A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
It shouldn't be a problem in space, but in the atmosphere, probably not.
IIRC didn't the orion project expected use normal rockets till get into orbit?
I'm only vaguely familiar with Orion, but that seems like the smart way to go about it
What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what can you make people believe you have done.
(Arthur Conan Doyle)
The boss had tasked her to investigate the peculiar behaviour of RRA. The Nyemtsi should be busy developing new space vehicles – first of all better capsules, because their Raumkobold was vastly inferior to NASA’s Lunobegún. Yet, they seemed to do… – nothing. That was strange. It didn’t match their usual modus operandi. And it didn’t fit at all with Director Kammler’s profile. Therefore, Generál Sudoplatov wanted her to have a thorough look at what the Nyemtsi were doing – and what they weren’t doing – and why.
Colonel Tamara Vasilevna Gorokhova was the head of the analysis branch of Okhrana’s German division. People said she must be dreaming in German language. Her knowledge about matters German was known to be encyclopaedical. And RRA had become her special darling. – Nevertheless, she hadn’t been able to answer the general’s probing questions. This was peeving her mightily.
But it was true. RRA was not undertaking to have improved spacecraft built. They were happily using the Raumkobolde, like in their current mission – Number 34, once again to Crater Meton. And follow-on missions were under preparation, again using Raumkobolde. It was alarming. – Okay, they had had that two years compulsory break, but nevertheless… What was going on there?
In fact, nothing unusual was going on at Prerow. They were doing business as ever, utilising the outdated capsules and landers. So, obviously, one needed insider knowledge. Those canaries one had were not in a position to know about decisions taken in Hans Kammler’s office. They could report what was happening, and could recite the actual hearsay, but the latter was jejune.
Pondering what she knew – and what not – Gorokhova was quickly getting an inkling that RRA was up to something secretive. But what might it be? She needed more information, more money, more people…
(Arthur Conan Doyle)
The boss had tasked her to investigate the peculiar behaviour of RRA. The Nyemtsi should be busy developing new space vehicles – first of all better capsules, because their Raumkobold was vastly inferior to NASA’s Lunobegún. Yet, they seemed to do… – nothing. That was strange. It didn’t match their usual modus operandi. And it didn’t fit at all with Director Kammler’s profile. Therefore, Generál Sudoplatov wanted her to have a thorough look at what the Nyemtsi were doing – and what they weren’t doing – and why.
Colonel Tamara Vasilevna Gorokhova was the head of the analysis branch of Okhrana’s German division. People said she must be dreaming in German language. Her knowledge about matters German was known to be encyclopaedical. And RRA had become her special darling. – Nevertheless, she hadn’t been able to answer the general’s probing questions. This was peeving her mightily.
But it was true. RRA was not undertaking to have improved spacecraft built. They were happily using the Raumkobolde, like in their current mission – Number 34, once again to Crater Meton. And follow-on missions were under preparation, again using Raumkobolde. It was alarming. – Okay, they had had that two years compulsory break, but nevertheless… What was going on there?
In fact, nothing unusual was going on at Prerow. They were doing business as ever, utilising the outdated capsules and landers. So, obviously, one needed insider knowledge. Those canaries one had were not in a position to know about decisions taken in Hans Kammler’s office. They could report what was happening, and could recite the actual hearsay, but the latter was jejune.
Pondering what she knew – and what not – Gorokhova was quickly getting an inkling that RRA was up to something secretive. But what might it be? She needed more information, more money, more people…
The central belief of every moron is that he is the victim of a mysterious conspiracy against his common rights and true deserts.
(H. L. Mencken)
Hanne, her sister, was pregnant! And Herbert Weller had impregnated her! Now, that was consequential news, wasn’t it? Doris Zülch didn’t know what to think. Should she congratulate – or rather send her compassion? Hanne seemed to be happy. Well, she would learn, in due time… Anyway, it reminded Doris that she could have no children. It was… – sad, all things considered. So, yes, a little niece – or nephew – was perhaps the closest thing to progeny she was ever going to see. What fudge!
She was a successful businesswoman, but she wasn’t married. Hence, she was barred from adopting a child. Not that she had ever considered such a step – until now; but it was… – unfair. – However, she was still free to find a husband, who might agree to adopt a child. What a preposterous notion! – Did she really want a child? A child that was not of her blood? – It was strange. She always had liked fucking, without worrying about such questions. And now, her sister’s pregnancy was triggering this nasty headache.
But it was true. She wasn’t enjoying equal rights; she was held at a disadvantage. And nobody seemed to care. – And her sister would suffer from disadvantage too. Raising a child born out of wedlock was not going to be fun, not at all. – Women had been given electoral franchise, but not true emancipation. Pay was unequal; everything else was unequal. Which party was addressing this grievance? – None indeed. Not even the SPD. Their main clientage were the male workers. Women were considered useful accessories.
