Very unlikely, IRL he had enough shady things bounce off him to sink an average polotician, and was a very smart and savy man, especially in his later years also a very experienced politician.. He was such a prominent figure in internal and external politics for a reason. Much speculation, but nothing stuck to him.
A Shift in Priorities - Sequel
- Thread starter rast
- Start date
It is was a just a joke. But rast has made some direct reversals of OTL in TTL.
For though I am a body of this earth, my firm desire is born from the stars.
(Petrarch)
Egon Schagalla, for his part, didn’t believe a word of the Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens story. The little bugger had done what he used to do once in a while: take a running jump. But the tale was great nevertheless. There was fun aplenty downtown, just like in the good old days. His upper lip was smashed and his nose was still bleeding; it had been a super wingding.
Egon knew that Hanne had a child – and he reckoned Weller to be the father. Any other begetter surely would have been forced to marry Hanne right away. But for her heart throb she certainly would make an exception of the first chop. Had the dude run away because of that? Hardly likely… Well, most probably, Hanne hadn’t even told him the joyful tidings…
Whatever! It no longer was his cup of tea. – The AFV riots, however, were terrific. Gerdi, his new girlfriend, was trying to staunch the bleed. His teeth seemed to be all right. No real harm suffered… He groped for a beer bottle. No, bottle drinking was goofy with this blubber lip. He needed a glass. Gerdi went to fetch him one. She was a good girl. And sultry – in that tight lingerie she was wearing even more so…
Yeah, this was the life he cherished: a neat brawl – and now a wicked poke. Returning with the glass, Gerdi noticed his hard-on and smiled. “Pussy for afters?”
(Petrarch)
Egon Schagalla, for his part, didn’t believe a word of the Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens story. The little bugger had done what he used to do once in a while: take a running jump. But the tale was great nevertheless. There was fun aplenty downtown, just like in the good old days. His upper lip was smashed and his nose was still bleeding; it had been a super wingding.
Egon knew that Hanne had a child – and he reckoned Weller to be the father. Any other begetter surely would have been forced to marry Hanne right away. But for her heart throb she certainly would make an exception of the first chop. Had the dude run away because of that? Hardly likely… Well, most probably, Hanne hadn’t even told him the joyful tidings…
Whatever! It no longer was his cup of tea. – The AFV riots, however, were terrific. Gerdi, his new girlfriend, was trying to staunch the bleed. His teeth seemed to be all right. No real harm suffered… He groped for a beer bottle. No, bottle drinking was goofy with this blubber lip. He needed a glass. Gerdi went to fetch him one. She was a good girl. And sultry – in that tight lingerie she was wearing even more so…
Yeah, this was the life he cherished: a neat brawl – and now a wicked poke. Returning with the glass, Gerdi noticed his hard-on and smiled. “Pussy for afters?”
I have never known much good done by those who affected to trade for the public good.
(Adam Smith)
The riots had surprised Doris Zülch in Frankfurt am Main. Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens was humbug, of course. The dude had suffered another scooting fit, what else? – Confined to her hotel because of the clashes in the streets, she had called Hanne, her sister, and enquired about the situation. Yes, indeed, Weller had gone missing once again; and some wise guy had come up with the alien tale. It would keep the AFV from going bust, Hanne believed.
Okay, that was clear now. But it didn’t end the riots. Her follow-up appointments had all been rendered moot by now. At least, Telefunken had agreed to grant her paid leave until the troubles had petered out, although spending free time cooped up in a business hotel wasn’t her favourite leisure. Well, there were several male fellow travellers sharing her fate – and as a lone business woman she never lacked suitors…
Should she accept one of these graceless offers? She was taking Skribovan, that expensive Russian contraceptive pill; hence, a sexual adventure wouldn’t lead to undesired consequences. But none of the wretches was really attractive… In the olden days, she would have joint the rioters. Today, however, she was part of the establishment. They wouldn’t accept her.
Yet, she might drop her business suit and the jewellery – and forgo make-up. And the hotel staff could provide her with some sloppy duds. That should make her acceptable for the hooligans. Yeah, this idea appealed to her, far more than screwing with one of the travelling salesmen…
(Adam Smith)
The riots had surprised Doris Zülch in Frankfurt am Main. Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens was humbug, of course. The dude had suffered another scooting fit, what else? – Confined to her hotel because of the clashes in the streets, she had called Hanne, her sister, and enquired about the situation. Yes, indeed, Weller had gone missing once again; and some wise guy had come up with the alien tale. It would keep the AFV from going bust, Hanne believed.
Okay, that was clear now. But it didn’t end the riots. Her follow-up appointments had all been rendered moot by now. At least, Telefunken had agreed to grant her paid leave until the troubles had petered out, although spending free time cooped up in a business hotel wasn’t her favourite leisure. Well, there were several male fellow travellers sharing her fate – and as a lone business woman she never lacked suitors…
Should she accept one of these graceless offers? She was taking Skribovan, that expensive Russian contraceptive pill; hence, a sexual adventure wouldn’t lead to undesired consequences. But none of the wretches was really attractive… In the olden days, she would have joint the rioters. Today, however, she was part of the establishment. They wouldn’t accept her.
Yet, she might drop her business suit and the jewellery – and forgo make-up. And the hotel staff could provide her with some sloppy duds. That should make her acceptable for the hooligans. Yeah, this idea appealed to her, far more than screwing with one of the travelling salesmen…
Intellect distinguishes between the possible and the impossible; reason distinguishes between the sensible and the senseless. Even the possible can be senseless.
(Max Born)
Prerow wasn’t affected by the Alien Riots, nor was Hammerhorst in Ireland. Hence, RRA operations weren’t directly constrained, although some supply firms were already reporting difficulties in meeting their contracts in a timely manner. Currently, Raumkobold-38 was being prepared for launch. And Krupp was busy erecting the steel plant near Corcaigh. – The alien tale was tosh, of course, but providing excellent public relations for RRA, as Flack Helga had been quick to stress. Therefore, one would refrain from carping at the Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens story.
Jochen Zeislitz thought it was hilarious. The old general was only shaking his head in wonder. Knut, the masseur, however, was betting on the alien tall story. – Well, Mars, it seemed, was just another kind of Moon, with a thin atmosphere though – and no visible water. NASA was kindly sharing the photographs Mars-2 was transmitting. And Venus was the Bogey’s torrid workshop. So, where should these fabulous aliens come from? From the stars? Did they have fusion drive? And why should they pick Herbert Weller of all people?
Anyway, the rest of the world weren’t interested in this muppet affair. Yesterday, NASA had set off Lunobegún-18 to the Moon. OŞU had just successfully completed their Göktaşı-5 orbital mission. SUS obviously had exhausted their possibilities of staging surprise stunts; they were keeping suspiciously still since some time. MARFAK were licking their wounds, as usual. And Fedrock had only presented their first batch of kosmonauts to the public, who were still training with aircraft – although the Ares rocket should be capable of transporting men into orbit.
