“Trouble in Hamburg—” Andreas is scribbling away, lifting one earpiece back smock damp with sweat so that he can be on both ends of the link at once. “Sounds like it might be the DPs again. Got a bad signal. Keeps fading—”

Since the surrender there have been these constant skirmishes between the German civilians and foreign prisoners freed from the camps. Towns in the north have been taken over by displaced Poles, Czechs, Russians who’ve looted the arsenals and granaries and mean to hold what they’ve taken. But nobody knows how to feel about the local Schwarzkommando. Some see only the ragged pieces of SS uniform, and respond to that one way or another—others take them for Moroccans or Indians drifted somehow over the mountains from Italy. Germans still remember the occupation of the Rhineland 20 years ago by French colonial units, and the posters screaming SCHWARZE BESATZUNG AM RHEIN! Another stress in the pattern. Last week in Hamburg, two Schwarzkommando were shot. Others were badly beaten. The British military government sent in some troops, but only after the killing was over. Their main interest seemed to be in enforcing a curfew.

“It’s Onguruve.” Andreas hands over the earphones and swivels to roll out of Enzian’s way.

“… can’t tell if it’s us they want, or the oil refinery…” the voice goes crackling in and out, “… hundred, maybe two hundred… so many…—fles, clubs, handguns—”

Bl-bleep and a burst of hissing, then in laps a familiar voice. “I can bring a dozen men.”

“Hannover’s answering,” Enzian murmurs, trying to sound amused.

“You mean Josef Ombindi.” Andreas is not amused.

Now Onguruve, calling for help, is neutral on the Empty Ones Question, or tries to be. But if Ombindi can bring a relief force to Hamburg, he may decide to stay. Hannover, even with the Volkswagen plant there, is only a stepping-stone for him. Hamburg would give the Empty Ones a stronger power base, and this could be the opportunity. The north ought to be their native element, anyway…

“I’ll have to go,” handing the phones back to Andreas. “What’s wrong?”

“Could be the Russians, trying to draw you out.”

“It’s all right. Stop worrying about Tchitcherine. I don’t think he’s up there.”

“But your European said—”

“Him? I don’t know how far to trust him. Remember, I did hear him talking with Marvy on the train. Now he’s with Tchitcherine’s girl in Nordhausen. I mean, would you trust him?”

“But if Marvy’s chasing him now, it might mean he’s worth something.”

“If he is, we’re sure to see him again.”

Enzian grabs his kit, swallows two Pervitins for the road, reminds Andreas of a business detail or two for tomorrow, and climbs the long salt and stone ramps to the surface.

Outside, he breathes the evergreen air of the Harz. In the old villages, it would be the time of evening for the milking. The first star is out, okanumaihi, the little drinker of sweet milk… .

But this must be a different star, a northern star. There is no comfort. What has happened to us? If choices have never been our own, if the Zone-Hereros are meant to live in the bosom of the Angel who tried to destroy us in Südwest… then: have we been passed over, or have we been chosen for something even more terrible?