And the SPD were still the most progressive of the bunch. Well, and perhaps the communists of the KPD and the DFU peaceniks, both irrelevant splinter parties today. – All the rest were strictly adhering to the traditional role model. Men were working – and ruling; women were caring for the household and the children. Girls like herself – and Hanne – were an exception. It was possible to be a working woman, if you weren’t married. But it was anticipated that you were going to hitch up, rather sooner than later – and vanish from the workforce.
She had been active in the DFU some years ago; she knew how political parties were working. Therefore, she was nurturing no illusions. Not even the current shortage of labour was going to effect a change. The country had just lost ten million people. Hence, women shouldn’t work, but get pregnant. The nation needed children, quite a lot of them…
(H. L. Mencken)
Hanne, her sister, was pregnant! And Herbert Weller had impregnated her! Now, that was consequential news, wasn’t it? Doris Zülch didn’t know what to think. Should she congratulate – or rather send her compassion? Hanne seemed to be happy. Well, she would learn, in due time… Anyway, it reminded Doris that she could have no children. It was… – sad, all things considered. So, yes, a little niece – or nephew – was perhaps the closest thing to progeny she was ever going to see. What fudge!
She was a successful businesswoman, but she wasn’t married. Hence, she was barred from adopting a child. Not that she had ever considered such a step – until now; but it was… – unfair. – However, she was still free to find a husband, who might agree to adopt a child. What a preposterous notion! – Did she really want a child? A child that was not of her blood? – It was strange. She always had liked fucking, without worrying about such questions. And now, her sister’s pregnancy was triggering this nasty headache.
But it was true. She wasn’t enjoying equal rights; she was held at a disadvantage. And nobody seemed to care. – And her sister would suffer from disadvantage too. Raising a child born out of wedlock was not going to be fun, not at all. – Women had been given electoral franchise, but not true emancipation. Pay was unequal; everything else was unequal. Which party was addressing this grievance? – None indeed. Not even the SPD. Their main clientage were the male workers. Women were considered useful accessories.
And the SPD were still the most progressive of the bunch. Well, and perhaps the communists of the KPD and the DFU peaceniks, both irrelevant splinter parties today. – All the rest were strictly adhering to the traditional role model. Men were working – and ruling; women were caring for the household and the children. Girls like herself – and Hanne – were an exception. It was possible to be a working woman, if you weren’t married. But it was anticipated that you were going to hitch up, rather sooner than later – and vanish from the workforce.
She had been active in the DFU some years ago; she knew how political parties were working. Therefore, she was nurturing no illusions. Not even the current shortage of labour was going to effect a change. The country had just lost ten million people. Hence, women shouldn’t work, but get pregnant. The nation needed children, quite a lot of them…
And even then, there's no guarantee the prespective would change after the population recovers.
If Freud had worn a kilt in the prescribed Highland manner he might have had a very different attitude to genitals.
(Woodrow Wilson)
The destroyer USS Stevens was patrolling southeast of Jamaica. The weather was fine; the sea was calm; and the ocean was void. It was the customary scenario: nothing going on, nothing happening, no groove. It was bad for discipline. Commander Harold Edson Shear, the captain, had already tried almost everything to keep the men alert. But his exercises had worn off. Boredom had won.
Therefore, when the submarine was detected, nobody was showing zeal. Shear experienced an awful moment, until the crew finally realised this was not another exercise. But then, they went hyperbolic in a flash – and Shear had some trouble roping them in. – Yes, this had to be a submarine. Had they detected USS Stevens? Hardly conceivable that not… But they weren’t reacting.
They were moving at a depth of fifty feet, steadily moving in direction of Jamaica. Might this be a supply craft? Had one – by chance – stumbled upon the supply train of the Venezuelans? One had always wondered how the occupiers of the island were being kept supplied. So, was this a boat manned by Venezuelans? That would explain why they stubbornly were steering the course.
Shear was satisfied – and disappointed at the same time. Having found the supply train was an achievement, undoubtedly. But these folks wouldn’t play ball. They were running for Jamaica, period. – What Shear – and his crew – didn’t know was that the supply boat – and now his destroyer – were tailed by another submarine, this one manned by Middle Africans.
Teniente de Navio Alfred Nkotenga was pleased. The Amis were focussing on rumbling S-8, the dated transport widget, and were failing to detect his S-13 ‘Bonito’. This was ample proof that crew training had been altogether successful. He could sink the Ami vessel, if he wanted. But he didn’t want, of course. A pity only that he couldn’t disclose the prank. Just surfacing and waving friendly would show the Amis what capabilities the Middle African crews had already acquired. That was no bright idea…
(Woodrow Wilson)
The destroyer USS Stevens was patrolling southeast of Jamaica. The weather was fine; the sea was calm; and the ocean was void. It was the customary scenario: nothing going on, nothing happening, no groove. It was bad for discipline. Commander Harold Edson Shear, the captain, had already tried almost everything to keep the men alert. But his exercises had worn off. Boredom had won.
