A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

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Nothing earthly will make me give up my work in despair.
(David Livingstone)

Ice age, uh–oh! Heine Sikuku's history book contained a drawing showing mammoths galumphing through a snowstorm. There were some concise paragraphs of text and a small sketch with limits of ice advances. All of this was dealing with Europe; no information pertaining Middle Africa was to be found. – Now, he knew his dad was struggling for the Africanisation of school books. Obviously, this book here had escaped his laudable initiative. – But Edea's public library should hold more and better intelligence, shouldn't it?

Well, it did, but only after an intensive search. And the book was in English, came from the US. German books, Heine discovered, were not good in providing comprehensible information. Erudite scholars were writing gibberish for other bookish scholars – without ever considering that an ordinary layperson might be interested in the stuff. This American book was far better, suitable for amateurs by all means, although it dealt mainly with the ice ages in North America.

But some paragraphs and pictures were discussing proceedings elsewhere. – Okay, the Sahara Desert was lush and green, back then, with crocodiles, elephants and other tropical animals roaming there. That was a nice feature. Correspondingly, today's Ala Ka Kuma was forests, meadows and lakes – a fertile region. But, as an offset, the jungles had shrunk drastically. Those in West Africa had vanished at all, only the one of the Congo Basin had lasted, but in a much reduced scope.

Okay, there had been no jungle in Kamerun, at that time, but subtropical forests and shrubbery, evidently. All of Africa had been much moister, without deserts – well, except Namib and Kalahari in the south, which had even been larger, said the book. All told, Africa had been a much better place than today, it seemed. So, why were people so panicky? Middle Africa could only profit from a new ice age. Wouldn't it be marvellous to live in such an environment?
 

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I do not measure the historical process by the yardstick of my personal fate.
(Leon Trotsky)

The Charité hospital in Berlin had a new patient. Leon Trotsky was fighting his last struggle. He had been found lifeless in his bed, with very faint heart rate and already cooled down alarmingly. Hurriedly shuttled to the Charité, he hadn't regained consciousness yet, but the physicians thought they had stabilised him at least. However, the man was seventy–three and of rather decrepit somatic condition. Chances he might recover were poor. One could say he was living on borrowed time.

Interestingly enough, not the communists of the KPD were providing the bedside vigil, but the evolutionary socialists of the SPD. Trotsky, once the foremost strategist and warlord of the Russian Bolsheviks, the man who had dared to attack US capitalism on its home turf, the restless promoter of revolution – had mutated to be the leading prophet of evolutionary progress and benign socialism.

It had been a remarkable volte–face, born from bitter experience – and the lessons learnt from overwhelming SPD success in Germany – and also in Middle Africa. Trotsky's oeuvre was proof of this transformation. His late work 'The German Way – Key to Social Balance' had become the bible of latter–day socialists, not only in Germany, but all over Europe.

Trotsky had witnessed the rise of capitalism in Russia – and had called it a necessary step. But he had – in vain – waited for Russian socialism to eventually take over. Hadn't capitalism collapsed even in the USA, and given way to a new – effectively socialist – constitution? – And he had been fascinated by the teaching play of communist rule in Britain. What a marvellous counterproof for his theses: pauperisation by collectivisation.

But his clock had run down. On May 12th, 1953, a cool and cloudy Tuesday in Berlin, Leon Trotsky died – without having regained consciousness.
 

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Faust complained about having two souls in his breast, but I harbour a whole crowd of them and they quarrel. It's like being in a republic.
(Otto von Bismarck)

Sprawled out on the table, Herbert Weller was savouring the massager's tough kneading of his lower back. Yeah, this was good, this was setting him up. He had never thought that simple performing should cause such an awkward inconvenience. Damn, he was not an old crock yet, was he? But lumbago truly could jam you.

This TV business was absorbing, even if the best multiplier he could think of. However, the system required you to perform live – and you downright had to pay heed to which camera was filming you at the moment. He had been a circus worker, not an artist. Delivering an address to a crowd was quite another matter. Those dry camera operators were no substitute for an audience. The proper feeling was missing completely.

It hadn't been easy to get the state–run television service conceding him transmission time. But his lawyers had found a clever subterfuge. The TV dudes had to allow time for campaign broadcasts of the political parties. And with four kingdoms, seven grand duchies, two arch duchies, seven princedoms, one republic and three free cities there always was an election campaign going on somewhere. The other parties had used this rather statically hitherto; the AFV was now making a live show of it.