Yeah, outer space was going to be a crowded place. The Ottomans were in the last throngs of preparing the construction of their space station, striving to add Uçan Halı to Raumkolonie and NSÓ. The Amis would certainly want to have a dedicated space station as well – in three or four years time. Might the Indians be working on something in this vein too? Difficult to arrange with the hoary DELAG equipment, but not outright impossible… And, of course, the Russians were frantically trying to build their version of the Hammer.
Jochen had tried to imagine how aliens might view all this. If they really had something like fusion drive and were coming from the stars, say from Alpha Centauri, they had travelled a long time – 40 years or more – only to arrive in a system where the only inhabitable planet was already taken. And the indigenes were space travelling themselves, which meant the aliens’ spaceship wasn’t untouchable. What would they do? Kidnap blabbermouth Herbert Weller – or rather Professor Ramsauer and his little pets?
(Max Born)
Prerow wasn’t affected by the Alien Riots, nor was Hammerhorst in Ireland. Hence, RRA operations weren’t directly constrained, although some supply firms were already reporting difficulties in meeting their contracts in a timely manner. Currently, Raumkobold-38 was being prepared for launch. And Krupp was busy erecting the steel plant near Corcaigh. – The alien tale was tosh, of course, but providing excellent public relations for RRA, as Flack Helga had been quick to stress. Therefore, one would refrain from carping at the Weller-in-the-sky-with-aliens story.
Jochen Zeislitz thought it was hilarious. The old general was only shaking his head in wonder. Knut, the masseur, however, was betting on the alien tall story. – Well, Mars, it seemed, was just another kind of Moon, with a thin atmosphere though – and no visible water. NASA was kindly sharing the photographs Mars-2 was transmitting. And Venus was the Bogey’s torrid workshop. So, where should these fabulous aliens come from? From the stars? Did they have fusion drive? And why should they pick Herbert Weller of all people?
Anyway, the rest of the world weren’t interested in this muppet affair. Yesterday, NASA had set off Lunobegún-18 to the Moon. OŞU had just successfully completed their Göktaşı-5 orbital mission. SUS obviously had exhausted their possibilities of staging surprise stunts; they were keeping suspiciously still since some time. MARFAK were licking their wounds, as usual. And Fedrock had only presented their first batch of kosmonauts to the public, who were still training with aircraft – although the Ares rocket should be capable of transporting men into orbit.
Yeah, outer space was going to be a crowded place. The Ottomans were in the last throngs of preparing the construction of their space station, striving to add Uçan Halı to Raumkolonie and NSÓ. The Amis would certainly want to have a dedicated space station as well – in three or four years time. Might the Indians be working on something in this vein too? Difficult to arrange with the hoary DELAG equipment, but not outright impossible… And, of course, the Russians were frantically trying to build their version of the Hammer.
Jochen had tried to imagine how aliens might view all this. If they really had something like fusion drive and were coming from the stars, say from Alpha Centauri, they had travelled a long time – 40 years or more – only to arrive in a system where the only inhabitable planet was already taken. And the indigenes were space travelling themselves, which meant the aliens’ spaceship wasn’t untouchable. What would they do? Kidnap blabbermouth Herbert Weller – or rather Professor Ramsauer and his little pets?
The angels are as perfect in form as they are in spirit.
(Joan of Arc)
The alien kidnapper tale was queer indeed. Konrad Schabunde had been surprised; he hadn’t been aware the Snowpushers had a knack for such quirky stories. He was certain that Felix, Dieter and he were missing some facets and did not understand all overtones, but the yarn was cute nevertheless.
Professor Ramsauer didn’t like it; he was talking of rubbish and horseshit. Yet, he was ranting at the world as a whole, it seemed. So, his opinion didn’t come unexpected. His staff, on the other hand, were digging the story. Drawings were circulating which depicted the aliens. They looked like friendly bipedal hippos with long tails.
Konrad had discovered what was keeping RV at bay inside Birmingham Bitch. It was a combination of three antibodies. One of them he had already cultivated. But the other two were still resisting reproduction in the Petri dish. Well, they had been tagged; one would also succeed in breeding them. It was only a matter of weeks…
It was bacteriological work though, the boss’s realm. Why hadn’t Professor Misuku found the three tiny helpers? His antidote contained the agents the antibodies were producing, but it lacked the little producers. Hence, it had to be stocked up regularly.
The soldiers had been pleased to be briefed about this progress. On this occasion, Konrad had noticed that alien drawings were circulating among the military as well. But these weren’t friendly hippos; they looked like fierce devilkin, only the tail was similar…
(Joan of Arc)
The alien kidnapper tale was queer indeed. Konrad Schabunde had been surprised; he hadn’t been aware the Snowpushers had a knack for such quirky stories. He was certain that Felix, Dieter and he were missing some facets and did not understand all overtones, but the yarn was cute nevertheless.
Professor Ramsauer didn’t like it; he was talking of rubbish and horseshit. Yet, he was ranting at the world as a whole, it seemed. So, his opinion didn’t come unexpected. His staff, on the other hand, were digging the story. Drawings were circulating which depicted the aliens. They looked like friendly bipedal hippos with long tails.
Konrad had discovered what was keeping RV at bay inside Birmingham Bitch. It was a combination of three antibodies. One of them he had already cultivated. But the other two were still resisting reproduction in the Petri dish. Well, they had been tagged; one would also succeed in breeding them. It was only a matter of weeks…
It was bacteriological work though, the boss’s realm. Why hadn’t Professor Misuku found the three tiny helpers? His antidote contained the agents the antibodies were producing, but it lacked the little producers. Hence, it had to be stocked up regularly.
The soldiers had been pleased to be briefed about this progress. On this occasion, Konrad had noticed that alien drawings were circulating among the military as well. But these weren’t friendly hippos; they looked like fierce devilkin, only the tail was similar…
The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.
(Abraham Lincoln)
What a racket! It couldn’t have happened at a worse moment. The Old Man was in coma. And her dad was in charge. He certainly was trying to rule in accordance with the aims of General von Bauer, but his past didn’t make him the ideal person for dealing with troubles involving the US.
The US embassy had been bombed. A truck loaded with explosives, the experts estimated the charge at three tons of TNT, had been blown up adjacent to the embassy complex. Damage was enormous, as were casualties. The ambassador though, his Excellency Christian Archibald Herter, had weathered out the chaos unhurt – and was now raising fuss like hell.
It was just what her dad couldn’t stand: an Ami yelling at him. That did not bode well for overcoming the difficulties. – Doctor Paula G’Norebbe surmised that the attack was somehow connected to the activities of Egon Hamzi some weeks ago, but she couldn’t prove anything.
Her long-distance call to Otti Sikuku-Seidel hadn’t produced any tangible results. Otti had no idea what her dad might be up to in regard to the SIRAB disaster. She was focused on SEM, which, by the way, was also producing in the WAU. One had agreed to meet in Deygbo should Otti come to inspect the plant at Sinoe.
Charlie, her betrothed, who had been born and raised in the US, thought it was essential to sooth Herter. The man did have excellent connections to many important persons in Washington. Yes, it was very unfortunate that he was white, but that couldn’t be helped. Her dad should rather stoop low – and accept the blame.
