A Shift in Priorities - Sequel

[rast]

Believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see.
(Edgar Allan Poe)

He had – stealthily – traced a delivery. Three children, two girls and a boy, shuttled to Daressalam and Bagamoyo – and turned over to… Well, that was the difficult part. It was impossible to ascertain who had been the final customers. It smelled madly like upper crust, real upper crust, those who once had studied in Germany, the crème de la crème in administration, justice, media, medicine… He could prove nothing, of course, not without forensics, house searches and the usual apparatus.

Hermann Kizwete knew this number was far too big for him. He needed help. He had already tried to contact Anton Mbwesi, but the dude was out and about, it seemed. Without the star reporter he wouldn’t be able to unravel the case. Only Mbwesi had the stamina to get facts published which would compromise merited members of the establishment. – His own outfit couldn’t be trusted; the highest police officers belonged to the group in question. Hence, he had to keep still until Mbwesi returned from his errant.

Mbwesi might still decide this was too big for him as well. Sudden death was an imminent threat in this affair. The perpetrators, if exposed, would lose everything. – But he, Hermann, wouldn’t give up easily. This repugnant crime had to be brought to light. He was raking his brains how to accomplish that – without being killed…

 

[rast]

The merit of all things lies in their difficulty.
(Alexandre Dumas)

Germany was… a great place when it came to earning money. He couldn’t complain, really. The family at home was now living in a neat house – and dad had a small moped. – But for the rest: it was like a bad dream. In the Ukraine, in Odessa, he had been regarded a respectable mason coming from Bulgaria – and been treated accordingly. Here in Germany, people had immediately identified him as gypsy – and were treating him accordingly ever since.

They were firmly believing gypsies were scroungers and crooks. And nothing would change their mind. Punka Nikolov had tried, many times. It was pointless. You were pigeonholed – and never had a chance to get out of the box. Well, he wasn’t alone, and during work you were among your sort, most of the time. And after work, you quickly learnt to stay away from the Germans – and any other non-gypsies. Yeah, the Germans weren’t the only ones who didn’t like gypsies…

Okay, he had long paid the agency that had facilitated his changeover from Odessa to Cologne. That meant although he was sending most money home, he was retaining enough to lead a decent life – in principle. Cologne was an empty shell, populated by foreigners and Germans sent here. The utilities were functional – had never gone out of order actually. The gypsy quarter had formed in the north, beyond the great rail line, in the vicinity that once had been known as Agnesviertel.

You got visits by the police quite frequently. They were looking for stolen goods. Now, what was theft in an empty town, where the former inhabitants were dead and gone? – It was chicanery, no doubt. But at least those cops were not shooting people arbitrarily. They would beat you with their rubber truncheons – and arrest you for a day or two; that was all. However, this new force, which had raided the Albanian quarter recently, they were killing folks. Hell, when would they crack down on the Agnesviertel?

 

[rast]

In one respect at least the Martians are a happy people, they have no lawyers.
(Edgar Rice Burroughs)

Slightly vexed, Rudolf Luwele of Luwele, Kabinga & Hamzi Solicitors put down the telephone. This had been Max Sikuku himself, the nabob. But what had he really wanted? Rudolf scrutinised the notes he had written down. Heine Sikuku, the patron’s youngest offspring and leading member of the environmental movement Nature’s Hands, had been arrested at Boënde in Zentralkongo yesterday – for the attempt of poisoning a group of woodsmen. That was the clear part. The lad deserved a lesson. Okay… But he shouldn’t be flung into jail. Okay…

Anyhow! He would have to travel to Boënde. But first he should call the public prosecutor over there. The guy should reside at Mbandaka. He summoned Hertha, his secretary.
“My dear, call the Mbandaka district prosecution office and get me the responsible prosecutor for the case of Heine Sikuku, who has been arrested at Boënde yesterday. And start preparing my journey to Mbandaka and Boënde. But don’t book anything yet. Let me first talk to the man.”

It took Hertha almost half an hour to get a certain Oberstaatsanwalt N’Tingit on the line. Yes, this was a serious case, the young man and his accomplices had tried to poison the workers of a company called Torotal Limited. And the poison – pyrrolizidine alkaloids – was not at all innocuous, but could cause severe damage to an individual’s health. It didn’t engender just the shits, but serious liver injury – and even cancer. This was a crime that had to be atoned for.