The AFV he had taken over had been a union of goons. That former chairman, Globocnik, seemed to have been a criminal tough himself, despite his noble demise. He was said to have been a notorious DVP bully, until he had founded the AFV. Ostensibly, he had attracted lots of other DVP goons to the new party.

Well, those goons, Weller had found out soon, were easily guidable. The worst racists and blockheads had remained with the DVP; and ordinary thugs could be used for many tasks. Even Albert Leise, Globocnik's bodyguard and drinking buddy, had joined, although he had married a wealthy widow recently. – These folks were like the circus hands he knew, crude but merry – and not ideologically stamped.

He was attracting scores of other people from all social classes meanwhile. The AFV was flourishing. The great goal, however, were the 1954 national elections. He would sweep away the old farts of the established parties. That was a fact. He could sense it. It was obvious. – Their parties were dating back to the last century, to the age of steam and steel. They were outdated and obsolete.

It was his appointment to lead the German people to the stars. He had been chosen – by providence, or howsoever one called it. Weller wasn't religious, he didn't care for God – or any gods. He also didn't care for social conventions and such stuff come down from old. – There was no time left for fustiness. He had to be faster than the ice...
 

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We are all geniuses up to the age of ten.
(Aldous Huxley)

The Huxleys and the Arnolds had seen the writing on the wall already while the British Civil War was still raging. After its end, they had been ready to out–migrate. Italy, where Aldous' little family often had spent holidays in the 1920ies, had been the chosen destination. The Emilia–Romagna offered a pleasant environment and the University of Bologna, the oldest in the world, might offer some interesting appointments for the numerous scientists of the Huxley–Arnold clan. – It had been a kind of professional decline nevertheless. The language barrier had prevented folks from getting premium assignments. But fortune accumulated from old and low costs of living nevertheless had allowed a decent life.

After the end of the Trans–Atlantic War, there had been debates about moving to the USA, where full scientific recognition and fame might be possible for all. Yet, The Troubles had abruptly ended this discussion. One had rested in peaceful Italy. – Aldous Huxley, the writer, had fully appreciated this decision. His international renown had already been founded with the publication of 'Brave New World' in 1932. Under Sir Oswald Mosley's benign rule this still had been possible in Red Albion. – Living under the Italian sky, Aldous had abandoned utopian – or rather dystopian – themes and turned to other subjects.

Man and his relation to nature were interesting him now. Religion didn't play a major role in this quest; for him, it was a mere human invention, a partial aspect at best. – No, man, the highly developed animal, was his theme. Or was it that he wasn't truly sophisticated? Was he just an ape, who had acquired tools and speech, but had remained primitive at heart? Was civilisation just a hoax, a pretext? – Reading about the ice age prediction, Aldous was thrilled beyond description. Would civilisation be brushed away – and man return to his primeval roots?

It was a fascinating speculation, inspiring Aldous to a new novel. The glaciers were advancing, civilisation was crumbling. Aldous' protagonists, men of letters and cultured women, were fleeing from the ice – and turning into savage hunters and gatherers. 'Coming Home' was a grim story. It vividly described the knock–on effect of break–down, as nations toppled one after another, when hordes of refugees assailed them like all–devouring locusts. The book promised to become an outstanding success, according to Aldous' publisher in Amsterdam. It was, however, a return to dystopia, as critics were quick to notice, 'Brave New World' draped in bear skin, so to speak.
 

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For the most part people went about their business with an entirely irresponsible confidence in the stability of the universe.
(H. G. Wells)

Polly Brown had just returned from attending a strenuous military ceremony. The King's Own Nigeria Regiment had officially changed their name to Queen's Own Nigeria Regiment. They were an infantry regiment consisting of eight battalions, hence a force of eight thousand men at arms. Their commander was a Briton, Jasper Murdoch, a hero of the civil war.

Jasper had single–handedly busted three Churchillian tanks with satchel charges during the Battle of Wakefield. That had enabled the defenders to hold the line and repulse the Churchillian attackers. Apart from this heroic exploit, however, Jasper had been recorded as rather an indifferent trooper, but a stalwart SUP functionary. The latter quality, obviously, had been deemed more important than military prowess.

Polly didn't know what to make of Jasper. The chap seemed to be a simpleton, a comfort seeker and a lazy bum. But you didn't kill three tanks willy–nilly; there had to be a hard core somewhere beneath the well–padded surface. – Well, as regimental commander in the British system, Jasper was completely in the proper place indeed. His subordinates were doing all the work, he was just presiding and looking distinguished.

