The German jumped up and ran toward the curtains. It was a bad move. He was electrocuted by touching the heavy brocade material, resulting in a most interesting new style for his beard. It was as if he'd received a lethal dose of static electricity. He was dead before his body hit the floor.
Mrs. Younghusband had had enough and spoke sternly to the ceiling. "Would you please stop killing our guests?"
"Weber is going to have his hands full," muttered the general.
The shadow from Atlantis shook his head. "I do apologize. We are creating a new time stream tonight and I had no foreknowledge that Madame's heart would give out. As for List, I should have pointed out what would happen if any of you tried to leave this room before I shut off the time lens."
"It was remiss of you," said the Tibetan. "Are you certain there is no Aryan race?"
"Yes."
Tri Rimpoche frowned. "This comes as quite a blow. A higher race consciousness seems a way of limiting national strife and pointless wars against one's brothers."
The shadow nodded. "There is a higher race consciousness, but you aren't ready for it yet."
"Will there ever be an end to war?" asked Mrs. Younghusband.
"No, but the human race's martial spirit will come in handy when you face the dragons."
"Dragons," echoed the Tibetan.
"Afraid I must leave you now," said the shadow.
"Is this the extent of the body count?" asked the general, regarding HPB and List.
"Once again, I'm dreadfully sorry about that," said the shadow. "Do what you can, General. Wars between Germany and England will prove salutary in the end."
"I always thought we would fight Russia."
"Everything in its time," said the shadow as it faded from the ceiling.
The Swede brought his fist down on the table. "Well, I'll be hanged if I believe any more of this than did poor List!"
Younghusband stood and walked over to the body of Madame Blavatsky. After trying her pulse and checking for any sign of breath, he sighed. "She was my favorite Russian," he said.
"Part German, as well," added the Tibetan.
"Then she was also my favorite German. Imagine her having the greatest success possible as a medium and not living through it."
Suddenly the curtains parted without another shower of blue sparks. Weber stood in the light from the outer room, regarding List's body. "What shall I do, sir?" he asked his master.
"A good question," said the general, patting the corpse of Madame Blavatsky on the shoulder. "What are any of us to do? War between England and Germany. What do you think of that, eh, Weber?"
His wife came to his side. "How bad will it be?" she asked.
The general wiped away a tear. "The world will enjoy good sport, dear. We'll do our part. It's our duty now."
"You can't believe it," said Hedin, shaking his head. "Not really."
Younghusband sighed. "List didn't know the meaning of a good bag. I'm afraid that we'll learn through our children."
The Burning Spear at Twilight
Mike Resnick
Jomo Kenyatta paces his cell.
It is seven feet by nine feet. There is a barred window, something less than two feet on a side. Along one wall is a metal cot with a thin ripped mattress. In a corner is a rusted pail, filled with his urine and excrement. He has worn the same clothes for seventeen days; laundry day won't come for another two weeks.
It is 97 degrees out, a cool day for Kenya's Northern Frontier District. The flies are out in force; usually even the insects lie up in the shade during the heat of the day.
Kenyatta has been in the cell in Maralal for just over a year. He has six years yet to serve. He wonders how much of his sentence he will manage to survive before he dies. His British guards, those who speak to him, are betting he doesn't live for half his sentence, but he will fool them. He is a tough old bird; he will serve well over half his time, perhaps even five years, before he succumbs.
He thinks back to the trial. Someday, when Kenya is finally free of the British, they will print the transcript, and the world will see that he was railroaded on a trumped-up charge. King of the Mau Mau indeed! To this day, he does not even know what "Mau Mau" means, or what language it represents.
Suddenly his door opens, and he realizes through the haze of heat that almost melts the mind that it is Sunday already, and that it is time for the one weekly visitor he is allowed. This time it is James Thuku, a friend of his from the old days.
Thuku waits until the door locks behind him, then places his hands together and bows as a British guard watches his every move.
"Greetings, O Burning Spear," he says. "I trust all is well with you?"
"You may call me Jomo, or even Johnston," replies Kenyatta, for before he was Jomo Kenyatta he was Johnston Kamau. "And I am as well as can be expected."
"Let me shake your hand in the tradition of the white man, that I may feel your strength," says Thuku.
Kenyatta frowns. The Kikuyu do not shake hands. But there is something in Thuku's expression that tells him that today they do, and he extends his hand. Thuku grabs it, squeezes it, and when they part, Kenyatta is holding a folded note in his huge hand.
"How do my people fare?" he asks, pocketing the note until he is no longer under close observation through the little window in the door.
Thuku's face says, How do you think they fare? but his voice answers, "They miss you, Burning Spear, and every day they ask the British to release you."
"Please thank them for their efforts on my behalf," says Kenyatta. Then, "Are they well fed and fairly treated?"
"Well, they are not in prison," answers Thuku. "At least, not all of them."
Stupid, thinks Kenyatta. Here I give you an opportunity to say what the British wish to hear, and instead you tell me this. I doubt that they will allow you back here again.
"More farms have been attacked?" asks Kenyatta.
Thuku nods. He doesn't care if the British hear. After all, it is in all the papers. "Yes, and they have mutilated hundreds of cattle and goats belonging to the British."
"They are foolish," said Kenyatta in a clear voice, loud enough to be heard beyond the cell. "The British are not evil, merely misinformed. They are not our enemies, and mark my words, someday they will even be our allies."
Thuku looks at him as if he has gone mad.
"They are a handsome race," continues Kenyatta. "They have strong faces and straight backs." He switches from English to Kikuyu, which is much more complex and difficult to learn than Swahili, and-he hopes-beyond the abilities of the guards to understand. "And they have large ears," he concludes.
A look of dawning comprehension crosses James Thuku's face, and the next ten minutes consist of nothing but a discussion of the weather, the harvest, the marriages and births and deaths of the people Kenyatta knows.
Finally Thuku goes to the door. "Let me out," he says. "I am done here."
The door opens, and Thuku turns to Kenyatta. "I will be back next week, Burning Spear."
"I wouldn't bet on that," remarks one of the guards.
Neither would I, agrees Kenyatta silently.
He waits until the evening meal is done, and the new guards have replaced the old. Then, while there is still enough light to read, he unfolds the message and reads it:
It has begun! Tonight we spill the blood of the British!
The news is slow to trickle in. For six months after Thuku leaves, Kenyatta is allowed no visitors at all. Finally he learns what has happened, not from the Kikuyu, but from the British commander.