The perpetrators had been put into pretrial imprisonment, and there was no prospect of releasing them on bail. Yes, of course, Rudolf was welcome to come along. Yes, the jail was at Boënde. And the judge to judicialise the case was residing at Boënde as well. – Good grief! What was that? What had happened? Nature’s Hands had become famous – or infamous, depending on one’s perception – for their gippy tummy stunts against wood clearing enterprises. Had they – by chance – got hold of the wrong stuff? Or had someone laid a snare?

Well, he was going to find out. Yes, Hertha could now start booking the trains and the hotel. – 1,600 klicks, roundabout, and an express train only to Bangi; it was quite a journey. Why must people always do silly things in the middle of nowhere?

 

[RakhaAthaya]

Ouch. That's going to hurt the movement's reputation hard.

 

[rast]

An intelligent hell would be better than a stupid paradise.
(Victor Hugo)

There was no change; the situation was calm and stable. Werner Becker yawned. Things were going slow indeed on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Neither resettlement of the Caribbean nor incorporation of New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia seemed to get anywhere. The US armed forces had secured New Foundland, the Bermudas and the islands of the Caribbean – except those few occupied by Venezuela. That was keeping them pretty much occupied – and fairly overstretched, even five years after the pest...

The civilian side was unable to move, that appeared to be the main problem. The US population had stopped increasing in number since immigration had been prohibited after the Great War. That might explain their inability to fill the voids torn by mishap, climate and plague. – Oh, there were multiple attempts to colonise the islands, mainly undertaken by various religious groups, but they all lacked punch. A broad national effort was nowhere in sight.

Well, there was no external threat worth the name. Venezuela was a nuisance, but no veritable threat to the US. Red Albion was gone, leaving behind only disparate bits and pieces – Québec and Cascadia – where once had been British Canada. Mexico had been gelded by the pest. And the South American countries were downright innocuous. – The COMECON – Germany primarily – wasn’t interested in the Americas, except for obtaining certain agricultural products and natural resources. This was uncontroversial, as US stake holders were earning in the process. Russia and China were interlocked in a power struggle, which was also involving Japan.

Hence, the US could be considered safe on all sides. That allowed them to go slow. Even the space race didn’t capture them. They had developed and deployed Ares missiles as carriers for nuclear warheads, but shooting men into outer space didn’t occur. They had said they would do it – yet had failed to tag a date to the promise. – Okay, it wasn’t bad for Germany that the US was no threat at all. However, it was dull… He yawned again.

 

[rast]

The more you say, the less people remember.
(François Fénelon)

James Jeremiah “Jerry” Wadsworth also had read the FSO dossier on Musa G’Norebbe. Yes, the man had fought against US forces, and he had – as president of Venezuela – directed a policy hostile to the US. However, did this make him a terrorist? He had been trained and led by German officers for many years – and the German military was known to hate terrorists, franctireurs and other irregulars. Hence, Wadsworth had decided to approach G’Norebbe for an honourable soldier.

Well, it seemed to have worked – to some extent. It had been quite a constructive meeting, this introductory reception. G’Norebbe was proud of his past – and evidently liked to chat about his adventures. Wadsworth had never been a soldier, but he was accustomed to handle professionals of all kinds. Learning more about G’Norebbe’s perspective was important. It could enable Wadsworth to defuse the situation. Official Washington was very much interested in maintaining good relations with the WAU, not only because big business wanted it.

Isolationism was fine and dandy, but it didn’t mean to immure the nation. Abstaining from political adventures abroad was certainly wise. And economic protectionism was an ancient US tradition. Yet, doings and dealings with foreign countries were important for keeping pace with the aliens. One had gained access to the huge Chinese market – and the WAU was considered the entry point into the African market, because of the common language – and the huge number of former US citizens living here.