The indigene battalion commanders were the cream of native soldiery. They were really good, Polly had to admit. If she understood correctly, each of the battalions was affiliated with a tribal group. Hence, the COs were the potential war chiefs of the individual tribes. And rivalry between the battalions was a potent driving force for top performance. A hot combination, Polly liked it.

Of course, 8,000 foot marching riflemen were not sufficient to defend the colony against a Middle African invasion; they weren't even sufficient to deter the Askaris. But for maintaining order in the colony, they were more than sufficient. They were the proverbial big stick lurking behind the police force. One had only to pay attention to the tribal affiliation when planning their employment.

Well, the Middle Africans were held in check by the total population of the colony. Thirty–five million maladjusted incomprehensible aliens formed the optimal threat for the xenophobes across the border. Polly had understood this early on. – Nigeria was safe. The Middle Africans had even supported the struggle against GCG, just to prevent Nigerians from fleeing to their turf.

The climate hereabouts was challenging, to say the least. But otherwise, she was very content with her current assignment. It would be a pity, if Tom Wintringham came to produce new ideas where to deploy her. – The Duck Brothers had briefed her comprehensively about what had happened in Britain. It was deplorable. Yet, she was a loyal party soldier – and she was loyal to Tom Wintringham. After all, the man had saved her from wicked MI5 machinations – and he was an intimate comrade from the Spanish Civil War.

Nevertheless, she would hate to have to return to Britain. The London East End, her home, had been razed. Many places in Britain were in ruins. It was an outrage. – The Duck Boys had also told her about Montagu Slater. But she couldn't bring herself to establish contact with her old enemy from the Lake District. She understood that Slater was an ancient socialist, who had turned against SUP rule, a turncoat thus. And the opportunity had passed anyway, Wintringham had won – and Slater was in hiding, if he was still alive.

Nay, there was no other way but remaining loyal and faithful.
 

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The higher we soar, the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly.
(Friedrich Nietzsche)

The boss was ill. His personal doctor said he was going to recover again. But it might take some time, because the patient was so old already. Nevertheless, it was about time to plan the boss' final journey. One would use a Schwesterchen for it, that part was clear. But should it be remotely controlled or manually? If manual steering was chosen, a second Schwesterchen had to go up. For remote control, however, one had to invent a lot of stuff. It could be done, as the basis of space navigation close to earth were known, but was it worth the effort?

Eugen Sänger thought one should face the challenge. Remote control, once mastered, could be very useful. But the DELAG mandarins deemed it too impersonal. Humans escorting the boss into orbit seemed to be much more appropriate; two – or rather six – pilots would even be better, almost ideal. One could understand that because of the special circumstances the guard of honour had to be reduced, but dropping it completely was out of question. Actually, because there would have to be a pilot in the second Schwesterchen as well, one would have two persons for the final cortege, which was acceptable.

That decided, attention was redirected to the impending mission of launching the Weizsäcker Device. Setting up the second test site at Muansa was well in train; however the delivery of the thirty Brüderchen for the Luftwaffe had been cancelled – by mutual consent. There were more urgent tasks than issuing strategic bombers to the armed forces right now, obviously. Those ten Brüderchen already under construction were to be used for the Weizsäcker project.

It was mid–May – and Lake Constance was fully useable again – since three weeks. Eugen Sänger thought that moving all assets to Middle Africa would be the cleverer line of action. With luck, Lake Constance was free of ice from mid–April to mid–November, only seven months out of twelve – or fifty–eight percent, not quite an overwhelming availability. But once again, the DELAG mandarins were not in favour. They were living here, in this beautiful country – and felt absolutely no inclination to move to tropical Africa. Topic deferred...

Well, it seemed to be an overall dilemma, as Sänger learnt when visiting Prerow. The rocket site – located at the shores of the chilly Baltic – had also suffered considerably over the winter. Extreme cold was very unkind to cutting–edge technology, one had discovered, as most of RRA's stuff was designed for use on the ground – and only few special assets were proof against absolute zero temperatures. Yet, proposals to relocate to Middle Africa – both Mount Cameroon and the Kilimanjaro had been named as launch sites – had been brushed aside by the authorities. One had problems enough getting things going hereabouts, moving to Africa would set everything to nought. Topic deferred...

