They’ll help him through it. The Erdschweinhöhlers will sit up all night with this nonstop intelligence briefing. He is the angel they’ve hoped for, and it’s logical he should come now, on the day when they have their Rocket all assembled at last, their single A4 scavenged all summer piece by piece clear across the Zone from Poland to the Low Countries. Whether you believed or not, Empty or Green, cunt-crazy or politically celibate, power-playing or neutral, you had a feeling—a suspicion, a latent wish, some hidden tithe out of your soul, something—for the Rocket. It is that “something” that the Angel Thanatz now illuminates, each in a different way, for everybody listening.

By the time he’s done, they will all know what the Schwarzgerät was, how it was used, where the 00000 was fired from, and which way it was pointed. Enzian will smile grimly, and groan to his feet, the decision already made for him hours ago, and say, “Well, let’s have a look at the timetables now.” His Erdschweinhöhle rival, Empty One Josef Ombindi, grips him by the forearm—“If there’s anything…” Enzian nods. “See if you can work us out a tight security watch, ’kurandye.” He hasn’t called Ombindi that for a while. Nor is it a small concession to give the Empty Ones control of the watch lists, at least for the duration of this journey…

… which has already begun, as one and a half levels below, men and women are busy with tackle, lines, and harness easing rocket sections each onto its dolly, more Schwarzkommando waiting in leather and blueflowered files up the ramps to the outside, along the present and future vectors strung between wood rails and grooves, Empty, Neutral and Green all together now, waiting or hauling or supervising, some talking for the first time since the dividing along lines of racial life and racial death began, how many years ago, reconciled for now in the only Event that could have brought them together (I couldn’t, Enzian knows, and shudders at what’s going to happen after it’s over—but maybe it’s only meant to last its fraction of a day, and why can’t that be enough? try to let it be enough…).

Christian comes past, downhill adjusting a web belt, not quite swaggering—night before last his sister Maria visited him in a dream to tell him she wished no revenge against anyone, and wanted him to trust and love the Nguarorerue—so their eyes now meet not quite amused nor quite yet in a challenge, but knowing more together than they ever have so far, and Christian’s hand at the moment of passing cocks out half in salute, half in celebration, aimed toward the Heath, northwesterly, Kingdom-of-Deathward, and Enzian’s goes out the same way, iya, ’kurandye! as, at some point, the two palms do slide and brush, do touch, and it is touch and trust enough, for this moment… .

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