Yeah, these former US citizens were a problem. Almost all of them had no positive memory of the place where they had spent childhood and youth. G’Norebbe, on the other hand, did not bear a grudge against the former enemies he had fought in the Caribbean, he had said. He obviously resented being treated snootily. That, it seemed, had been Chris Herter’s main mistake. – Middle Africans, like G’Norebbe, had to be handled with utter care, Wadsworth had already been told in the State Department. As a matter of fact they were believing to be entirely equal to white persons…

Okay, perhaps he had found access to G’Norebbe – and would be able to cultivate this delicate little plant. There was no real reason for disaffection. It all had been rag and hot air. And fulsome pride…

 

[rast]

As I grow older, I regret to say that a destable habit of thinking seems to be getting hold of me.
(Henry Rider Haggard)

As the slap-headed Ami had eventually departed, Musa G’Norebbe heaved a sigh of relief. What a frothy windbag! But at least the guy didn’t behave as if he had the monopoly on being right. And he seemed to be no fierce white suprematist, but rather a jovial Yankee of the self-made man variety. Well, his dossier called him the scion of ancient New England grandees; so, scratch out the self-made man bunkum – and perhaps the joviality as well…

Yeah, it was obvious: the Amis were trying hard to restore good relations. – Indeed, the buggers had changed beyond recognition. Back in the days they never would have sent someone like Wadsworth, but rather a knuckle-duster like Admiral Bagley. But good old Dave Bagley was dead; he had deceased last year. It was sad. – Herter, Wadsworth’s predecessor, had at least shown some spine, even though he was a perfect idiot. – What a pity; a bonny little conflict would have been cool…

Damn, he was a soldier, not a garrulous politician. In Caracas, as president, he had fortunately enough been able to direct a policy of expansion – and confrontation with the US. That had been neat. Here in the WAU, there was no enemy at the gates. Ala Ka Kuma was submissive. Portuguese Guinea was a non-entity. And tackling Middle Africa was unthinkable. – It was a dull business, ruling in Deygbo.

Okay, the Amis wanted to bottle out. Cowards! But all right, he would give word to invite them to tenders again. After all, their offers used to be quite attractive. The economy was going to be relieved; they had been dreading excessive Middle African or COMECON prices. – And one of these days, he would invite Wadsworth to a barbecue…

 

[rast]

I would never die for my beliefs because I might be wrong.
(Bertrand Russell)

Boënde on the River Tschwapa was an arcadian place; a snug small rural town surrounded by fields and plantations. However, Hertha had prepared a memo for Rudolf Luwele: Boënde had been a pivotal point in Belgian King Leopold II’s daylight robbery of the Kongo colony. A major rubber plantation had been close by. Many a hand must have been hewed off here in these days…

Rudolf had arrived at noon. The hotel was… all right for such a backwater place. Well, it could have been much worse. – The police station was a basic structure. He could already see the three inmates; they were kept in a fenced open yard. There were two Wachtmeisters on duty. Yes, Oberstaatsanwalt N’Tingit had premonished them. He was free to talk with the boys – as long as he liked. Supper was served at seventeen hundred; did he want to partake?

Heine Sikuku and his chums Dieter and Hans-Jürgen were truly repentant. They couldn’t explain how the poison had come into the food of the woodsmen. It had been the standard blend of herbs and ingredients, the same as they always used to mix in. Pyrrolizidine? Never heard of… No, there had been nobody else around. Yes, they had put together the laxative themselves… word of honour…

The pieces of evidence had all been delivered to the district prosecution office, said the Wachtmeisters. Yes, he would have to travel to Mbandaka to examine them. Fudge! He had passed through Mbandaka on arrival. – Oh, he could take a boat, that was the traditional way of travelling hereabouts. A journey on the Tschwapa was gorgeous. And the fishermen were great storytellers. It took only one day to navigate to Mbandaka…

That was monkey business, of course. The trial was going to take place here. N’Tingit would have to bring the evidence along. – No, he’d better use the time and interview the Torotal workers. That should be better than boating on the river. And one or another inhabitant might have seen or noticed something.

 

[rast]

All the people like us are we, and everyone else is they.
(Rudyard Kipling)

Yeah, the Ardayda had agreed to keep the peace. The promise had been that they would be integrated into the national armed forces. But the armed forces were long in coming, it seemed. Nothing had happened yet. Dhuxul had decided he had waited long enough. He would go north. The Emirate of Egypt, current owner of the realm, was said to form units made up from indigenes. That might offer opportunities. He was young and healthy, possessed ample combat experience – and was ready to start from rock bottom.