Good grief! That shouldn’t work. Dad might refrain from yelling back at Herter. But he would never crouch in front of an Ami. Even Mom couldn’t help here; her relationship to the Amis was also strained considerably…
(Abraham Lincoln)
What a racket! It couldn’t have happened at a worse moment. The Old Man was in coma. And her dad was in charge. He certainly was trying to rule in accordance with the aims of General von Bauer, but his past didn’t make him the ideal person for dealing with troubles involving the US.
The US embassy had been bombed. A truck loaded with explosives, the experts estimated the charge at three tons of TNT, had been blown up adjacent to the embassy complex. Damage was enormous, as were casualties. The ambassador though, his Excellency Christian Archibald Herter, had weathered out the chaos unhurt – and was now raising fuss like hell.
It was just what her dad couldn’t stand: an Ami yelling at him. That did not bode well for overcoming the difficulties. – Doctor Paula G’Norebbe surmised that the attack was somehow connected to the activities of Egon Hamzi some weeks ago, but she couldn’t prove anything.
Her long-distance call to Otti Sikuku-Seidel hadn’t produced any tangible results. Otti had no idea what her dad might be up to in regard to the SIRAB disaster. She was focused on SEM, which, by the way, was also producing in the WAU. One had agreed to meet in Deygbo should Otti come to inspect the plant at Sinoe.
Charlie, her betrothed, who had been born and raised in the US, thought it was essential to sooth Herter. The man did have excellent connections to many important persons in Washington. Yes, it was very unfortunate that he was white, but that couldn’t be helped. Her dad should rather stoop low – and accept the blame.
Good grief! That shouldn’t work. Dad might refrain from yelling back at Herter. But he would never crouch in front of an Ami. Even Mom couldn’t help here; her relationship to the Amis was also strained considerably…
In religion and politics, people’s beliefs and convictions are in almost every case gotten at second hand, and without examination.
(Mark Twain)
Yesterday, flying discs – aliens! – had been observed at Insterburg, Neustettin, Haldensleben and Kusel. Neustettin had even reported a landing. It was unbelievable. The Wilhelmstraße had been cordoned off by the pithy Prussian police, but Pariser Platz and Unter den Linden were in the hands of the rioters, who were also laying siege to the Reichstag and the City Palace. As of noon, Potsdam, Hamburg, Cöln and Leipzig were also rocked by riots.
What did these people want? Chancellor Otto Schmidt didn’t know; his counsellors were providing contradictory explanations. Damn, he was too old for such monkey business. And he increasingly failed to understand what was moving people nowadays. It was time to retire. One was right in the middle of the legislative period; hence the new chancellor would have two years to sharpen his profile, before a new national ballot was due. That was as optimal as one could get it.
Johann Ludwig von Krosigk, hitherto GDNP party whip in the Reichstag, was going to be the new man. A special party convention was scheduled to be held at Magdeburg on next Sunday. The move had not been announced to the media, as one wasn’t keen to attract rioters. It would be a brisk affair: get in, vote, and get home again. Thank goodness, the GDNP wasn’t a talking club. The executive board had agreed on Krosigk; the delegates wouldn’t dissent.
The coalition partner, the Papists of the Zentrum, had already signalled assent. They were ready to accept Krosigk. The Kaiser had nodded as well. On Monday morning, the Reichtstag was due to receive Schmidt’s resignation – and to elect Krosigk. In the afternoon, His Majesty would formally release Schmidt from duty and hand over the office to Krosigk. Thereafter, Otto Schmidt would retire to a country estate on the coast of the Baltic. It was about time…
(Mark Twain)
Yesterday, flying discs – aliens! – had been observed at Insterburg, Neustettin, Haldensleben and Kusel. Neustettin had even reported a landing. It was unbelievable. The Wilhelmstraße had been cordoned off by the pithy Prussian police, but Pariser Platz and Unter den Linden were in the hands of the rioters, who were also laying siege to the Reichstag and the City Palace. As of noon, Potsdam, Hamburg, Cöln and Leipzig were also rocked by riots.
What did these people want? Chancellor Otto Schmidt didn’t know; his counsellors were providing contradictory explanations. Damn, he was too old for such monkey business. And he increasingly failed to understand what was moving people nowadays. It was time to retire. One was right in the middle of the legislative period; hence the new chancellor would have two years to sharpen his profile, before a new national ballot was due. That was as optimal as one could get it.
Johann Ludwig von Krosigk, hitherto GDNP party whip in the Reichstag, was going to be the new man. A special party convention was scheduled to be held at Magdeburg on next Sunday. The move had not been announced to the media, as one wasn’t keen to attract rioters. It would be a brisk affair: get in, vote, and get home again. Thank goodness, the GDNP wasn’t a talking club. The executive board had agreed on Krosigk; the delegates wouldn’t dissent.
The coalition partner, the Papists of the Zentrum, had already signalled assent. They were ready to accept Krosigk. The Kaiser had nodded as well. On Monday morning, the Reichtstag was due to receive Schmidt’s resignation – and to elect Krosigk. In the afternoon, His Majesty would formally release Schmidt from duty and hand over the office to Krosigk. Thereafter, Otto Schmidt would retire to a country estate on the coast of the Baltic. It was about time…
Piracy, n. Commerce without its folly-swaddles, just as God made it.
(Ambrose Bierce)
Stabruk, formerly known as Georgetown, had been the chief city of British Guyana. In the Republic of Sranan, it had been declared the district capital of Sondongo Kondre – Westland. It wasn’t much. But there was the harbour. It meant a chance to escape. Malcolm Little had arrived here two weeks ago. Accustomed to hard work he quickly had found a job as docker. You got paid at work’s end, that was the good part. You were toiling for a pittance, that was the bad part. But Malcolm was content. Nobody cared for a lowly stevedore. He was a mute, a pipsqueak.
A mature woman, Sally, had taken him in. He was paying her – with money and sexual service. For the money, she was buying booze, cheap swill. Humping the drunken malkin was even fun, as long as he was not too tired. Usually, she was already soundly sloshed when he came back from work, waiting for him to comfort her. Yeah, he had always been good at that. No supper, just hot cunt…
Sally had been a SUP hack in the good old days, had reigned in a magnificent office, she had told him. Well, thank goodness, the pest hadn’t hit British Guyana. – The place was too inhospitable and unimportant, thought Malcolm, and perhaps too far away from the places people from England had fled to. The climate was… warm and wet, too tropical for Europeans to feel comfortable. A lot of people here were descendants of Indians from India proper, brought to these lands to labour for the English masters; almost everybody else were Creoles, like Sally.
The new rulers had shot the few Englishmen encountered. Indigene folks like Sally had only got the gate. Malcolm reckoned she had already been a lush when still residing in her magnificent office. His arrival must have been a fluke for her. – Anyway, he was about to leave. Currently, a ship was loading lumber for Curaçao. Curaçao meant Middle Africans and the opportunity to escape from this nasty place. The ship’s master had agreed to take him along. It would take all the money he had saved, but that was why he had saved it.