Therefore, when the submarine was detected, nobody was showing zeal. Shear experienced an awful moment, until the crew finally realised this was not another exercise. But then, they went hyperbolic in a flash – and Shear had some trouble roping them in. – Yes, this had to be a submarine. Had they detected USS Stevens? Hardly conceivable that not… But they weren’t reacting.
They were moving at a depth of fifty feet, steadily moving in direction of Jamaica. Might this be a supply craft? Had one – by chance – stumbled upon the supply train of the Venezuelans? One had always wondered how the occupiers of the island were being kept supplied. So, was this a boat manned by Venezuelans? That would explain why they stubbornly were steering the course.
Shear was satisfied – and disappointed at the same time. Having found the supply train was an achievement, undoubtedly. But these folks wouldn’t play ball. They were running for Jamaica, period. – What Shear – and his crew – didn’t know was that the supply boat – and now his destroyer – were tailed by another submarine, this one manned by Middle Africans.
Teniente de Navio Alfred Nkotenga was pleased. The Amis were focussing on rumbling S-8, the dated transport widget, and were failing to detect his S-13 ‘Bonito’. This was ample proof that crew training had been altogether successful. He could sink the Ami vessel, if he wanted. But he didn’t want, of course. A pity only that he couldn’t disclose the prank. Just surfacing and waving friendly would show the Amis what capabilities the Middle African crews had already acquired. That was no bright idea…
There is always something new out of Africa.
(Pliny the Elder)
It was quite a confusing metropole, this eThekwini. Max Sikuku had been a visitor to the capital of the Union of South Africa quite often, nevertheless he never had got used to the excitement. Daressalam was a dreary bumpkin town compared to eThekwini, which was truly international. For Middle Africans, however, the countless aliens found here were a scary experience.
Max, as former minister for nuclear energy, had been asked to join a delegation of MARKEG, the Middle African consortium for reactors and nuclear energy. UnSA had launched a programme to erect five reactor farms – at iBahyi, ľAuxa ǃXās, iRhawutini, Emnambithi and Cwebeni, each consisting of at least four reactors, with an option of later enlargement. That meant big business.
Unfortunately, the Unionists were not only asking their Middle African friends to bid, but had also invited competitors from the Indian Federation, Russia – and Korea. Normally, the Russians of Rosatom were too expensive to be considered at all, but the sly blokes had developed a special export model, cheap enough to be factored in. The Indians were anticipated to offer their thorium fuel cycle stuff. This was eminently galling for the MARKEG folks, as it might allow UnSA to manage without buying Middle African uranium ore.
The Koreans, though, were the big surprise in this game. They had repaired the former Japanese nuclear plants, all situated in their country, were now running them independently – and were proceeding to sell the technology. As far as one knew, the Japanese technology had been very close to the German one. Therefore, the Korean offer was taken very seriously by the MARKEG guys.
Max did not participate in the technical discussions. He had made appointments with several UnSA bigwigs – and was determined to discuss the matter in a friendly and collegial ambience. His intimate knowledge of the Middle African nuclear sites – and of his dialogue partners – should nicely combine. And some cute presents were never wasted…
(Pliny the Elder)
It was quite a confusing metropole, this eThekwini. Max Sikuku had been a visitor to the capital of the Union of South Africa quite often, nevertheless he never had got used to the excitement. Daressalam was a dreary bumpkin town compared to eThekwini, which was truly international. For Middle Africans, however, the countless aliens found here were a scary experience.
Max, as former minister for nuclear energy, had been asked to join a delegation of MARKEG, the Middle African consortium for reactors and nuclear energy. UnSA had launched a programme to erect five reactor farms – at iBahyi, ľAuxa ǃXās, iRhawutini, Emnambithi and Cwebeni, each consisting of at least four reactors, with an option of later enlargement. That meant big business.
Unfortunately, the Unionists were not only asking their Middle African friends to bid, but had also invited competitors from the Indian Federation, Russia – and Korea. Normally, the Russians of Rosatom were too expensive to be considered at all, but the sly blokes had developed a special export model, cheap enough to be factored in. The Indians were anticipated to offer their thorium fuel cycle stuff. This was eminently galling for the MARKEG folks, as it might allow UnSA to manage without buying Middle African uranium ore.
The Koreans, though, were the big surprise in this game. They had repaired the former Japanese nuclear plants, all situated in their country, were now running them independently – and were proceeding to sell the technology. As far as one knew, the Japanese technology had been very close to the German one. Therefore, the Korean offer was taken very seriously by the MARKEG guys.
Max did not participate in the technical discussions. He had made appointments with several UnSA bigwigs – and was determined to discuss the matter in a friendly and collegial ambience. His intimate knowledge of the Middle African nuclear sites – and of his dialogue partners – should nicely combine. And some cute presents were never wasted…
Has God forgotten everything I’ve done for him?