The Aardoonka and the Ilaah Ilmaha had never agreed to the truce. In the end, they had been attacked and butchered by the united fighters of the clans. The survivors had fled to Abyssinia or Kenya. Well, Abyssinia meant the lands of the Ogaadeen, who were just another Somali clan – and weren’t affable to the outcasts either. Living there must be joyless… Kenya was in uproar with everybody fighting anybody else, one heard. That might offer better chances for seasoned terrorists, but wasn’t what Dhuxul wanted.

No, he was loath the precarious life. Being a soldier might mean submission, sure, but it also would mean three meals a day – and clean clothes. The Egyptians were no infidels. And they were keen to establish a lasting presence in what once had been French and British Somalia, he had heard. Hence, they should be eager to recruit and promote indigenes, just to add more legitimacy to their claims. He might even be allowed to learn reading and writing…

 

[rast]

The great object of life is sensation – to feel that we exist, even though in pain.
(Lord Byron)

Good grief! The torturers knew no sympathy. He was still reconvalescent! They should be easy on him, but they weren’t. Jochen Zeislitz cursed under his panting breath. First, Otto, the gym whiz, had softened him up. Now, Jürgen, the outdoor freak, was about to wear his lungs out. And Mannie, the centrifuge bogey, was already priming his instruments…

Yeah, he was back to the rack. According to Director Kammler the test, when he had ridden the Hammer, had been an outstanding success. And he hadn’t suffered any lasting damage, had he? Acceleration had been a trifle too powerful, but that could easily be corrected. – There was no reason to go slow. Upgrading the Hammer was proceeding well. Hence, the pilot had to be ready as well.

And what the big boss said, Bruno Bredigkeit would implement with any mercy. Bruno’s minions, Otto, Jürgen, Mannie, and Fritz, the pilot instructor, were nothing but conscience-proof executors. Only Knut, the masseur, Abwehr-Achim, his bodyguard, and the old general were showing faint signs of compassion – sometimes...

Were there more Hammer pilots being trained clandestinely? Jochen thought so. It would be downright stupid not to have backups. For the moon landing programme, several crews were always trained simultaneously. For the Hammer, the same approach should apply. Keeping the guys behind the blinds would be a typical Kammler stunt: Jochen was going to be the man presented to public and politicians – as long as he was able to perform. Should he fail, however, another jockey would suddenly be let out of the box.

It was okay. He didn’t intend to quit. He had been lucky to survive the rough ride, true. But hadn’t that been due to his hard training? Therefore, Jürgen was right perhaps: he should get a move on.

 

[rast]

Except our own thoughts, there is nothing absolutely in our power.
(René Descartes)

Victory Day! Funfair like you wouldn’t believe. All of Tanga seemed to be up and about. Well, technically it was Armistice Day only, but the entire world had come to celebrate May 1st as the day of victory in the Great War. Only Battle Day, the anniversary of the Battle of Tanga, on November 4th, used to attract larger crowds still – and prominent people in shoals.

Herbert K’nilowe had decided to sponsor the big fireworks that usually ended the official part of the festivities. It was the fitting stunt to do for SIRAB. After all, one was back in business – and production was in progress. The German scientists, Otto Muggenheim and Lutz Schwesing, had arrived back. The MA Air Force had ordered a series of air-to-air and air-ground missiles and the UnSA were showing increased interest in acquiring air defence missiles for their navy.

Max Sikuku wasn’t quite happy with the UnSA case. Greasing the right people in eThekwini was going to take as much as one could expect for profit. But that wasn’t the crucial point: one had to establish SIRAB as efficient supplier of hightech missiles of all kinds. – And, of course, one was preparing another launch into outer space. With MARFAK down and paralysed, SIRAB had the opportunity to score. Middle Afrika wasn’t trailing behind. One was even leading internationally in the field of solid fuel rocketry!