Sally was not waiting for him. She was lying sprawled out on the floor, snoring dead dunk. Expensive rum! Six bottles, one of them empty… and high priced ciggies… Where had she got the money from? Had she… Yes, indeed. The stash was empty. The bitch had stolen his money – and had bought the binge stuff… Curse her! Perhaps he could redeem the remaining bottles and ciggies. But even if that worked, he would only get a fraction of the money back. Not enough to satisfy the captain of the ship… Malcolm sank to the ground and wept.
(Ambrose Bierce)
Stabruk, formerly known as Georgetown, had been the chief city of British Guyana. In the Republic of Sranan, it had been declared the district capital of Sondongo Kondre – Westland. It wasn’t much. But there was the harbour. It meant a chance to escape. Malcolm Little had arrived here two weeks ago. Accustomed to hard work he quickly had found a job as docker. You got paid at work’s end, that was the good part. You were toiling for a pittance, that was the bad part. But Malcolm was content. Nobody cared for a lowly stevedore. He was a mute, a pipsqueak.
A mature woman, Sally, had taken him in. He was paying her – with money and sexual service. For the money, she was buying booze, cheap swill. Humping the drunken malkin was even fun, as long as he was not too tired. Usually, she was already soundly sloshed when he came back from work, waiting for him to comfort her. Yeah, he had always been good at that. No supper, just hot cunt…
Sally had been a SUP hack in the good old days, had reigned in a magnificent office, she had told him. Well, thank goodness, the pest hadn’t hit British Guyana. – The place was too inhospitable and unimportant, thought Malcolm, and perhaps too far away from the places people from England had fled to. The climate was… warm and wet, too tropical for Europeans to feel comfortable. A lot of people here were descendants of Indians from India proper, brought to these lands to labour for the English masters; almost everybody else were Creoles, like Sally.
The new rulers had shot the few Englishmen encountered. Indigene folks like Sally had only got the gate. Malcolm reckoned she had already been a lush when still residing in her magnificent office. His arrival must have been a fluke for her. – Anyway, he was about to leave. Currently, a ship was loading lumber for Curaçao. Curaçao meant Middle Africans and the opportunity to escape from this nasty place. The ship’s master had agreed to take him along. It would take all the money he had saved, but that was why he had saved it.
Sally was not waiting for him. She was lying sprawled out on the floor, snoring dead dunk. Expensive rum! Six bottles, one of them empty… and high priced ciggies… Where had she got the money from? Had she… Yes, indeed. The stash was empty. The bitch had stolen his money – and had bought the binge stuff… Curse her! Perhaps he could redeem the remaining bottles and ciggies. But even if that worked, he would only get a fraction of the money back. Not enough to satisfy the captain of the ship… Malcolm sank to the ground and wept.
The only way to avoid being miserable is not to have enough leisure to wonder whether you are happy or not.
(George Bernard Shaw)
Hans-Joachim von Meerkatz, the German minister for economic affairs, was wholly unperturbed by the chancellor changeover fuss. He had no time for such horseplay. The economy was in a serious slump. The loss of the western neighbour countries – or rather almost complete loss – was crippling. The Netherlands, Belgium and France had been trading partners of paramount importance. The Low Countries were mini states now, with populations of less than two millions each, struggling hard to survive as sovereign nations. France had fared a little bit better, but the industries of the north were all gone.
In addition, Germany had lost ten million people – of them almost four million bread-winners. In fact, the entire COMECON had fallen into crisis. – Production and marketing schemes were going to restructure, von Meerkatz’ staff was sure, but the process required time. Employing women was no way out; they were needed to have children. Foreign workers – Romanians, Bulgars, Albanians, Greeks – were an expedient, but couldn’t really replace well educated and trained employees. And the loss of workforce was damaging the economy of those countries.
One should think that Italy, Hungary, the Heymshtot and the Ukraine were the winners in this affair. But the semblance was deceptive. They had readily ramped up their production capacities to make good for the losses suffered in the west, but increased production didn’t replace the consumers killed. In fact, Germany had profited from this, as many sophisticated production chains hadn’t failed because of it. Yet, 50 million dead people were a loss in purchase power that couldn’t be compensated.
Von Meerkatz was quarrelling with his colleague von Thadden, the minister of finance, to get a comprehensive economic stimulus package funded. The answer to the troubles couldn’t be mass production, but deliberate promotion of high-tech solutions. Automation had to set free workers. Modern technology had to replace heirloom methods. – For example, one was going to replace – should colleague von Thadden agree – the German nuclear reactors of the first generation by new liquid fuel types. This had been planned already before the pest. The first generation – light water reactors with solid fuel rods throughout – wasn’t efficient; it was wasting fuel and producing too much unusable nuclear waste.
In the same vein, the Reichsbahn was going to electrify their railway network. And the heavy industry was to be subsidised for switching to increased automation. – Sure, all these processes were taking time. Nothing of it could be accomplished until the next national election. But the signals conveyed were important. There was a future.
(George Bernard Shaw)
Hans-Joachim von Meerkatz, the German minister for economic affairs, was wholly unperturbed by the chancellor changeover fuss. He had no time for such horseplay. The economy was in a serious slump. The loss of the western neighbour countries – or rather almost complete loss – was crippling. The Netherlands, Belgium and France had been trading partners of paramount importance. The Low Countries were mini states now, with populations of less than two millions each, struggling hard to survive as sovereign nations. France had fared a little bit better, but the industries of the north were all gone.
In addition, Germany had lost ten million people – of them almost four million bread-winners. In fact, the entire COMECON had fallen into crisis. – Production and marketing schemes were going to restructure, von Meerkatz’ staff was sure, but the process required time. Employing women was no way out; they were needed to have children. Foreign workers – Romanians, Bulgars, Albanians, Greeks – were an expedient, but couldn’t really replace well educated and trained employees. And the loss of workforce was damaging the economy of those countries.
One should think that Italy, Hungary, the Heymshtot and the Ukraine were the winners in this affair. But the semblance was deceptive. They had readily ramped up their production capacities to make good for the losses suffered in the west, but increased production didn’t replace the consumers killed. In fact, Germany had profited from this, as many sophisticated production chains hadn’t failed because of it. Yet, 50 million dead people were a loss in purchase power that couldn’t be compensated.
Von Meerkatz was quarrelling with his colleague von Thadden, the minister of finance, to get a comprehensive economic stimulus package funded. The answer to the troubles couldn’t be mass production, but deliberate promotion of high-tech solutions. Automation had to set free workers. Modern technology had to replace heirloom methods. – For example, one was going to replace – should colleague von Thadden agree – the German nuclear reactors of the first generation by new liquid fuel types. This had been planned already before the pest. The first generation – light water reactors with solid fuel rods throughout – wasn’t efficient; it was wasting fuel and producing too much unusable nuclear waste.
In the same vein, the Reichsbahn was going to electrify their railway network. And the heavy industry was to be subsidised for switching to increased automation. – Sure, all these processes were taking time. Nothing of it could be accomplished until the next national election. But the signals conveyed were important. There was a future.
A pessimist is somebody who complains about the noise when opportunity knocks.