(Louis XIV)
Pierre Eugène Jean Pflimlin, the prime minister of His Majesty Louis Philippe II, was frustrated. His fight had failed. The Assemblé Nationale had voted for Paris as capital. His proposal to have the capital remain permanently at Toulouse had been turned down. Paris always had been the French capital – and it would remain the French capital in all future.
It didn’t matter that Toulouse was a vibrant town, while Paris was unpopulated – and had only been cleared from rotten remains recently. No, once the king, the government and the parliament moved to Paris, the heart of France would start beating again – and people from all over the country would flock in.
Perhaps this view was even correct – in the long run. But right now, it meant a shipload of inconveniencies and unnecessary works. In addition, it would cost an awful amount of money – money better spent for other purposes. Well, the deputies were going to experience what moving to Paris meant: hardships of all kinds – no restaurants, no hotels, no shops, no taxis, no road sweepers.
The Royal Family would move to the Louvre – after the palace had been refurbished, which was going to take time. Until then, they would reside at Versailles. So, that was a minor problem for Pflimlin to solve. Not that Versailles was in any better shape than Paris, but it was much smaller and better manageable.
But Paris… Pflimlin had seen it from the air, sitting in a helicopter. The town had suffered enormously. With a resident population, all these damages would easily be removable. But there was nobody. One would be forced to bring in construction companies from the south, which would have to operate as if they were working on a distant island.
It was going to be an ordeal of kinds. Mould! Mould was all over Paris. Awful!
(Louis XIV)
Pierre Eugène Jean Pflimlin, the prime minister of His Majesty Louis Philippe II, was frustrated. His fight had failed. The Assemblé Nationale had voted for Paris as capital. His proposal to have the capital remain permanently at Toulouse had been turned down. Paris always had been the French capital – and it would remain the French capital in all future.
It didn’t matter that Toulouse was a vibrant town, while Paris was unpopulated – and had only been cleared from rotten remains recently. No, once the king, the government and the parliament moved to Paris, the heart of France would start beating again – and people from all over the country would flock in.
Perhaps this view was even correct – in the long run. But right now, it meant a shipload of inconveniencies and unnecessary works. In addition, it would cost an awful amount of money – money better spent for other purposes. Well, the deputies were going to experience what moving to Paris meant: hardships of all kinds – no restaurants, no hotels, no shops, no taxis, no road sweepers.
The Royal Family would move to the Louvre – after the palace had been refurbished, which was going to take time. Until then, they would reside at Versailles. So, that was a minor problem for Pflimlin to solve. Not that Versailles was in any better shape than Paris, but it was much smaller and better manageable.
But Paris… Pflimlin had seen it from the air, sitting in a helicopter. The town had suffered enormously. With a resident population, all these damages would easily be removable. But there was nobody. One would be forced to bring in construction companies from the south, which would have to operate as if they were working on a distant island.
It was going to be an ordeal of kinds. Mould! Mould was all over Paris. Awful!
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The issue is people take nine month to be created, 15 years to be productive...
But still try, for who knows what is possible?
(Michael Faraday)
This was the very first test to occur. Or rather the first test using a nuclear device. Jochen Zeislitz had been told that preliminary trials with conventional explosives had already been conducted in Germany. This here was Mala, north of Corcaigh on the Irish Island. It looked like the Moon – with some concrete structures added to the wasteland. And there was the pusher plate – or impact slab – resting on these concrete structures.
It was huge: a solid steel disc eighty metres in diameter. It had arrived by ship – in segments – and been welded together in place. Jochen had wondered whether a welded structure really possessed the strength to withstand the pulse, but the specialists had put him off. No, welding was in fact fortifying the pusher plate. The dimensional stability was increased by it.
The steel slab was resting on twelve tall concrete blocks. Beneath it, a nuclear bomb had been installed. It looked like a big can. 0.2 KT was the expected yield. That wasn’t much, said the specialists, almost naught. Nevertheless, a network of steel cables had been braced above the slab. It was designed to contain the plate once the nuke had pushed it.
Jochen was only a guest. He had no part in the current procedure. But as future jockey of the Hammer he was spellbound by the test. In about two years time, he was going to sit above the pusher plate. – The control room, constructed from prefabricated elements, had been buried below ground. Cameras were showing all details. – Jochen had been placed on a backseat. The countdown had begun.
Bang! – Half of the monitors went blank. The fireball was toned down by filters, but was nevertheless stinging in the eyes. Jochen had brought along dark glasses – and was wearing them. Therefore, he was perhaps the first to notice that the slab was gone. As was the steel cable network. The concrete blocks looked whole. Where the heck was the steel thing?
(Michael Faraday)
This was the very first test to occur. Or rather the first test using a nuclear device. Jochen Zeislitz had been told that preliminary trials with conventional explosives had already been conducted in Germany. This here was Mala, north of Corcaigh on the Irish Island. It looked like the Moon – with some concrete structures added to the wasteland. And there was the pusher plate – or impact slab – resting on these concrete structures.