It was a private venture, sure. So what? It wasn’t cast in stone that only national agencies should manage the space effort. One was a private venture – and thus had to reap in profits; that was plain as a pikestaff. And wasn’t that far better than indiscriminately robbing the tax payers for alimenting the inept MARFAK folks? – Okay, the fireworks were fuelled by ordinary gun powder, but rocket was rocket, right?

 

[rast]

Life is divine chaos. It’s messy, and it’s supposed to be that way.
(John Keats)

Victory Day was no big affair at Boënde; nevertheless it was a holiday, of course, resulting in a long weekend, because May 1st fell onto a Monday this year. The judge had gone fishing and was unavailable. The Torotal workers had gone home, which was somewhere in the wilds. And the Oberstaatsanwalt had – obviously – decided that Mbandaka was a better place to celebrate. He was scheduled to arrive on Wednesday.

At least the Torotal owner, a certain Hubert Torubaba, was ready to talk with Rudolf Luwele. He didn’t know much about the affair. The workers had caught the boys and he had called the police. The police had then discovered the poison. – He thought it silly to oppose tree logging. After all, this was a region rich in rubber plantations. Rubber trees weren’t native to Africa. One had cut down indigene trees galore to plant the rubber stuff. And today, old rubber trees were removed and new ones planted. That was normal.

This here wasn’t wilderness; it was cultivated land – thanks to the greediness of the Belgians. Yeah, the Belgians… There hadn’t been much joy hereabouts, when the Central Powers had won the war, because the frigging Belgians had changed sides in the last instance – and had suddenly belonged to the victors. One had wanted German rule and German schools – not the atrocious Belgians. Actually, it had been massive indigene pressure that had accomplished Belgian withdrawal from Middle Africa.

But the greedy bastards had, of course, kept their possessions – and had reaped in enormous profits, while the Germans had done all the work. Well, the English Pest had terminated that business model. The Middle African administration had now seized all former Belgian possessions – and was selling them to private takers. Torubaba had bought several acres recently. – Yeah, Rudolf knew about the situation. In Unterkamerun and Ostküste, not to mention Groß Togoland, there were still many German ground owners reaping in vast profits. These people were the children – or even grandchildren – of the erstwhile colonists…

Torubaba thought it was okay. The Germans had granted independence as fast as possible. That had been noble. So, let some Snowpushers earn money with Middle African sweat; it didn’t matter… But buying ex-Belgian rubber plantations was good business…

 

[rast]

Man has an instinctive tendency to speak, as we see in the babble of our young children, but no child has an instinctive tendency to bake, brew or write.
(Charles Darwin)

Yeah, it was the beginning of the final phase. The other parties, the old crocks, were gathering to pass their election platforms and to determine their frontrunners. The DVP had, of course, already done their homework – and was more than ready to fight the election battle. The Reichstag had already fixed the date: Sunday, March 18th, 1962, was going to be the great day. Hence, in ten months time, he should be chancellor. Franz Josef Strauß was in the zone.

The system parties were expecting the DVP to campaign – like they always had done – on race purity, unwelcome aliens – and all that other ethnic humbug. But Strauß was going to overrun them with a fulgurant new economic approach – and a tax reform. Wake up! Sweep away the aggregated crap! Shape the future! Make Germany great again!

He had trained his tongue. He could now – if he wanted – fulminate in copybook High German. That was important. People in the north were wary of rustic Bavarians. But he was going to perform the veritable German, the saviour of the nation. Well, he was the saviour, beyond doubt. It was high time to wrench the nation from decline and decay. A modern state had to be shaped that was capable of mastering the challenges of the future.

Yes, space had to be conquered. The moon had to be colonised. The solar system had to be scoured for natural resources. And eventually, Germans should fly to the distant stars – and establish colonies. – The star gazers should all vote for him. And all folks who wanted a prosperous advanced nation. – The old crocks had nothing to offer – except more of the same… He couldn’t lose.

