‘Look at them,' Molly said.
‘I am looking,' Nat answered.
‘And you're thinking, "It could be me." Right? Frankly I doubt if you have the guts to march in public in support of your convictions; in fact I doubt if you have any convictions. Look. There's Goltz.'
She was correct. Bertold Goltz, the Leader, was present here today. How oddly the man came and went; it was never possible to predict where and when he might pop up.
Perhaps Goltz had the use of von Lessinger's principle.
The use of time travel.
That would give Goltz, Nat reflected, a certain advantage over all the charismatic leaders of the past, in that it would make him more or less eternal. He could not in the customary fashion be killed. This would explain why the government had not crushed the movement; he had wondered about that, why Nicole tolerated it. She tolerated it because she had to.
Technically, Goltz could be murdered, but an earlier Goltz would simply move into the future and replace him; Goltz would go on, not ageing or changing, and the movement would ultimately benefit because they would have a leader who could be counted on not to go the way of Adolf Hitler: who would not develop paresis or any other degenerative disease.
Jim Planck, absorbed in the sight, murmured, ‘Handsome son-of-a-gun, isn't he?' He, too, seemed impressed. The man could have a career in the movies or TV, Nat reflected. Been that sort of entertainer, rather than the kind he was. Goltz had style. Tall, clouded-over in a sort of tense gloom ... and yet, Nat noticed, just a trifle too heavy. Goltz appeared to be in his mid-forties and the leanness, the masculinity of youth, had abandoned him. As he marched he sweated. What a physical quality the man had; there was nothing ghostly or ethereal about him, no spirituality to offset the stubborn beef.
The marchers turned, came head-on towards their autocab.
The cab halted.
Molly said caustically, ‘He even commands the obedience of machines. At least the local ones.' She laughed briefly, uneasily.
‘We'd better get out of the way,' Jim Planck said, ‘or they're going to be swarming over us like Martian column ants.' He fiddled with the controls of the auto-cab. ‘Damn this worn-out contraption: it's dead as a doornail.'
‘Killed by awe,' Molly said.
The first line of marchers contained Goltz, who strode along in the centre, transporting a flowing, multi-coloured cloth banner. Seeing them, Goltz yelled something. Nat could not catch it.
‘He's telling us to get out of the way,' Molly said. ‘Maybe we'd better forget about recording Kongrosian and step out and join him. Sign up for the movement. What do you say, Nat? Here's your chance. You can rightfully say you were forced to.' She opened the door of the cab and hopped lightly out on to the sidewalk. ‘I'm not giving up my life because of a stalled circuit in an auto-cab twenty years out of date.'
‘Hail, mighty leader,' Jim Planck said shortly, and also hopped out to join Molly on the sidewalk, out of the path of the marchers, who were now, as a body, shouting angrily and gesturing.
Nat said, ‘I'm staying here.' He remained where he was surrounded by the recording equipment, his hand reflexively resting on his precious Ampek F-a2; he did not intend to abandon it, even to Bertold Goltz.
Coming rapidly down the street, Goltz all at once grinned.
It was a sympathetic grin, as if Goltz, despite the seriousness of his political intentions, had room left in his heart for a trace of empathy.
‘You got troubles, too?' Goltz called to Nat. Now the first rank of marchers -- including the Leader -- had reached the old, stalled auto-cab; the rank divided and dribbled past, raggedly, on both sides. Goltz, however, halted. He brought out a rumpled red handkerchief and mopped the shiny, steaming flesh of his neck and brow.
‘Sorry I'm in your way,' Nat said.
‘Heck,' Goltz said, ‘I was expecting you.' He glanced up, his dark, intelligent, luminous eyes alert. ‘Nat Flieger, head of Artists and Repertoire for Electronic Musical Enterprise of Tijuana. Up here in this land of ferns and frogs to record Richard Kongrosian ... because you don't happen to knowthat Kongrosian isn't home. He's at Franklin Aimes Neuropsychiatric Hospital in San Francisco.'
‘Christ,' Nat said, taken aback.
‘Why not record me instead?' Goltz said. Amiably.
‘Doing what?'
‘Oh, I can shout or rant a few historic slogans for you. Half an hour's worth or so ... enough to fill up a small record. It may not sell well today or tomorrow, but one of these days -- ‘ Goltz winked at Nat.
‘No thanks,' Nat said.
‘Is your Ganymedean creature too pure for what I have to say?' The smile was empty of warmth, now; it was fixed starkly in place.
Nat said, ‘I'm a Jew, Mr Goltz. So it's hard for me to look on neo-Nazism with much enthusiasm.'
After a pause Goltz said, ‘I'm a Jew, too, Mr Flieger. Or more properly, an Israeli. Look it up. It's in the records. Any good newspaper or media news morgue can tell you that.'
Nat stared at him.
‘Our enemy, yours and mine,' Goltz said, ‘is the der Alte system. They're the real inheritors of the Nazi past. Think about that. They, and the cartels. A.G. Chemie, Karp und Sohnen Werke ... didn't you know that? Where have you been, Flieger? Haven't you been listening?'
After an interval Nat said, ‘I've been listening. But I haven't been very much convinced.'
‘I'll tell you something, then,' Goltz said. ‘Nicole and the people around her, our Mutter, is going to make use of von Lessinger's time travel principle to make contact with the Third Reich, with Hermann Goering, as a matter of fact. They'll be doing it soon. Does this surprise you?'
‘I've -- heard rumours.' Nat shrugged.
‘You're not a Ge,' Goltz said. ‘You're like me, Flieger, me and my people. You're forever on the outside. We're not even supposed to hear rumours. There shouldn't have been a leak. But we Bes are not going to talk -- do you agree! Bringing Fat Hermann from the past into our time is just too much, wouldn't you say?' He studied Nat's face, waiting for his reaction.
Presently Nat said, ‘If it's true -- ‘
‘It's true, Flieger.' Goltz nodded.
‘Then it puts your movement in a new light.'
‘Come and see me,' Goltz said. ‘When the news is made public. When you know it's true. Okay?'
Nat said nothing. He did not meet the man's dark intense gaze.
‘So long, Flieger.' Goltz said. And picking up his banner, which had been resting against the auto-cab, he strode on down the street to rejoin his marching followers.
7
Seated together in the business office of The Abraham Lincoln, Don Tishman and Patrick Doyle studied the application which Mr Ian Duncan of number 304 had just now filed with them. Ian Duncan desired to appear in the twiceweekly building talent show, and at a time when a White House talent scout was present.
The request, Tishman saw, was routine. Except that Ian Duncan proposed to perform his act in conjunction with another individual who did not live at The AbrahamLincoln.
Pondering, Doyle said, ‘It's an old buddy of his from the Military Service. He told me once; the two of them used to have this act years ago. Baroque music on two jugs. A novelty.'
‘What apartment house does his partner live in?' Tishman inquired. Approval of the application would depend on how relations stood between The Abraham Lincoln and the other building.
‘None. He sells jalopies for that -- Loony Luke -- you know. Those cheap little vehicles that just barely manage to get you to Mars. He lives on the lot, I understand. The lots move around; it's a nomadic existence. I'm sure you've heard.'