It was huge: a solid steel disc eighty metres in diameter. It had arrived by ship – in segments – and been welded together in place. Jochen had wondered whether a welded structure really possessed the strength to withstand the pulse, but the specialists had put him off. No, welding was in fact fortifying the pusher plate. The dimensional stability was increased by it.
The steel slab was resting on twelve tall concrete blocks. Beneath it, a nuclear bomb had been installed. It looked like a big can. 0.2 KT was the expected yield. That wasn’t much, said the specialists, almost naught. Nevertheless, a network of steel cables had been braced above the slab. It was designed to contain the plate once the nuke had pushed it.
Jochen was only a guest. He had no part in the current procedure. But as future jockey of the Hammer he was spellbound by the test. In about two years time, he was going to sit above the pusher plate. – The control room, constructed from prefabricated elements, had been buried below ground. Cameras were showing all details. – Jochen had been placed on a backseat. The countdown had begun.
Bang! – Half of the monitors went blank. The fireball was toned down by filters, but was nevertheless stinging in the eyes. Jochen had brought along dark glasses – and was wearing them. Therefore, he was perhaps the first to notice that the slab was gone. As was the steel cable network. The concrete blocks looked whole. Where the heck was the steel thing?
Nobody adopts antisocial behaviour unless they fear that they will fail if they remain on the social side of life.
(Alfred Adler)
The black man lay still now. He was dead. It had taken him some time to breathe his last breath, but Maggie had been loath to waste another bullet on him. What had the bloke wanted here? Where had he come from? Were there more of his kind rambling about? – Okay, she was going to wait and leave the corpse untouched. Sunset was due soon. Her hideout was all right; she could wait. If there were more of them, they would have heard the shot ringing – and would come sneaking up.
The fresh meat was enticing though. She was miserable from hunger. But safety had precedence. – Yet, nobody showed up. In the early morning, a fox was inspecting the corpse. At dawn, a bevy of crows fell upon the carrion. Maggie decided to leave her lair. – The fox had already stolen an ear and two fingers – and the crows had feasted on the eyes and the lips. But the rest was still fine. She devoured the liver raw. That was swiftly reviving her spirits.
The man’s rifle was okay. Unfortunately, the calibre didn’t match. Okay, she could cache it. – What was this? Two small bottles labelled “Gegenmittel”. That was… – German? Incomprehensible rubbish… No booze, decidedly. The stuff smelled hideous, like bad eggs. But the knife was excellent, better than hers, particularly suited for carving. She was going to have ham for supper today. – Smoking all the fine meat would be too time-consuming, a pity. She would have to leave much for the beasts, more of a pity.
That was the quandary of being alone. You could manage a rabbit, but no big game. And she hadn’t got used to eating rotten meat yet. – Okay, the black bloke really seemed to have been alone. Another immune? What else? Must have been a colonial. The party had often invited young tribal nobles to study in Britain. – Matches! He had been carrying a whole pack of matches! What a trove! Maggie was delighted. Fire lighting made easy, at least for a while. Life was nice to her today.
(Alfred Adler)
The black man lay still now. He was dead. It had taken him some time to breathe his last breath, but Maggie had been loath to waste another bullet on him. What had the bloke wanted here? Where had he come from? Were there more of his kind rambling about? – Okay, she was going to wait and leave the corpse untouched. Sunset was due soon. Her hideout was all right; she could wait. If there were more of them, they would have heard the shot ringing – and would come sneaking up.
The fresh meat was enticing though. She was miserable from hunger. But safety had precedence. – Yet, nobody showed up. In the early morning, a fox was inspecting the corpse. At dawn, a bevy of crows fell upon the carrion. Maggie decided to leave her lair. – The fox had already stolen an ear and two fingers – and the crows had feasted on the eyes and the lips. But the rest was still fine. She devoured the liver raw. That was swiftly reviving her spirits.
The man’s rifle was okay. Unfortunately, the calibre didn’t match. Okay, she could cache it. – What was this? Two small bottles labelled “Gegenmittel”. That was… – German? Incomprehensible rubbish… No booze, decidedly. The stuff smelled hideous, like bad eggs. But the knife was excellent, better than hers, particularly suited for carving. She was going to have ham for supper today. – Smoking all the fine meat would be too time-consuming, a pity. She would have to leave much for the beasts, more of a pity.
That was the quandary of being alone. You could manage a rabbit, but no big game. And she hadn’t got used to eating rotten meat yet. – Okay, the black bloke really seemed to have been alone. Another immune? What else? Must have been a colonial. The party had often invited young tribal nobles to study in Britain. – Matches! He had been carrying a whole pack of matches! What a trove! Maggie was delighted. Fire lighting made easy, at least for a while. Life was nice to her today.
One finds one’s destiny on the path one takes to avoid it.