Okay, Sänger could see the issue of changing horses in midstream. But adopting a two–pronged approach was a matter of prudence. Having a test site at Muansa was nice – and a step in the right direction, but having production facilities in the Kigoma – Tabora – Muansa triangle would be far better. The Middle Africans wouldn't object, that was evident. They were keen to get access to German state–of–the–art technology. This Sänger had established when calling on Muansa. Now, sharing technological secrets certainly wasn't DELAG's business model. But the current situation truly was unique. And one thing was perfectly clear: Middle Africa wouldn't be overrun by glaciers.
 

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Man cannot control the current of events. He can only float with them and steer.
(Otto von Bismarck)

Being a junior diplomatist, Heinz Alfred Kissinger was used to being chased about all the time. The seniors would invariably delegate unpleasant or arduous activities to him. It was galling. But it also held advantages. He always was well informed about details – and he often came in contact with the indigenes – or the menials of other delegations, who were telling him things his superiors were – and would remain – ignorant of.

It wouldn't always pay off, well, in fact it hardly did. The seniors were disposed to ignore his humble remarks; they held the strong view to know it all. Sometimes, however, he could score. If, for example, he could comment competently on something found in the newspapers, his words suddenly tended to become audible. Or if there was an impasse and the seniors had no clue how to proceed. Although in the latter case, he had to be very careful indeed, for not being accused as wisenheimer or smart aleck.

On the current mission, things were pretty knotty. Heinz didn't speak English – and those Americans obviously were totally ignorant of all foreign languages. Even French, the universal language of the diplomatists, didn't work, at least not on his level. That was bonkers. He was running around without gathering extra information; it was like being mute and deaf.

Until he ran into that chap who had just come back from the RUM. Yes, Spanish was doing the trick. Heinz had learnt it as third foreign language, after French and Russian. – John, his new friend, introduced him to several other ancient RUM campaigners. At long last, Heinz was able to tap some working level information.

Well, it was interesting, what he got to hear now. The Amis were proverbially wading in foodstuffs. The Americas were producing far more than they could eat. And while the countries of South America were delivering to Europe mostly, the US had secured the lion's share of what was grown in Mesoamerica. Together with the home-grown stuff, this amounted to cornucopia, at least for Germans still on fasting cure.

But what were the Amis doing with the surplus? It wasn't on the market. – They were canning it and putting it on store. – Would Washington consider selling some of it to Germany? Definitely not, one wasn't believing in the great European ice age fairy tale, but one reckoned with a long period of poor domestic harvests. The Mid West cornfields were still down and would probably remain so for several years. Therefore, America first was today's slogan, the Europeans had Africa, hadn't they?

Hence, Heinz was the first to know that the mission was going to fail miserably. But he wouldn't blare out, least the messenger be punished for the news he was carrying. The seniors would learn by time. – He could relax now and start looking around in Washington for the more enjoyable locales.
 

Bmao

Oh? Henry Kissinger being a junior diplomat in the US? Guess it stands to reason that because there was no Nazi period, Kissinger's family would see no reason to move to the US.
 

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Obstacles are those frightful things you see when you take your eyes off your goals.
(Henry Ford)

Wilhelmshaven was the German North Sea port that had suffered least from the Big Thaw. In fact, it hadn't suffered at all. But it being a naval base – and having been built for just that purpose only, conversion to civil goods turnover hadn't been a matter of simply telling the Kaiserliche Marine to scoot. Basic facilities – like harbour cranes and warehouses – had simply been missing. The rail link was a pathetic affair without efficient marshalling yard. Linkage to the domestic waterways was, however, possible via rivers Weser and Ems, even if no dedicated channel connection existed.

Siegfried had been sent to Warp Town, as the sailors used to call Wilhelmshaven, for helping to manage transportation of imported goods. Rheinmetall had dropped armaments production completely. As renowned producer of hightech gear one rather had engaged in the developing space effort. Finding source material had been a tough challenge. But it had been done. One was now receiving steel from Spain, Brazil and the US, semi–finished goods from the US, Middle Africa and Mexico and component parts from Middle Africa and the US – and even from Red Albion.

The problem of Siegfried's team was to get the stuff out of town – and to the production facilities in good time. Inland vessels were the means of choice. The Mittelland Canal had weathered the floods and was still connecting the industrial centres of Northern Germany from the Ruhr to Groß–Berlin. Incoming freighters were unloading directly to the barges. Fortunately, the Jade Estuary offered calm waters – and one was exclusively employing cargo steamers with on–board cranes. Only few – precious – goods were ever put on rail or given to road transport.