 

[rast]

The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
(Joseph Conrad)

Anton Mbwesi, finally back from his excursion into the intricacies of Ugandan home policy, had listened closely to Hermann Kizwete’s tale. Yeah, Hermann had been right to be extremely careful. This was dynamite. Well, Hermann and he had – fifteen years ago – effectively ruined the putsch of the ultraconservatives. That had been life-endangering too. In fact, Hermann had remained very much in the shades; and he, Anton, had done the public part of the stunt. And today, it would be quite the same story…

Could it be done? Without being killed? Anton was in doubt. – Middle Africa had inherited heirloom German social standards. Child abuse and homosexuality were not acceptable. Anybody found guilty of these perversions was done, would be socially ostracised. Hence, the upper crust in Daressalam – and elsewhere – would do virtually anything to prevent being showcased as sickoes. And this time, it would not just trigger a premature putsch – but result in a series of long-running court proceedings.

In a way, Musa G’Norebbe and his conspirators had been noblemen. They had not taken revenge on Anton, but rather had accepted failure and disgrace. Well, some knocked out teeth would hardly count… Today, however, the perpetrators could be trusted to strike back. Once the evidence – and the denouncers – had been eliminated, one could perform the honourable citizens – as if nothing had happened.

Therefore, Hermann could not hope to remain in the shades, this time. The knaves would know very well who had alerted Anton to the case. – It would be hit and run. The story had to be immaculately researched and written. The journal ‘Geschwätzige Antilope’ was still in existence – and would publish anything Anton gave them. But for Hermann and Anton publication would mean: run as fast and as far as you can. No place in Africa would be safe. The Indian Federation or Greater Mysore might do – or Brazil or Argentina…

Was it worth that sacrifice? Hermann would lose his job, no doubt. And Anton was only famous in Africa… The scandal would shake Middle African society to the very foundations – and discredit the ruling elites. Not the politicians, though, but the layers immediately below the political class, the ministry officials, the senior civil servants, the judges, the police chiefs, and so on… For which reason should one unleash such adversity? Society was working. Democracy was intact. No putsch or rebellion was impending.

Okay, one would continue gathering information. And would decide at a future date, perhaps after the 1962 national election…

 

[rast]

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.
(William Shakespeare)

The DVP blokes, who had saved Egon’s hide some weeks ago, were a jolly lot indeed. The Völkische Jugend – Völkisch Youth – were offering a lot of attractive pastimes. Nominally, Egon was too old to be eligible for membership, but as invited guests he and Gerdi could participate at discretion. In revenge, Egon was offering training lessons in boxing and close-quarters combat, while Gerdi was teaching Krav Maga self-defence to the DVP girls.

Would he like to join the real DVP? Gerdi was quite in favour of it. Well, she disliked strange outlanders and repugnant ethnic minorities in general. But Egon was wary of the party boss, Franz Josef Strauß. A Bavarian! A leather shorts wearer! A Bazi! – Egon was a straightforward Ruhr area Prussian of honest Polish roots; he was allergic to all kinds of Bavarian clowns – although he had to admit that Strauß might stand for an innovative approach.

The local DVP grandees were jerks, wizenly old-school xenophobes. Their attitudes were boring. Egon didn’t mind Jews. And the stinky gypsies were always good for a sound thrashing, but not for imprisonment and re-education. – No, he wouldn’t apply for membership. But he wouldn’t object if Gerdi did. She was perhaps more affine to the simple beliefs of the Dortmund DVP folks. – Yeesh, he wasn’t going to embrace the party, even when Hanne had joined them lately.

Yep, the old girl was now working for Strauß. That, however, was another sound reason for Egon to stay off. – He was not aiming at a party career – or any benefits to be reaped from winning the national election. He just was looking to have some fun in his time off work. And that was coming along under the current arrangement. It was all right.

 

[rast]

Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.
(Aldous Huxley)

As spring was giving way to the summer of 1961, Fritz Loewe was preparing another expedition, this time to the Republic of Québec. The Québécois had become quite a rare species, as a depopulated France had allured most residual French-speakers to turn their back on the cooling woodlands and freezing fields of former Canada. Only a small group of stalwarts was still sitting tight. Oh, these were no poor bastards; on the contrary, they were incredibly rich. Closing sale had been declared. Contractors, mainly from the US, were exploiting the natural resources – and keeping the pockets of the landowners filled.