(Carl Jung)
The Germans had refused the call for help as forwarded by Big Chief Amagasfano. They were offering medical treatment though – cum repatriation. And they hadn’t failed to forward their offer in public. It had created a kind of insurgency – or rather a voting with the feet. The commoners, most of those who had no woman – or were forced to share one with four or five other guys, were opting for repatriation. They were just leaving the settlements and reporting to the German outpost at Sheerness. And many of the pregnant women had also left their consorts – stealthily and surreptitiously – to seek the help of the German medics.
Well, not all women had been lucky. Her Makambo had thwarted her farewell – and had tethered her. Anne Robbins was frantic. How dared he? It was ignoble – and it tied her to the house, literally. She didn’t know what was going on outside. The servants were missing though. And Makambo was drunk most of time – and raging in frustration. – Now, what should she do? Kill the bloke? Or wait? – He was unwilling to renounce his position as chief, that was obvious. But how can you be chief when you have no men? There were three or four around still, senior leaders, who were drinking with Makambo. And the rest?
Did she want to be repatriated? To the US? With a child of mixed colour in her womb? To Nigeria? Not really… But she wanted, she needed medical help. Perhaps France or the Netherlands would accept her. They were badly wanting people – and a pregnant woman ought to be more than welcome over there. Yeah, that ought to be a viable approach – for which she didn’t need Makambo. So, getting rid of the man was the next step. A knife should do the trick. Make him booze until he collapses – then cut his throat. Find the key, get rid of your hobble – and hike to Sheerness.
(Carl Jung)
The Germans had refused the call for help as forwarded by Big Chief Amagasfano. They were offering medical treatment though – cum repatriation. And they hadn’t failed to forward their offer in public. It had created a kind of insurgency – or rather a voting with the feet. The commoners, most of those who had no woman – or were forced to share one with four or five other guys, were opting for repatriation. They were just leaving the settlements and reporting to the German outpost at Sheerness. And many of the pregnant women had also left their consorts – stealthily and surreptitiously – to seek the help of the German medics.
Well, not all women had been lucky. Her Makambo had thwarted her farewell – and had tethered her. Anne Robbins was frantic. How dared he? It was ignoble – and it tied her to the house, literally. She didn’t know what was going on outside. The servants were missing though. And Makambo was drunk most of time – and raging in frustration. – Now, what should she do? Kill the bloke? Or wait? – He was unwilling to renounce his position as chief, that was obvious. But how can you be chief when you have no men? There were three or four around still, senior leaders, who were drinking with Makambo. And the rest?
Did she want to be repatriated? To the US? With a child of mixed colour in her womb? To Nigeria? Not really… But she wanted, she needed medical help. Perhaps France or the Netherlands would accept her. They were badly wanting people – and a pregnant woman ought to be more than welcome over there. Yeah, that ought to be a viable approach – for which she didn’t need Makambo. So, getting rid of the man was the next step. A knife should do the trick. Make him booze until he collapses – then cut his throat. Find the key, get rid of your hobble – and hike to Sheerness.
Is the Maggie mentioned the Iron Lady from OTL?
I certainly had her in mind when writing the instalment. Yet, she was born eight years after the POD.So, our Maggie here is quite someone else, even when looking alike.
Physicians think they do a lot for a patient when they give his disease a name.
(Immanuel Kant)
Deygbo was awesome. His order book was more than well-filled. And he had three free days now, before the liner to Charleston left port. Henry Palmer was happy. He had already doffed his business suit and dressed for fun: teeshirt, shorts and thongs. He would go down to the hotel bar, have a drink or two – and then go looking for a wicked bed bunny. There was no lack of steamy pusses hereabouts – and they were available at little cost. Of course, you had to wear a Johnny, that was obligatory, but otherwise anything was possible.
He still remembered the first time he had been here. The chick’s name had been Rita; a shapely redhead who had got turned on by booze and coke – and had screwed and sucked his balls empty. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known about the mandatory sheath yet – and had caught a nasty clap. His wife hadn’t appreciated and filed for divorce, taking the kids along. But his boss had digged the orders he had brought and soon had sent him to the WAU again. And, to be honest, he had been glad to be rid of his wife. She was a straitlaced bitch – and a leech.
Travelling to the WAU four or five times a year didn’t leave you time for a family life in the US. So, Henry had quickly got accustomed to his new life. It was okay. He was earning well – and could afford even an American broad if he wanted one. Only the loss of the kids was a pity. But you couldn’t have it all… Even the Caribbean issue hadn’t stopped his boss from dealing with the WAU. Everything was fine. The WAU was still developing and buying stuff like crazy in exchange for rubber and rare earths.
And diamonds… Henry had recently found out that diamonds were mined in the area that once had been Sierra Leone. That was interesting. These things were much handier than rubber or earths. They would facilitate payment – and provide him a good instance to earn some extra money. He had contacted the company that was doing the job. They were very interested. The government here wouldn’t interfere; they were staunchly of the laissez-faire kind. And Henry didn’t anticipate that his boss would object. – He might make enough money to buy a house – or an estate – down here. Wouldn’t that be cool?