Initially, Siegfried had been overwhelmed by the multitude that was pouring into country. How could one ever turn a profit if one was importing all this expensive stuff? But his seniors had only shrugged their shoulders and smiled. If Germany survived the climatic disaster, one would find ways to compensate and gain. If not, it didn't matter at all. – It was a ruinous venture, admittedly, but was there a choice? One had to see it through. The government and the banks were supplying the money to pay the foreign purveyors, everything else had to wait...

But, of course, one had to keep track – as Rheinmetall could only live if they were recompensed for each object spent and every person involved. Siegfried had been given a band of mathematicians and a zusie. His team had to keep the record. Establishing the routines had been tough. But now, as everything was up and running, Siegfried was coming to cherish being the boss. Well, he had learnt a lot – and was still learning. Current national mobilisation was comparable to war, said the seniors. Only that in the Great War companies like Rheinmetall had made megabucks, while today one was toiling for survival.

Nevertheless, Siegfried was deeply impressed. People were unrepiningly munching the slop served by the field kitchens – and were working overtime without complaints – and without pay. And incredible bulks of goods kept arriving day and night. And this was only Warp Town...
 

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Every trail has its end, and every calamity brings its lesson.
(James Fenimore Cooper)

It was amazing how quick nature was reclaiming the environment. True, the region had been thoroughly devastated in the war – and had only provisionally been reconstituted, when disaster had struck again. Nevertheless, speed of growth and spread were tremendous. It was as if Fēilóng had breathed extra life into the creatures of the earth. Radiation? Yes, it had been gaugeable – as long as his Geiger counter had still been working. But there was abundant wild life, evidently unimpaired by radioactive contamination. And there were humans...

The groups he had seen had been fairly small, but they were holding frequent meetings. To him, it had looked as if they were following a specific pattern. Approaching them had been dangerous, they had rifles – and ammunition aplenty – and no inhibitions to fire on a stranger. These were no noble savages, rather savage hermits. And they were prone to hunt you – unleashing their dogs, a rather nasty habit. Without his shotgun, he should have been in the soup.

However, there also were new groups pushing in. These were even sulkier than the older residents, if that was altogether possible. – All of them, however, were hunters and gatherers. In addition, they were collecting the leftovers of civilisation, ammunition and explosives in particular, it seemed. Kông Yŏngmĭn thought the newcomers were fugitive cannibals, while the older folks might have fled from the cannibals. He had found no trace of sedentary people, which was rather strange because the soil of Jilin and Heilongjiang was well suited for agriculture.

He had also found no monsters, no mutations caused by radiation. Everything appeared to be quite normal. – Well, not really normal for a Han Chinese, like Kông Yŏngmĭn, who wasn't used to all–unspoiled nature only. But for a very sparsely populated forestland, things seemed to be quite alright. – The map he had brought along was waste paper. The rivers were about right still; everything else was gone, even railways and roads were brushy already. Overgrown ruins were indicating former settlements, but one had to search for them; they weren't visible from afar.

Kông Yŏngmĭn was on his way back to civilisation. He should arrive at the shores of Bo Hai in two or three days. Běijīng ought to be wreckage still, but he hoped to find a military camp at least – and perhaps some settlers – and a working kitchen. In his sleep, he was dreaming of chicken chǎomiàn and delicious guōtiē... He had the measurement results of the Geiger counter, as long as the gadget had worked, and the corresponding grid point data. And he had his diary. That should allow his superiors to get an idea of what the area was like.
 

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If the advice of a fool for once happens to be good, it requires a wise man to carry it out.
(Gotthold Ephraim Lessing)

Holy cow! When he had been appointed director of RRA, he had known to mount a hot seat. But current events were decidedly surpassing everything he once had imagined might happen. This was madness, but a madness he digged. He had been given plenary power to push the German space effort, the implementation of the Weizsäcker Device, through. That meant he could order around all executive levels, including the armed forces, where he felt their contribution was essential.

Director Hans Kammler wasn't the type to worry about wielding power, he liked it. Of course, when his responsibility grew, his staff had to grow as well. That was basic stock–in–trade, but Kammler had a knack for recruiting talent. Hence the RRA was currently sucking in the cream of the German industry. The prize, however, was not money – Kammler's mandate didn't encompass offering fantasy salaries – but glory and, eventually, survival. Since Jupp Goebbels' news article, nobody could be in doubt what was at stake.