(Oscar Wilde)
Egon Hamzi was back in Deygbo, carrying out an errand for Sikuku Enterprises. It demonstrated a certain coolness, although the WAU authorities were not going after him. He had done nothing wrong measured against domestic laws. But the official Americans were giddy with excitement. This was the man who had breached the embassy’s security! He must be arrested and tried! – It took them some time to realise that nothing of that kind was going to happen. Ambassador Herter had another unpleasant encounter with Regent G’Norebbe; thereafter, the clamour died down.
The FSO was now tasked to take action. But Hamzi proved slick and shrewd. He did not walk into the traps set for him. One couldn’t get him. – Should one eliminate him? Two local gunmen were ready to do the job – for a tidy sum. But that might ultimately ruin relations between the WAU and the US. Ambassador Herter had now understood that Musa G’Norebbe had to be treated very carefully. – How about sending the killers after Hamzi once he returned to Middle Africa? What happened in Ala Ka Kuma or Middle Africa was of no concern to the authorities in Deygbo.
No sooner said than done – but easier said than done. Hamzi was travelling first class on the Westafrican Railway. No way the assassins could get at him on the train. At Am Dafok, where Hamzi had to change to the Intercontinental Railway, it might have been possible. However, that was Middle African territory already – and there would have been no prospect of escape for the gunmen. Hence, they were back in Deygbo after three days – without having achieved anything.
The CBIC, though, had monitored the move. Okay, nothing had happened. Egon Hamzi was safely back in Duala. The operation had not been out of the ordinary; the services of the WAU were executing similar actions in foreign countries. But if the government wanted, one could easily blow the whistle – and denounce the Americans. Did the Regent wish to bust the recusant foreigners? Musa G’Norebbe had had a bad day; his surgical scars were ailing him. He never had lost his dislike for the Amis. But the Old Man wanted good relations with them – because the WAU was gaining people from the US, educated and qualified folks.
Or rather, had been gaining people. The flow had considerably thinned already before the pest, but the pest had effectively ended it. New situation, new evaluation: one didn’t implicitly need good relations with the US at all costs. Perhaps, one ought to issue a warning – and a demand. Replace Herter by a man of black skin – and designate the slot permanently for American Negroes. Yeah, that ought to do…
(Oscar Wilde)
Egon Hamzi was back in Deygbo, carrying out an errand for Sikuku Enterprises. It demonstrated a certain coolness, although the WAU authorities were not going after him. He had done nothing wrong measured against domestic laws. But the official Americans were giddy with excitement. This was the man who had breached the embassy’s security! He must be arrested and tried! – It took them some time to realise that nothing of that kind was going to happen. Ambassador Herter had another unpleasant encounter with Regent G’Norebbe; thereafter, the clamour died down.
The FSO was now tasked to take action. But Hamzi proved slick and shrewd. He did not walk into the traps set for him. One couldn’t get him. – Should one eliminate him? Two local gunmen were ready to do the job – for a tidy sum. But that might ultimately ruin relations between the WAU and the US. Ambassador Herter had now understood that Musa G’Norebbe had to be treated very carefully. – How about sending the killers after Hamzi once he returned to Middle Africa? What happened in Ala Ka Kuma or Middle Africa was of no concern to the authorities in Deygbo.
No sooner said than done – but easier said than done. Hamzi was travelling first class on the Westafrican Railway. No way the assassins could get at him on the train. At Am Dafok, where Hamzi had to change to the Intercontinental Railway, it might have been possible. However, that was Middle African territory already – and there would have been no prospect of escape for the gunmen. Hence, they were back in Deygbo after three days – without having achieved anything.
The CBIC, though, had monitored the move. Okay, nothing had happened. Egon Hamzi was safely back in Duala. The operation had not been out of the ordinary; the services of the WAU were executing similar actions in foreign countries. But if the government wanted, one could easily blow the whistle – and denounce the Americans. Did the Regent wish to bust the recusant foreigners? Musa G’Norebbe had had a bad day; his surgical scars were ailing him. He never had lost his dislike for the Amis. But the Old Man wanted good relations with them – because the WAU was gaining people from the US, educated and qualified folks.
Or rather, had been gaining people. The flow had considerably thinned already before the pest, but the pest had effectively ended it. New situation, new evaluation: one didn’t implicitly need good relations with the US at all costs. Perhaps, one ought to issue a warning – and a demand. Replace Herter by a man of black skin – and designate the slot permanently for American Negroes. Yeah, that ought to do…
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.
(Samuel Beckett)
Christian Archibald Herter, the US ambassador to Deygbo, was in no mood to forward the insolent demands of Regent G’Norebbe to Washington. First, a dodgy advocate from Middle Africa had stolen – well, bought – confidential information, then, the embassy had been bombed, and thirdly, the same advocate had recently pootled through Deygbo again – and the Regent’s administration had done exactly nothing to protect US interests.
Okay, the stolen information about two FSO agents operating in Middle Africa was moot, at best. The corrupt clerk, whom said lawyer had bribed, had been sent home – to be jailed, hopefully. Bomb damage was only superficial, even if looking devastating. The embassy’s core functions were all intact. Casualties were annoying, but restricted to peripheral personnel. Nevertheless, the United States had been attacked and US citizens had been hurt. And the frigging administration of Regent G’Norebbe was sitting on their haunches and only hiking their shoulders.
Herter had thoroughly read the dossier about G’Norebbe. The man had been fighting US forces here in West Africa – and in the Caribbean! And he had been President of Venezuela! He was a sworn enemy of the US, no doubt. A pity he was General von Bauer’s deputy, regent for the present – and the designated next ruler. That General von Bauer should recover again nobody believed. – Herter had Washington’s go-ahead for taking a hard line. People in the State Department thought this was the only language G’Norebbe understood. Accepting his demands would only lead to more brazen demands.
The two gunmen, who had failed to eliminate said advocate, were West African subjects. If they had trespassed law it was the duty of the indigene authorities to try and punish then. In this specific case, they had undertaken an innocuous train journey to Am Dafok and back. So what? – If G’Norebbe thought he could impress Herter with the information that they had been hired to kill the advocate, he was mistaken. Knowing something and being able to prove it were two very different animals.
No, one was not going to back down. G’Norebbe had to learn that he couldn’t push around the US
(Samuel Beckett)
Christian Archibald Herter, the US ambassador to Deygbo, was in no mood to forward the insolent demands of Regent G’Norebbe to Washington. First, a dodgy advocate from Middle Africa had stolen – well, bought – confidential information, then, the embassy had been bombed, and thirdly, the same advocate had recently pootled through Deygbo again – and the Regent’s administration had done exactly nothing to protect US interests.
Okay, the stolen information about two FSO agents operating in Middle Africa was moot, at best. The corrupt clerk, whom said lawyer had bribed, had been sent home – to be jailed, hopefully. Bomb damage was only superficial, even if looking devastating. The embassy’s core functions were all intact. Casualties were annoying, but restricted to peripheral personnel. Nevertheless, the United States had been attacked and US citizens had been hurt. And the frigging administration of Regent G’Norebbe was sitting on their haunches and only hiking their shoulders.
