“If you feel this way, why did you leave Israel at all and come to Denmark? I know that you were born in Denmark and grew up there. Was that the reason why?”
The Martian silence closed in for long seconds before Arnie spoke again.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps because of faith—or hope. Or maybe because I am a Jew. In Israel I was an Israeli. But everywhere else in the world I am a Jew. Except in Denmark. There are no Jews in Denmark—just a lot of Danes of varying religious faiths. You were just three or four years old when the Nazis marched across Europe, so it is only history to you, another chapter in the thick books. They are monsters—demons in that they could unlock the evil in other hearts as well as their own. The people in the countries they conquered helped them fuel the ovens. The French police went out and arrested Jews for them. The Ukrainians happily fed the furnaces for them. The Poles rushed to see their Jewish neighbors cooked, only to be melted down themselves for their loyalty. Every invaded country helped the Germans. Every country except one. In Denmark the police were shocked to hear of the coming purge. They passed the word to others who were equally horrified. Cab drivers cruised the streets with telephone books, looking for people with Jewish names. Boy Scouts passed the warnings. Every hospital in the land opened its doors to tho Jews and hid them. In a few days every Jew who could be reached was smuggled safely out of the country. Do you know why the Danes did this?”
“Of course!” He clenched his large fists. “Those were human beings, Danes. That sort of thing just isn’t done.”
“So—you have answered your own question. I had a choice and I made it. I pray that I was right”
Arnie started down the hill, then stopped for a moment, “I was one of the people smuggled out to Sweden. So perhaps I am repaying a debt.”
They went down, side by side, to the light and warmth of the base.
21
“There’s no point in our taking both cars,” Martha said into the telephone. “We can fight about which one later, all right… Yes, Ove… Is Ulla ready?… Good. I’ll be there in about an hour, I guess… Yes, that should give us plenty of time. We have those seats in the reserved section and everything, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. Listen, my doorbell just rang. Everything’s all set?… See you then.”
She hung up hurriedly and went to get her housecoat as the bell rang again. All she had to do was finish her face and put her dress on—but she wasn’t going to answer the door in her slip.
“Ja, nu kommer jeg,” she called out, hurrying down the hall. When she opened the door she stopped halfway, as soon as she saw the pendant bundle of brushes; a door-to-door peddler.
“Nej tak, ingen pensler idag.”
“You had better let me in,” the man said. “I have to talk to you.”
The sudden English startled her and she looked past the well-worn suit and cap, at the man’s face. His watery blue eyes, blinking, red-rimmed.
“Mr. Baxter! I didn’t recognize you at first…”
Without the dark-rimmed glasses he seemed a totally different man.
“I can’t stand at the door like this,” he said angrily. “Let me in.”
He pushed toward her and she stepped aside to let him by, then closed the door.
“I have been trying to contact you,” he said, struggling to disentangle the bundle of whisk brooms, hairbrushes, feather dusters, toilet brushes so he could drop them on the floor. “You have had the letters, the messages.”
“I don’t want to see you. I’ve done what you want, you have the film. So stop bothering me.” She turned and put her hand on the knob.
“Don’t do that!” he shouted, sending the last brush clattering against the wall. He groped in his inner jacket pocket and found his glasses. Putting them on he drew himself up, became calmer. “The films are valueless.”
“You mean they didn’t come out? I’m sure I did everything right.”
“Not technically, that’s not what I’m talking about. The notebook, the equations—they had nothing to do with the Daleth effect. They are all involved with Rasmussen’s fusion generator and not what we want at all.”
Martha tried not to smile—but she was glad somehow. She had done as she had been asked, and she had struck out. It was not her fault about the notebook.
“Well, can’t you steal the fusion generator? Isn’t that valuable too?”
“This is not a matter of commercial value,” Baxter told her coldly, a good deal of his old manner restored. “In any case the fusion unit is being patented, we can license the rights. What you and I are concerned with is national security, nothing less than that.”
He glared at her, and she pulled the edges of her houseboat more tightly around her.
“There’s nothing more I can do for you. Everything is on the Moon now, you know that. Arnie’s gone too—”
“I’ll tell you what you can do, and there’s not much time left Do you think I would have gone out on a limb with this rig if things were not vital?”
“You do look sort of foolish,” she said, and tried not to giggle.
Baxter gave her a look of pure, uncut hatred, and it took him a moment to control himself. “Now you listen to me,” he finally said. “You’re going to the ceremony today, and you will be going aboard the ship afterward and there are things we need to know about it. I want you to—”
“I’ll do nothing for you. You can leave now.”
Martha reached for the doorknob as he took her by the upper arm, his fingers sinking in like steel hooks. She gasped with pain as he dragged her away from it, pulling her up close to him, speaking into her face from inches away. His breath smells of Sen-Sen, she thought.I didn’t know they still made it.
She was ready to cry, her arm hurt so much.
“Listen you, you are going to do like I say. If you want a reason other than loyalty to your country—just remember that I have a roll of film from your camera with your fingerprints all over it, and pictures of your floor. The Danes would love to see that, wouldn’t they?”
His smile made her think of a rictus, the kind that was supposed to be on people’s faces when they died of pain. She disengaged her arm from his grasp and stepped back. It would be a complete waste to tell this man what she thought of him.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked finally, looking at the floor as she said it.
“That’s more like it. You’re a great camera addict, so take this brooch. Pin it onto your purse before you go.”
She held it in her palm; it was not unattractive and would go well with her black alligator. A large central stone was surrounded by a circle of diamond chips and what could be small rubies. It was finished in hand-chased gold, rimmed by ornate whorls.
“Point your purse and press here?,” he said, indicating the top whorl. “It’s wide angle, the opening is preset, it will work in almost any light. There are over a hundred shots in here so be generous. I want pictures of the bridge and the engine room if you get there, close-ups of the controls, shots of hallways, stairs, doors, compartments, airlocks. Everything. Later on I will show you prints and you will be asked to describe what they are, so take close notice of everything and the sequence of your visit through the ship.”
“I don’t know anything about this kind of work. Can’t you get someone else, please? There will be hundreds there…”
“If we had anyone else—do you think we would be asking you!” The last word was spoken with cold contempt, thrown at her as he bent to pick up the brushes. He shook a dishmop in her direction.