Fending off weird ideas was part of the job. They ranged from building launch sites on Mount Kilimanjaro to assembling rockets in the cottage industry. Kammler was obstinate enough to brush aside all this nonsense. Keeping up the space effort was already damned difficult without such deviations. One had to steer the course set, full stop. – He had also declined all ideas about international co–operation. It was sufficiently complicated to marshal the national effort; international tangle could only delay achieving results.

Keeping away politicians was another important task. These visits were only stealing time. Producing bushwa didn't help nobody. – The media were welcome, however. His PR office was taking care of them. As long as they were observing assignations, they were allowed to show inspiring pictures to the populace – and to interview selected proxies. – All this was working better than Kammler himself had anticipated. One was indeed making headway.

If everything went ahead as planned, the first series of launches was going to happen in August. One would establish a permanently manned space station. Once that was accomplished, construction of the test device would commence. This was going to be really difficult part. – The sphere would be assembled in close vicinity to the space station – and after completion been steered away from earth. – Kammler had made good experience with shouting down everybody who dared tell him something was impossible. "Go! Make it work!" was his famous mantra before kicking the bloke out.
 

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It is nature that causes all movement. Deluded by the ego, the fool harbours the perception that says "I did it".
(Bhagavad-Gita)

Huế in June was at least a tad colder than Lahore in June, although the high humidity hereabout came along fairly unpleasant. Acharya Kripalani would rather have preferred the dry heat of the Indian capital, but as foreign minister one routinely had to endure what the specific host country happened to offer. Even in July and August, when the monsoon was hitting the Punjab, atmospheric humidity in Lahore was about half of what he had to stand here. But his staff said monsoon in Huế, which was due to start in September, was a great deal worse. In fact, June was the driest month over here; one had deliberately chosen the visit date.

The Vietnamese were very polite people, this Kripalani had to accede. He had been received with utmost hospitality, had even been granted a durbar with Emperor Bảo Đại. – The Imperial City was, however, very much a copy of what once had stood in Běijīng, thought Kripalani. The Vietnamese always had been ogling their northern neighbours, often with envy, but more often still with unease. French colonial rule had only been a cursory episode, which had left behind a sizeable Christian minority – but hardly anything else. The Great Qing Empire, however, was a constant factor in Vietnamese thinking.

Vietnamese prime minister Trần Trọng Kim had taken the time to dine with him – and to share his thoughts. Dining had lasted four hours, thought sharing eight, a most impressive event. – Well, it was very complex – and not easy to understand. There were many undercurrents. Chinese presence north of Trấn Nam Quan, the border pass to Guangxi Province, was a given. It wouldn't go away, even if China was smitten by dire disaster. One had to consider that. Vietnamese pride was one thing, prudence another. Thirty million Vietnamese could never hope to match the Chinese masses, even after Fēilóng.

True, one was co–operating with Japan and Siam – and one was gaining quite an edge from the East Asian League, but one couldn't – and wouldn't – disregard Chinese interests altogether. One had been pushing limits ever since liberation from French dominion, but one had done so while talking amiably to the Chinese. – Nippon, on the other hand, was located far away, beyond the deep blue sea. The Japanese were as supercilious as the Chinese, but lacked a Trấn Nam Quan, through which their armies easily could invade Vietnam. Of course, one was going to continue acting jointly with the Japanese, but not in overt opposition to the Qing.

Oh yes, US presence was worrying. However, they evidently had not come to act as new colonial masters. Their economic superiority was a threat – and a chance at the same time. One was going to observe this matter closely. Their technology seemed to be quite good, better than what the Japanese had to offer. – Friendship with the Indian Federation – and the ROTA as a whole – was a proven quality. – In a nutshell, Vietnam wouldn't budge. They would just sit, watch – and talk amiably. They clearly were interested in American technology, and might – in consultation with Hong Kong – even invite the US in.

Now, American men–of–war anchoring in Cam Ranh Bay was no prospect that Kripalani could agree with. He would have to have a word with Phạm Văn Đồng, his Vietnamese counterpart. On the working level, one could convey certain aspects more briefly worded. US military presence in Vietnam was not welcome. Making business with the Americans was alright. But trade didn't require the presence of armed forces. – The Americans had been the last colonial power to evacuate East and South–East Asia. There was no point in inviting them back.
 