(Immanuel Kant)
Deygbo was awesome. His order book was more than well-filled. And he had three free days now, before the liner to Charleston left port. Henry Palmer was happy. He had already doffed his business suit and dressed for fun: teeshirt, shorts and thongs. He would go down to the hotel bar, have a drink or two – and then go looking for a wicked bed bunny. There was no lack of steamy pusses hereabouts – and they were available at little cost. Of course, you had to wear a Johnny, that was obligatory, but otherwise anything was possible.
He still remembered the first time he had been here. The chick’s name had been Rita; a shapely redhead who had got turned on by booze and coke – and had screwed and sucked his balls empty. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known about the mandatory sheath yet – and had caught a nasty clap. His wife hadn’t appreciated and filed for divorce, taking the kids along. But his boss had digged the orders he had brought and soon had sent him to the WAU again. And, to be honest, he had been glad to be rid of his wife. She was a straitlaced bitch – and a leech.
Travelling to the WAU four or five times a year didn’t leave you time for a family life in the US. So, Henry had quickly got accustomed to his new life. It was okay. He was earning well – and could afford even an American broad if he wanted one. Only the loss of the kids was a pity. But you couldn’t have it all… Even the Caribbean issue hadn’t stopped his boss from dealing with the WAU. Everything was fine. The WAU was still developing and buying stuff like crazy in exchange for rubber and rare earths.
And diamonds… Henry had recently found out that diamonds were mined in the area that once had been Sierra Leone. That was interesting. These things were much handier than rubber or earths. They would facilitate payment – and provide him a good instance to earn some extra money. He had contacted the company that was doing the job. They were very interested. The government here wouldn’t interfere; they were staunchly of the laissez-faire kind. And Henry didn’t anticipate that his boss would object. – He might make enough money to buy a house – or an estate – down here. Wouldn’t that be cool?
Even when the experts all agree, they may well be mistaken.
(Bertrand Russell)
Dimensional stability… Hah! – The pusher plate had fractionalised along the weld seams. The individual sections had been dispersed over a wide area, together with fragments of the torn steel cables. Mercifully, nobody had been hurt. – Jochen Zeislitz had been highly impressed. That had been quite a powerful demonstration! – The experts were less sanguine though. Indeed, one would have to produce a single-piece impact slab.
Promptly, engineers from Krupp had shown up at Corcaigh. Yes, it could be done, no problem. But one would have to establish a dedicated steel plant right here, quite close to the concrete supports. The plate was going to weigh almost 4,000 tons. That was quite something; not easy to move, but doable over a short distance. It wouldn’t be a cheap operation, but one was certain to be able to provide what was being wanted.
All this, however, was going to take time. Unblinking, Jochen could add another year to his personal schedule. There was no reason for him to stay here; he should return to Prerow, where all the training facilities were concentrated. – Radiation was no issue, said the boffins. The little fireball hadn’t touched the soil or the concrete supports; it had been a perfect air bust. There was some weak induced radiation in the steel elements and the reinforcements of the supports, which was rapidly abating. No need to worry.
Okay, the Hammer was delayed. Jochen thought it was normal. Large-scale projects seldom were keeping the schedule – except the Weizsäcker Suns, which had been pressed forward regardless of the cost – and had consequently taken fifty-eight lives. The scientists tended to underestimate the difficulties their lofty ideas were creating for the engineers. Hence, many kinks were only discovered during construction. One or two years delay was no problem – for him. He was young enough to bide.
His flight home, however, was delayed for forty-eight hours. There was something going on in England, he had heard underhand. Jochen wondered whether it had to do with the English nukes, which were still scattered all over the island. This was another large-scale project that didn’t make headway. Well, he had seen the midget nuke at work. The English stuff was said to be about one hundred times more powerful – apiece, on average. Image the crazy Norwegians got hold of them…
(Bertrand Russell)
Dimensional stability… Hah! – The pusher plate had fractionalised along the weld seams. The individual sections had been dispersed over a wide area, together with fragments of the torn steel cables. Mercifully, nobody had been hurt. – Jochen Zeislitz had been highly impressed. That had been quite a powerful demonstration! – The experts were less sanguine though. Indeed, one would have to produce a single-piece impact slab.
Promptly, engineers from Krupp had shown up at Corcaigh. Yes, it could be done, no problem. But one would have to establish a dedicated steel plant right here, quite close to the concrete supports. The plate was going to weigh almost 4,000 tons. That was quite something; not easy to move, but doable over a short distance. It wouldn’t be a cheap operation, but one was certain to be able to provide what was being wanted.
All this, however, was going to take time. Unblinking, Jochen could add another year to his personal schedule. There was no reason for him to stay here; he should return to Prerow, where all the training facilities were concentrated. – Radiation was no issue, said the boffins. The little fireball hadn’t touched the soil or the concrete supports; it had been a perfect air bust. There was some weak induced radiation in the steel elements and the reinforcements of the supports, which was rapidly abating. No need to worry.