Herter had thoroughly read the dossier about G’Norebbe. The man had been fighting US forces here in West Africa – and in the Caribbean! And he had been President of Venezuela! He was a sworn enemy of the US, no doubt. A pity he was General von Bauer’s deputy, regent for the present – and the designated next ruler. That General von Bauer should recover again nobody believed. – Herter had Washington’s go-ahead for taking a hard line. People in the State Department thought this was the only language G’Norebbe understood. Accepting his demands would only lead to more brazen demands.
The two gunmen, who had failed to eliminate said advocate, were West African subjects. If they had trespassed law it was the duty of the indigene authorities to try and punish then. In this specific case, they had undertaken an innocuous train journey to Am Dafok and back. So what? – If G’Norebbe thought he could impress Herter with the information that they had been hired to kill the advocate, he was mistaken. Knowing something and being able to prove it were two very different animals.
No, one was not going to back down. G’Norebbe had to learn that he couldn’t push around the US
G'Norebbe really needs to let go of his hate towards the Americans, because right now he's risking the entire WAU for what I believe to be his personal vendetta against the US.
I have never killed any one, but I have read some obituary notices with great satisfaction.
(Clarence Darrow)
The flipping Costa Ricans didn’t produce anything – except expense… Their expedition into the former RUM was getting nowhere. They had got cracking with great fuss, only to stop at the border – because of logistical problems… Okay, the northern half of Costa Rica had been depopulated by the pest, including San José, the capital. Hence, reaching the border to the former RUM required an advance of 100 miles through the wilderness. Harry Salzman could see the intrinsic difficulties, but standstill didn’t provide the desired information about the Indians and their settlements.
The fields in the former RUM were growing. The farmers were Peruvians. This Salzman had learnt from the State Department. The diplomatists had reported that a popular movement existed among the natives in Peru – and also in Bolivia – to emigrate to Central America. But they had delivered no figures. How many Peruvians had already arrived? How many more were preparing to move? It was a real problem. – The Indian population of the US was assessable: 500,000, of which about one third was not living in reservations. Hence, one could assume that perhaps 170,000 folks – at the maximum – might be ready to move.
To this number, one could add perhaps 70,000 Indians from Canada. Now, 240,000 people weren’t much to build a nation from. And many of this lot weren’t nation builders, but rather nursing cases. – But there were millions of Indians in Peru – about 2.5 million purebred Indians and almost 7 million mestizoes. In Bolivia, there were living another 600,000 purebred Indians and more than 2 million mestizoes. Now, 12 million folks were a ballpark figure. Sure, not all of them would move, but even 10 percent would mean a very substantial reinforcement for the new Indian nation.
This was unsettling. The total population of the RUM had been slightly above 8 millions. 240,000 Indians from the US and Canada would hardly be able to repopulate the realm in Salzman’s lifetime. But with a million – or more – of South American Indians bolstering the process, the new nation might be quick to come to real life. And those South American dudes were true aliens…
(Clarence Darrow)
The flipping Costa Ricans didn’t produce anything – except expense… Their expedition into the former RUM was getting nowhere. They had got cracking with great fuss, only to stop at the border – because of logistical problems… Okay, the northern half of Costa Rica had been depopulated by the pest, including San José, the capital. Hence, reaching the border to the former RUM required an advance of 100 miles through the wilderness. Harry Salzman could see the intrinsic difficulties, but standstill didn’t provide the desired information about the Indians and their settlements.
The fields in the former RUM were growing. The farmers were Peruvians. This Salzman had learnt from the State Department. The diplomatists had reported that a popular movement existed among the natives in Peru – and also in Bolivia – to emigrate to Central America. But they had delivered no figures. How many Peruvians had already arrived? How many more were preparing to move? It was a real problem. – The Indian population of the US was assessable: 500,000, of which about one third was not living in reservations. Hence, one could assume that perhaps 170,000 folks – at the maximum – might be ready to move.
To this number, one could add perhaps 70,000 Indians from Canada. Now, 240,000 people weren’t much to build a nation from. And many of this lot weren’t nation builders, but rather nursing cases. – But there were millions of Indians in Peru – about 2.5 million purebred Indians and almost 7 million mestizoes. In Bolivia, there were living another 600,000 purebred Indians and more than 2 million mestizoes. Now, 12 million folks were a ballpark figure. Sure, not all of them would move, but even 10 percent would mean a very substantial reinforcement for the new Indian nation.
This was unsettling. The total population of the RUM had been slightly above 8 millions. 240,000 Indians from the US and Canada would hardly be able to repopulate the realm in Salzman’s lifetime. But with a million – or more – of South American Indians bolstering the process, the new nation might be quick to come to real life. And those South American dudes were true aliens…
Skin diseases are something doctors like, the patient neither dies nor gets well.
(H. L. Mencken)
One was losing the struggle – despite the marvellous Korean machinery. President Cárdenas had finally endorsed the purchases. No US manufacturer would deliver anything to México within a reasonable timeframe; they were all swamped by domestic orders. But the president was right – in principle: the Yanquis were duplicitous; they were going to reproach México for buying elsewhere – while cashiering US aid funds. It didn’t matter, at least not for Victoria Keller.
She was struggling to keep the lines of communication in the south open. But it didn’t work. One couldn’t keep open all the lines the economy and the government wanted to have. One had to focus on the really essential ones. It was not just the sprawling vegetation one had to keep at bay. The drainage facilities were of paramount importance. Once they failed, the particular road was gone. And the realm was still uninhabited. You couldn’t simply hire some locals for doing the perpetual maintenance.
México was also losing people. The idea of creating an Indian nation had stricken roots. Most Mexican Indians – and mestizoes – had perished in the pest, because the southern states had been those with the highest proportions of indigenes. Yet, among the surviving Indians a movement to join their brethren in the south had started. Most were not trekking to the former RUM on the roads Victoria was trying to keep open; they were using the boat service the US Indians had established along the west coast.
Well, Victoria had recently met a band in Chiapas. They had been Rarámuri from Chihuahua, famous for their proficiency to cover long-distances. These folks were nomads anyway; they had been wandering – at a leisurely pace – together with their cattle, sheep and goats. Yeah, cattle herders should be welcome in the Opaque Woodlands, they had explained. The people from the US – and those from South America – had no clue of rearing livestock. Creating an Indian nation was a splendid idea. México was dominated by issue of the Spanish conquerors, indigenes always had been the less privileged.
How many people were leaving? Difficult to assess: about one fifth of the total – pre-pest – population had been indigenes, and about one fourth had been mestizoes. From the surviving 15 million people, approximately 3 million could hence be indigenes – and 3.7 million mestizoes. Because of the high indigene losses in the southern states, the potential was perhaps lower for surviving indigenes – say 1 million. But the number of mestizoes ought to be correct. A loss of almost 5 million folks would be a crippling blow for México.
But would they all go? Hardly… Yet, the Rarámuri had been right. They were underprivileged. Why shouldn’t they pursue happiness in the Opaque Woodlands?
(H. L. Mencken)
One was losing the struggle – despite the marvellous Korean machinery. President Cárdenas had finally endorsed the purchases. No US manufacturer would deliver anything to México within a reasonable timeframe; they were all swamped by domestic orders. But the president was right – in principle: the Yanquis were duplicitous; they were going to reproach México for buying elsewhere – while cashiering US aid funds. It didn’t matter, at least not for Victoria Keller.