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Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.
(Dante Alighieri)

Being a born survivor, Ziu Jìngmĭn had quickly carved out a career in Guangzhou. Her first employer had not offered opportunities for advancement, at least not for women. That was a common stance herein: women were there to graft on the cheap, promotion was reserved for men. But this wouldn't stop Jìngmĭn for long, she was way too skilled and seasoned to be stopped by jaundices. Looking for better terms, she had identified a company, which had recently been bought by US investors. Now, the Yankees weren't exactly the vanguard of women's emancipation, but their traditional image of the female element in society differed crucially from the Chinese one.

Jìngmĭn, fluent in English, had been accepted gladly. But no, she would not sign in as interpreter, personnel management was her aspiration. Starting as simple clerk, she swiftly had risen to section head. The company was producing switching elements, a basic component of most modern appliances. Jìngmĭn had been surprised to see how big the establishment was. This wasn't just a simple manufacturing plant, this was an agglomeration of factory workshops, where a multitude of switches was produced.

Well, elsewise there hardly would have been the requirement for a large staff department, wouldn't it? – Guangzhou had only ephemerally suffered from the Fēilóng Riots. There only had been a period of about five days, when public order had collapsed. Thereafter, the local authorities – with the help of loyal volunteers – had restored order – and had brokered deals with the warlords in Guangdong. The soldiers wanted ammunition and other supplies, Guangzhou could deliver, if it was well protected and wasn't bothered by looting, arson and other mischief.

Actually, Guangzhou hadn't changed much from before the Fēilóng Riots. One was seeing a lot more Americans, true, but they weren't an entirely new sight. After all, Jìngmĭn had been educated in an American mission school. The town – and the province as a whole – was incredibly busy. It was the sole intact industrial centre left in the Great Qing Empire. And the Yankees were still about to adapt production to US standards. The original facilities had been German, used stuff no longer required after victory in the Great War.

Later, after the Germans had withdrawn, the US had moved in, but slowly and hesitantly, accepting the industrial standards already in place. This had changed now. With US bulk commodities arriving in country, the standards had to be customised. This was, however, quite a complicated process, because production had to go on. Above all, accommodations had to be built. Jìngmĭn, at present lodging in a community dormitory, could only approve of this policy. The prospect of moving into a flat she had to share with only two or three other women was indeed compelling.
 

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I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.
(Mark Twain)

The von Mitzlaff family conference finally could begin now. Johann Georg, the senior, cast an excoriating glance at Guste – Auguste Viktoria, his granddaughter – who had just scurried in. Guste shrugged her shoulders, poked her tongue out at Hansi – Hans Georg, her brother – and took a seat. Johann Georg harrumphed.
"Good evening again to all of you. I'm glad you could come and attend. – There is only one topic on today's agenda: bankruptcy. – Thekla, would you please..."

Thekla looked up, looked around and started talking without rising.
"Well, yes, it's too cold, the seed didn't sprout, we're done. – Neither plastic tunnels nor glasshouses will help us this time. No crop, no money, end of the story."
There was a wet glitter in her eyes and a faint sobbing in her voice, but she was keeping a straight face.

Albert Georg, Thekla's husband, drunk as ever, was staring at his glass, which was half empty.
"Th'sss a disssast'r." he croaked with slurred voice. "I muss' have sssomethin' to distil... Potatoes, w–wheat, it doesn't m–matter, even beets will do."
He shuddered in bewildered disgust, muttering inarticulately under his breath.

Guste and Hansi, both used to live comfortably from what their forbears generated, looked unbelieving.
"And now?" asked Guste, who had no income of her own. "Sell the estate?"
Thekla laughed sardonically.
"Who do you think will buy barren land?"

"It's not barren." said Hansi. "It does not support grain and potatoes at the moment. But it still can be used for pasture. Grass is growing everywhere, I've seen it. – Or it could be enforested. Spruce does grow even in much colder climates."
Hansi, the DFU deputy, was known for his clever ideas – and for his sloth. Factually, however, he was dreading to lose his seat in next year's national election. The AFV lions were about to dislodge the peaceniks.

"We will not sell." growled Johann Georg. At seventy–four, he was loath to endure change. Things had to stay like they always had been. The von Mitzlaffs were farmers, had always been.
"We still have supplies and some money." Thekla chimed in. "We can survive for several months. I've fired the Poles already – and Hannes has agreed to continue without pay." Hannes was Johannes, the one and only regular farm hand on the Mitzlaff estate.