Okay, the Hammer was delayed. Jochen thought it was normal. Large-scale projects seldom were keeping the schedule – except the Weizsäcker Suns, which had been pressed forward regardless of the cost – and had consequently taken fifty-eight lives. The scientists tended to underestimate the difficulties their lofty ideas were creating for the engineers. Hence, many kinks were only discovered during construction. One or two years delay was no problem – for him. He was young enough to bide.
His flight home, however, was delayed for forty-eight hours. There was something going on in England, he had heard underhand. Jochen wondered whether it had to do with the English nukes, which were still scattered all over the island. This was another large-scale project that didn’t make headway. Well, he had seen the midget nuke at work. The English stuff was said to be about one hundred times more powerful – apiece, on average. Image the crazy Norwegians got hold of them…
One of the effects of civilisation is to diminish the rigour of the application of the law of natural selection. It preserves weakly lives that would have perished in barbarous lands.
(Francis Galton)
Professor Sigbert Ramsauer was happily humming the theme from Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, while working with the samples. This extraction operation was an excellent opportunity to examine the recent population of England. It was quite a mixed bag: women from North America, men from Nigeria, and children of mixed blood. – It vividly reminded him of the times when Middle African students and trainees had impregnated German women. This phase had lasted about ten years – and had produced approximately 50,000 babies of mixed race. These erstwhile babies were having babies of their own today – and accordingly the negroid influence was in decline in Germany.
Ramsauer had carried out research in this field in the 1930ies, when still a senior student. The children of mixed race had been examined for intelligence, comprehension, and other qualities of the mind. There had indeed been no noticeable difference to trueborn German children. – Anyway, those women, most of them pregnant, and the children would not come to Germany. The Netherlands, Belgium and France were offering admission at very favourable terms. The US, on the other hand, had shown no interest in having these people repatriated. The men, though, were all sent back to Nigeria. The Kaiserliche Marine had been tasked to manage the transports.
Ramsauer was searching for traces of NED. Well, there were none. Obviously, these people hadn’t been in contact with the disease. They were carrying germs of other illnesses, quite a lot of them, but the pest was not among them. Quarantine was mandatory nevertheless. It was enforced here on the Isle of Sheppey, which was wholly controlled by the KM. Ramsauer had been able to have a research laboratory set up – with staff and technical support. – As a byproduct, he was looking for pathogens that might be useable in his field. Here, he had already identified three potential candidates, all three found in Nigerian material. That was what currently was pleasing him.
There was a very nice zoonotic bacterium, which was now thriving in his culture dishes. And there were two blood samples with evidently virus-induced abnormalities, which might allow segregating the viruses. – That was encouraging. People were still flocking in. So, he might find even some more tiny minions. – He hadn’t generated a vaccine for NED, despite continued research, that failure was nagging on him. But perhaps there was none. – Were there still immunes alive in England? The men and women had all been queried; nobody had ever met an immune. But there were rumours…
(Francis Galton)
Professor Sigbert Ramsauer was happily humming the theme from Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, while working with the samples. This extraction operation was an excellent opportunity to examine the recent population of England. It was quite a mixed bag: women from North America, men from Nigeria, and children of mixed blood. – It vividly reminded him of the times when Middle African students and trainees had impregnated German women. This phase had lasted about ten years – and had produced approximately 50,000 babies of mixed race. These erstwhile babies were having babies of their own today – and accordingly the negroid influence was in decline in Germany.
Ramsauer had carried out research in this field in the 1930ies, when still a senior student. The children of mixed race had been examined for intelligence, comprehension, and other qualities of the mind. There had indeed been no noticeable difference to trueborn German children. – Anyway, those women, most of them pregnant, and the children would not come to Germany. The Netherlands, Belgium and France were offering admission at very favourable terms. The US, on the other hand, had shown no interest in having these people repatriated. The men, though, were all sent back to Nigeria. The Kaiserliche Marine had been tasked to manage the transports.
Ramsauer was searching for traces of NED. Well, there were none. Obviously, these people hadn’t been in contact with the disease. They were carrying germs of other illnesses, quite a lot of them, but the pest was not among them. Quarantine was mandatory nevertheless. It was enforced here on the Isle of Sheppey, which was wholly controlled by the KM. Ramsauer had been able to have a research laboratory set up – with staff and technical support. – As a byproduct, he was looking for pathogens that might be useable in his field. Here, he had already identified three potential candidates, all three found in Nigerian material. That was what currently was pleasing him.
There was a very nice zoonotic bacterium, which was now thriving in his culture dishes. And there were two blood samples with evidently virus-induced abnormalities, which might allow segregating the viruses. – That was encouraging. People were still flocking in. So, he might find even some more tiny minions. – He hadn’t generated a vaccine for NED, despite continued research, that failure was nagging on him. But perhaps there was none. – Were there still immunes alive in England? The men and women had all been queried; nobody had ever met an immune. But there were rumours…