Ben knew the man was right, but damned if he was going to agree with him. “So, General Striganov, do we now talk of a dividing line?”
“In time, yes, I believe that is the only answer. But first, let us have lunch. Then we will speak of boundaries.”
The lunch was excellent: thick steaks and green salad and good wine and baked potato with real butter and sour cream. Sour cream! Ben couldn’t believe it. He said as much.
The Russian was amused. “I like to eat,” he said simply. “And eat well.”
“Do your troops eat just as well?”
“Very nearly so, yes. The steaks might not be as thick, and they may have mashed potatoes with gravy, but they are well-fed, yes. I assure you of that. I do not stint on my people’s behalf.”
“But there are people probably not fifty miles from where we sit, gorging ourselves, who are starving.”
“Not in any area I control,” General Striganov contradicted, his answer surprising Ben. “You see, Ben, we are-you and I-of very like mind. In some ways,” he was quick to add. “I do not wish slavery or hunger or disease or poverty for my people. Besides, they would be so much more difficult to control should I be an advocate of those undesirable traits.” He smiled. “You were correct in your statement that I have planned well. I do demand discipline, Ben, but no, there is no hunger in any area the IPF controls.”
“Providing I buy all that you have told me, General, and I have certain reservations, there is still one issue-correction-several issues that bother me.”
The Russian refilled their wine glasses. “Ties, I’m sure. Now we come to the part where I must try to match your honesty.”
Ben took a sip of wine. It was a Rothschild, a very old
vintage. “White is a rather bland color, General. Black or brown or tan or yellow will almost always be dominant. You say you aren’t going to kill the minorities; you aren’t going to starve them out. No concentration camps, no gas chambers. Tell me, just bow do you plan on achieving the master race without some form of genocide?”
The smile on the Russian’s face widened. “The minorities will not have children.”
Ben laughed. “Men and women have been known to engage in sex, General.”
“They may engage in all the sex they wish, General. As a matter of fact, I plan to encourage that-keep them happy. I am merely saying they will not have any offspring.”
“You’d better have one hell of a medical team if you’re planning on performing operations on every man and woman in this nation who doesn’t fit your standards of what a human being should look like.”
The smile remained on Striganov’s lips, but his eyes were cold. “What do you think we’ve been doing in Iceland for the past decade, Ben-playing cards and drinking vodka?”
“I have no idea what you’ve been doing, Georgi.”
“When we left Russia, Ben-getting out with only seconds to spare, I can tell you that-I took quite a few very good scientists with me. Doctors, scientists, the like.” He shrugged. “Many of them were Jews, I will admit, but still intelligent people. I don’t like Jews,” he conceded, “but they are survivors. And good scientists, too. It seems the Jew scientists perfected-and kept it a secret for years-a simple method of preventing pregnancy. One injection virtually destroys the ability to reproduce. They kept silent about their discovery for years; we
found out only by accident. Then it was only a matter of, ah, well, convincing them to share their knowledge with us. How we got it is not something one would want to discuss over lunch.”
“Torture.”
The Russian shrugged. “The end justified the means, Ben.”
“I’m sure.” Ben’s reply was as crisp as the wine.
“The people will be able to have and enjoy sex as often as they like. But they will never be able to reproduce offspring.”
Ben stared at the man for a full moment, allowing the horror of what he had just heard to sink in to its hideous depths. “That is monstrous!”
“Calm yourself, Ben.” Striganov patted Ben’s hand and Ben fought to restrain himself from taking physical action for that gesture. “After all, I’m not destroying a human being; I have no gas chambers or firing squads or the like. I beg you, please don’t compare me to Hitler.”
Ben thought of several people and many things he would be more than happy to compare the Russian to and with. But he kept silent.
“And, Ben, there is this: We aren’t monsters. If the people do not wish to have the injection, they may breed-selectively-with someone of fair skin. The offspring will do likewise, all very carefully controlled, of course. And so in time, several generations, they will conform. Selective breeding. It’s all up to the individual, I assure you.”
“How magnanimous can you be?” Ben said sarcastically. “And if the newborn child does not conform in color to your plans?”
“It will be destroyed for the good of the pure race.”
Ben felt a small sickness within him grow larger. He looked at the handsome features of the Russian and in his mind, the man wore the face of evil, his hair that of a Medusa.
Ben heard himself saying, “It will never work, General Striganov.”
“Oh?”
“When I leave here, I am going to spread the word about you.”
“But of course you are. I fully expect you to do that.”
“And you’re not’ going to try to stop me from leaving?”
“No, indeed, Ben. I’m not a barbarian.”
Ben could but look at the man and wonder if he was insane.
“You see, Ben, we’ve already injected over five thousand blacks, Hispanics and Jews. All your spreading the word will do is slow the process a bit, but really not very much. In the end, General Raines, we will be victorious.”
“I fail to see how, General.”
“Because a great many people simply do not like blacks and Spanish people, Ben. A like number-maybe even more-do not care for Jews. Those people will turn them in to us.” He smiled at how simple it all was-in his mind.
Ben thought the smile resembled the SS death’s-head insignia. “Let me guess how you plan on keeping records, General Striganov: little, portable tattoo machines.”
The Russian applauded Ben. “How marvelously astute of you, President-General Raines.”
Ben’s lunch lay heavy on his stomach. The once-delicious meal felt as though it had turned wormy. He had
lost all taste for the wine. He wanted to run outside and breathe deeply of the summer air. He felt the invisible odor of death and evil and everything hideous and unimaginable through his clothing, sinking into his flesh. For a brief moment, Ben entertained the wild thought of reaching across the table with his steak knife and slashing the Russian’s throat. He rose from the table.
“I am going to stop you and your master plan, General Striganov.”
“You will forgive me if I don’t wish you luck, General Raines. But no matter-you will be unsuccessful, I assure you of that.”
Ben’s smile was grim, the smile of a mongoose looking at a cobra. “You will forgive my lack of manners by not offering to shake your hand?”
“Perfectly understandable, General Raines.”
Ben walked out of the building and to his waiting troops. “Let’s go,” he said. “First chance you get, pull over to the side of the road.”
“Something the matter, sir?” Sgt. Buck Osgood asked.
Ben looked back at General Striganov, looking at him through a window. The Russian waved merrily. “Yeah,” Ben said, “I need to puke!”
CHAPTER SEVEN