She was struggling to keep the lines of communication in the south open. But it didn’t work. One couldn’t keep open all the lines the economy and the government wanted to have. One had to focus on the really essential ones. It was not just the sprawling vegetation one had to keep at bay. The drainage facilities were of paramount importance. Once they failed, the particular road was gone. And the realm was still uninhabited. You couldn’t simply hire some locals for doing the perpetual maintenance.
México was also losing people. The idea of creating an Indian nation had stricken roots. Most Mexican Indians – and mestizoes – had perished in the pest, because the southern states had been those with the highest proportions of indigenes. Yet, among the surviving Indians a movement to join their brethren in the south had started. Most were not trekking to the former RUM on the roads Victoria was trying to keep open; they were using the boat service the US Indians had established along the west coast.
Well, Victoria had recently met a band in Chiapas. They had been Rarámuri from Chihuahua, famous for their proficiency to cover long-distances. These folks were nomads anyway; they had been wandering – at a leisurely pace – together with their cattle, sheep and goats. Yeah, cattle herders should be welcome in the Opaque Woodlands, they had explained. The people from the US – and those from South America – had no clue of rearing livestock. Creating an Indian nation was a splendid idea. México was dominated by issue of the Spanish conquerors, indigenes always had been the less privileged.
How many people were leaving? Difficult to assess: about one fifth of the total – pre-pest – population had been indigenes, and about one fourth had been mestizoes. From the surviving 15 million people, approximately 3 million could hence be indigenes – and 3.7 million mestizoes. Because of the high indigene losses in the southern states, the potential was perhaps lower for surviving indigenes – say 1 million. But the number of mestizoes ought to be correct. A loss of almost 5 million folks would be a crippling blow for México.
But would they all go? Hardly… Yet, the Rarámuri had been right. They were underprivileged. Why shouldn’t they pursue happiness in the Opaque Woodlands?
To have died once is enough.
(Virgil)
Having torpedo and gunnery training in the Gulf of Coro completed, S-13 ‘Bonito’ was on the way back to Curaçao. One had to replenish fuel, ammunition, water and foodstuffs in Jan Kok Baai, the submarine base adjacent to Camp Bwana Obersti, before going on patrol. Teniente de Navío Alfred Nkotenga had delegated command of the boat to his first officer and was sojourning – not relaxing – in his cabin. The lad needed to gather experience. He had only arrived from Middle Africa a month ago, the old first officer having taken command of S-16 ‘Emperador’.
Sitting in the control station would only turn the guy – more – edgy – and, well, himself too. After all, transit wasn’t that difficult to accomplish. The 110 sea miles between the Gulf of Coro and Jan Kok Baai were a heavily frequented stretch, but ‘Bonito’ was marching submerged – as always. The tankships shuttling between the oil fields near Maracaibo and the refinery at Willemstad couldn’t harm the sub, even if the first officer didn’t manage to avoid them.
Nkotenga had taken to physical exercise – press-ups and sit-ups. It helped to relieve the tension. The lad was fully trained; there was no reason to fear he might commit blunder. But he was new – and untried yet. His performance during gunnery training had been on point; yet, nautical service was quite something else. The crew were experienced; one could trust them to silently correct minor slips. So, why was he worrying?
The impact came suddenly. Nkotenga crashed painfully against the wall. The light went out – and emergency light came on. Moaning, he picked himself up – and rushed towards the control station. The boat had canted and seemed to go down. What the hell had happened?
(Virgil)
Having torpedo and gunnery training in the Gulf of Coro completed, S-13 ‘Bonito’ was on the way back to Curaçao. One had to replenish fuel, ammunition, water and foodstuffs in Jan Kok Baai, the submarine base adjacent to Camp Bwana Obersti, before going on patrol. Teniente de Navío Alfred Nkotenga had delegated command of the boat to his first officer and was sojourning – not relaxing – in his cabin. The lad needed to gather experience. He had only arrived from Middle Africa a month ago, the old first officer having taken command of S-16 ‘Emperador’.
Sitting in the control station would only turn the guy – more – edgy – and, well, himself too. After all, transit wasn’t that difficult to accomplish. The 110 sea miles between the Gulf of Coro and Jan Kok Baai were a heavily frequented stretch, but ‘Bonito’ was marching submerged – as always. The tankships shuttling between the oil fields near Maracaibo and the refinery at Willemstad couldn’t harm the sub, even if the first officer didn’t manage to avoid them.
Nkotenga had taken to physical exercise – press-ups and sit-ups. It helped to relieve the tension. The lad was fully trained; there was no reason to fear he might commit blunder. But he was new – and untried yet. His performance during gunnery training had been on point; yet, nautical service was quite something else. The crew were experienced; one could trust them to silently correct minor slips. So, why was he worrying?
The impact came suddenly. Nkotenga crashed painfully against the wall. The light went out – and emergency light came on. Moaning, he picked himself up – and rushed towards the control station. The boat had canted and seemed to go down. What the hell had happened?
There are some things one can only achieve by a deliberate leap in the opposite direction.
(Franz Kafka)
One more dull Göktaşı mission – and the construction of Uçan Halı could begin. Wernher von Braun was looking forward to it. Well, it would mean a bunch of Göktaşı missions at first, until the space station was ready. One was going to combine six Göktaşlan – and man the station permanently with four kosmonauts. – Only then would one proceed and target the Moon.
It hadn’t been easy to push this approach through. The Ottoman leadership, the Grand Vizier in particular, wanted spectacular stunts. But experience showed that a space station was essential for safeguarding communication between Earth and any mission beyond orbit. As it was, Ferik Amiral Çelik Demirci Bey and Doctor Hüseyin Yünbaş were nothing but the Grand Vizier’s mouthpieces, peeving him endlessly.
Yet, he had succeeded; the hard facts were supporting him. But it didn’t bode well for the future. These Turcs didn’t like to be made look silly by a foreigner. – They had been glad to hire him – and let him manage their space effort. However, objection – blunt opposition to the wishes of the Sublime Porte – was an anathema for them. Even more so, when it came from an alien infidel.
They wouldn’t fire him anytime soon; there was nobody else around who could give them the Moon. But once this had been accomplished, they might decide to get rid of him. – It was a risk he had to accept. Anyway, guiding the Ottoman Empire to the Moon would provide him a reputation that should easily enable him to find another instrumental position somewhere else.
Doctor Idris Sarımsak and his team were diligently working on the design that was be used for the lunar landings. It would be the standard approach also found with RRA and NASA. The capsule would be called Haberci, messenger, and the landing vehicle Kedi, cat. One could afford a four men solution similar to NASA’s Lunobegún. It indeed was a stroke of luck that Idris had been Levent Fırıncı’s first assistant. That, at least, had ensured continuity in the construction, manufacture and delivery of the GAÜ missiles and space capsules.
