to label his own sister as untrustworthy.

"If we can't take such a fine example of Southern womanhood into our confidence, what kind of men are we?" Gene said, slipping into his little-used country club locutions. "Shelby, darling, Project Deconstruction is a device by which we unravel the past so that we might actually tell the future."

"I do know that much."