Albert Georg belched. "No booze, no f–fun, I tell you. Th'sss gonna be dull. I'll move to Italy, they've lotta grapes..." – This was the longest coherent remark Albert Georg had uttered in years. Open–mouthed, Thekla was staring at her husband, while Johann Georg convulsed in his chair. Hansi smiled and gave his dad a nod.
"Hey, great, I'll come with you!" exclaimed Guste.
 

rast

And each, believing he was utterly and finally right, damned with equally positive conviction the rest of the world.
(Algernon Blackwood)

Being a war hero was swell, even a good many years after the end of hostilities. In fact, Gideon had made a living of it; he, the frightful guerrilla leader, the terror of the Midlanders. The Herero were in want of heroes, even if some of the braves, who had fought in the War–against–Majorra fifty years ago, were still alive. But the War of Independence had seen the Herero marginalised by the Owambo, that was bitter. Well, the Owambo had messed it up – and in the end, Gideon had been the last man standing.

After Chief Kutako had been killed by a bomb in iRhawutini shortly after the war's end, Josephat Kambazembi of the Kambazembi royal house had been elected the new paramount chief of the Herero. Under his leadership, the Herero had come to terms with the Midlanders. Tribal militias had been outlawed, of course. Hence, Gideon today was the head of the Herero Boy Scouts, who carried no arms. It was a nice job, Gideon liked it. Being boss was good, as your underlings were doing the hard work, while you were socialising with the other bosses.

Midlander rule wasn't bad for Südwest, thought Gideon. A lot of money was being spent on developing the country, much more than before the war. The Herero, who had lost horribly in the War–against–Majorra and had become poor and dependent, if still alive, were profiting from this. Most were workers still, not owners. But workers were in great demand and paid very well. And the Midlanders were about to transform the Omaheke into cattle country. Once calcium deficiency and the poisonous plant problem had been addressed, the area could allow the Herero to become cattle herders again.

It would only be just. The German settlers had taken possession of the traditional herding grounds of the Herero. If the Midlanders, the heirs of the Germans, were now giving the Omaheke to the Herero, the nation could again do what once had made them great: raise cattle. – Well, Gideon was afraid of cattle, a fact he was keeping diligently on the quiet. He would rather remain Chief Boy Scout and keep his awesome Windhuk office and the official residence.
 

rast

It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place.
(H. L. Mencken)

It was the second week he was spending in jail – and his hope of getting away without being recognised had sunk to absolute zero. One bright day, they had cracked down on the Williamses, his landlords – local police in large numbers, all white, and even one of those fabulous creatures, a Texas Ranger. In the process, he had likewise been detained. And then, on the second day, they had discovered that his Mexican passport was a fake.

He didn't know what had become of the Williamses. As far as he could tell, Eddy and Tommy, the two twentysomething sons, were enmeshed in some form of crime, but even that was only a hazy supposition. – Being an illegal black alien, however, manifestly was beating being a black Texan petty criminal. He had been taken in solitary confinement.

That, on the one hand, was good, because that single night he had spent in general lock–up had been anything but nice. But, on the other hand, it was bad, because he had no clue what was going on in the world outside. He hadn't earned enough money yet to afford calling for a lawyer. And, most probably, no lawyer would be able to help him right now.

They had photographed him and taken his fingerprints. But that, he believed, wouldn't help them much. He had been a little kid, when his mother had taken him to Grenada. As far as he remembered, his fingerprints had never been taken before – outside Jamaica, where the local MI6 certainly possessed a comprehensive file on him.

Should they find out he was a spy working for the British Communists on Jamaica, he was done. They would never believe him he had run away. – If not, however, he might still be lucky – and just get deported back to Mexico – documents gone and money gone, but at least he would be free and could try again.

The catch was, though, that his passport was no cheap and shoddy effort. It was, in fact, a masterpiece – and they shouldn't have detected something was fishy. Did the Mexicans possess a central registry for passports and the like? He never had heard of anything like that. Mexican administration was pretty much old–school, of the traditional ink–and–seal type.

But of course, a guy holding such a high–end forgery must be someone special, right? A high–ranking drug dealer, a contract killer, you name it... Pedro Álvaro was in the soup, evidently. Taking away his passport, he became a non–entity, a man who did not exist. It was a quandary.

They hadn't grilled him yet. There only had been one – fairly short and impersonal – interrogation, before they had sent him to solitary confinement. He imagined they were waiting for something. – The guys who were bringing his chow weren't talking to him, only sneering and flipping the bird at him. – How long could they keep him in prison? He didn't know. The rights every ordinary Texan citizen could claim, palpably did not apply to him. Rats!
 
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