What was really bothering Wernher von Braun were reports – of course originating from Istihbarat – that RRA and NASA were advancing alternative methods of rocket propulsion. Nuclear pulse had been mentioned – and fusion drive. He knew the basic principles behind these terms. But… – he was a man of the chemical solution, which was working fine for operating in Earth’s orbit and landing on the Moon. Should those other propulsions truly spark off, he could retire and write his memoirs…
(Franz Kafka)
One more dull Göktaşı mission – and the construction of Uçan Halı could begin. Wernher von Braun was looking forward to it. Well, it would mean a bunch of Göktaşı missions at first, until the space station was ready. One was going to combine six Göktaşlan – and man the station permanently with four kosmonauts. – Only then would one proceed and target the Moon.
It hadn’t been easy to push this approach through. The Ottoman leadership, the Grand Vizier in particular, wanted spectacular stunts. But experience showed that a space station was essential for safeguarding communication between Earth and any mission beyond orbit. As it was, Ferik Amiral Çelik Demirci Bey and Doctor Hüseyin Yünbaş were nothing but the Grand Vizier’s mouthpieces, peeving him endlessly.
Yet, he had succeeded; the hard facts were supporting him. But it didn’t bode well for the future. These Turcs didn’t like to be made look silly by a foreigner. – They had been glad to hire him – and let him manage their space effort. However, objection – blunt opposition to the wishes of the Sublime Porte – was an anathema for them. Even more so, when it came from an alien infidel.
They wouldn’t fire him anytime soon; there was nobody else around who could give them the Moon. But once this had been accomplished, they might decide to get rid of him. – It was a risk he had to accept. Anyway, guiding the Ottoman Empire to the Moon would provide him a reputation that should easily enable him to find another instrumental position somewhere else.
Doctor Idris Sarımsak and his team were diligently working on the design that was be used for the lunar landings. It would be the standard approach also found with RRA and NASA. The capsule would be called Haberci, messenger, and the landing vehicle Kedi, cat. One could afford a four men solution similar to NASA’s Lunobegún. It indeed was a stroke of luck that Idris had been Levent Fırıncı’s first assistant. That, at least, had ensured continuity in the construction, manufacture and delivery of the GAÜ missiles and space capsules.
What was really bothering Wernher von Braun were reports – of course originating from Istihbarat – that RRA and NASA were advancing alternative methods of rocket propulsion. Nuclear pulse had been mentioned – and fusion drive. He knew the basic principles behind these terms. But… – he was a man of the chemical solution, which was working fine for operating in Earth’s orbit and landing on the Moon. Should those other propulsions truly spark off, he could retire and write his memoirs…
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Do few things but do them well, simple joys are holy.
(Francis of Assisi)
Distance between captain’s cabin and control station was five steps. Nkotenga arrived there in no time. The first officer acknowledged his presence with a nod, but didn’t interrupt what he was doing – which was directing the helmsman and the rest of the control crew. The lad seemed to be quite unfazed and calm.
Gradually, S-13 stopped going down – and also became upright again. “Righthand shaft’s broken.” the chief engineering officer’s voice dinned via intercom. “Yeah, and we have a nasty casing damage. But there’s no ingress of water. – Lefthand shaft is okay, as far as I can tell.”
“Roger,” answered the first officer, “thought like that. – Crew, attention! Boat is stable. We’ll surface now.” Because Nkotenga had made no move to assume command, the first officer – as a matter of course – kept acting in his place. Nkotenga was impressed. The lad was doing fine indeed.
S-13, as it turned out, was due for major repair, but – above all – was capable of continuing the journey to Curaçao – surfaced and at half cock. After two more hours, as if nothing had happened, Nkotenga eventually relieved the first officer on schedule – but not without appreciating the man’s plucky conduct in presence of the control station crew.
Yes, this Oberleutnant zur See Julius Nyerere was a stunner, no doubt.
(Francis of Assisi)
Distance between captain’s cabin and control station was five steps. Nkotenga arrived there in no time. The first officer acknowledged his presence with a nod, but didn’t interrupt what he was doing – which was directing the helmsman and the rest of the control crew. The lad seemed to be quite unfazed and calm.
Gradually, S-13 stopped going down – and also became upright again. “Righthand shaft’s broken.” the chief engineering officer’s voice dinned via intercom. “Yeah, and we have a nasty casing damage. But there’s no ingress of water. – Lefthand shaft is okay, as far as I can tell.”
“Roger,” answered the first officer, “thought like that. – Crew, attention! Boat is stable. We’ll surface now.” Because Nkotenga had made no move to assume command, the first officer – as a matter of course – kept acting in his place. Nkotenga was impressed. The lad was doing fine indeed.
S-13, as it turned out, was due for major repair, but – above all – was capable of continuing the journey to Curaçao – surfaced and at half cock. After two more hours, as if nothing had happened, Nkotenga eventually relieved the first officer on schedule – but not without appreciating the man’s plucky conduct in presence of the control station crew.
Yes, this Oberleutnant zur See Julius Nyerere was a stunner, no doubt.
The world is beautiful, but has a disease called man.
(Friedrich Nietzsche)
Wahey! It had been done. The parliament in Daressalam had voted in the law to establish the natural reserve Ndassekera. It was located east of Lake Victoria, from the border to Kenya down to Lake Eyassi. And it incorporated the Ngongoro Crater. It was huge! Heine Sikuku was elated. Victory all along the line!
The Massai people, though, were still allowed to herd their cattle in the reserve. This was considered innoxious by the legislators. Well, as long as the Massai were living in the traditional way, this was all right – in Heine’s opinion. But how long were they going to do that? They already had wireless sets. When would they start herding their cattle by automobile?
Fully establishing the reserve was estimated to take two years. A troop of dedicated gamekeepers was to be raised – and a special administration, called park management, had to be set up. It was the usual fiddle-faddle. One had to live with it. – But at least a vast stretch of grassland – with its particular wildlife – was going to be protected from now on.
Yet, what about the rainforest? It was as precious – even if completely different – as the savanna. The legislators had refused to consider it. There were manifold interests involved, interests in exploiting the rainforest – by destroying it. Indeed, Nature’s Hands would have to keep campaigning…
(Friedrich Nietzsche)
Wahey! It had been done. The parliament in Daressalam had voted in the law to establish the natural reserve Ndassekera. It was located east of Lake Victoria, from the border to Kenya down to Lake Eyassi. And it incorporated the Ngongoro Crater. It was huge! Heine Sikuku was elated. Victory all along the line!
The Massai people, though, were still allowed to herd their cattle in the reserve. This was considered innoxious by the legislators. Well, as long as the Massai were living in the traditional way, this was all right – in Heine’s opinion. But how long were they going to do that? They already had wireless sets. When would they start herding their cattle by automobile?
Fully establishing the reserve was estimated to take two years. A troop of dedicated gamekeepers was to be raised – and a special administration, called park management, had to be set up. It was the usual fiddle-faddle. One had to live with it. – But at least a vast stretch of grassland – with its particular wildlife – was going to be protected from now on.
Yet, what about the rainforest? It was as precious – even if completely different – as the savanna. The legislators had refused to consider it. There were manifold interests involved, interests in exploiting the rainforest – by destroying it. Indeed, Nature’s Hands would have to keep campaigning…