The southern fringe of BBGG was lying on their real estate as well, not producing revenues, but attracting scientists. Studying the glacier was important. It was providing new insights galore. One had to amend the theories regarding glacial periods. Aridity didn’t work. The glaciers required enormous amounts of precipitation – or they wouldn’t grow. So, how had the colossal ice shields of the past evolved? What had fed them? And how had it happened? Precipitation patters must have been radically different back then. What had channelled rain and snow to areas today almost arid?

At present, the northern tundra was getting less precipitation than most deserts. That was a bad recipe for glacier growth. BBGG, however, was profiting from a change in the jet stream pattern. It was growing, albeit very slowly, because the environment was too warm still. However, the glacier had been found cooling down its neighbourhood. Permafrost soil was spreading out all around it. Did this result in increased – or reduced – precipitation? That was what Loewe wanted to find out. It would be a pure KWI Met expedition, led by him. One was going to travel to the city of Québec by ship – and to the glacier with tracked vehicles.

It would be Loewe’s last excursion as tenured professor. On return, he was scheduled to receive emeritus status. Yeah, it was time to give way to younger talents at the lecturing desk. It certainly wouldn’t stop him from researching. He would be a private person, though, cut off from public funding. Hence, he would have to learn to adjust to other people’s priorities. But this was also the case in international research cooperation. Indeed, not much was going to change…

 

[rast]

Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.
(Lewis Carroll)

Being short was an advantage – when it came to being selected for training as a kosmonaut. But it was a definitive disadvantage – when it came to hard drinking. These Swedes all seemed to have hollow legs. It was beyond belief which quantities they were quaffing. Poruchik Yuri Alekseyevich Gagarin wasn’t used to imbibing so much booze. He felt dizzy – and, since some time, was trying to discreetly shove away the filled glasses. But the blonde Valkyrie opposite him wouldn’t let him. She was a minister or something like that – for education or culture…

Gagarin had been on the Lunobegún-20 mission to Crater Klaproth on the moon. Currently, he was touring the Scandinavian countries as member of a Russian diplomatic delegation. Well, in fact Sweden was the first country to be visited. Gagarin had heard the Finnish and the Norwegians were even harder tosspots than the Swedes. If that was true, he wouldn’t survive the ordeal… Leering, the Valkyrie pushed the glass he had tried to spirit away back in front of him. “Skål!”

Awful! Gagarin shuddered in disgust. The Valkyrie guffawed – and quickly downed another glass, toasting him. And the frigging merrymaking had only begun half an hour before… The Scandinavians, Gagarin had been told, were considered stout allies of the Nyemtsi – and there were many old tensions between them and Mother Russia, which one aimed to defuse. Finland was the most difficult case, because they had appropriated Karelia and the Kola Peninsula, barring Russia from access to the ice-free ports of the Murman Coast.

The Swedes had some old bones to pick with Russia – and vice versa, but there were no hot issues. And the Norwegians were believed to be open for rapprochement, because they had recently been snubbed by their allies. – One had started in Stockholm, because that promised to be the easiest – and the most sterile – event. Christiania would be next, and Helsingfors last. – Sterile! Ha, brandied! Gagarin groaned inwardly. Perhaps he could ask to be relieved… A sudden movement made him stir. He blinked. Where was the Valkyrie? – Slumped off the bench… lying on her buttocks, kicking with her legs…

 

[rast]

Remember, the greater the opportunity, the fewer are those who see it.
(James Cook)

It was a severe setback. Jimbo Owens was frantically trying to curb the damage – and to restore order. – It had begun quite encouraging. Jimbo’s experience and prudence had conjured up a solid organisation – and a viable schedule. But then the rum had been discovered. It had been a huge deposit, obviously a magazine of the renowned Santiago de Cuba stillhouse, destined to compile deliveries to be exported through the port of the capital.

That the rabble, which had been recruited for the settlement project, would get drunk whenever they could get alcohol was hardly a surprise. However, Jimbo’s guardians, the former mobsters, had also got drunk in less than no time. Order had collapsed all over. It seemed, downright no one had even attempted to stay sober. – People had died in drunken brawls, supplies had decayed, accommodations had been ruined. And worst of all: discipline had bitten the dust.

Okay, Americans in general used to be drunkards. That was the reason why prohibition had been introduced in 1920. But the ban on alcohol hadn’t worked – and had hastily been abolished in 1925, because it had been found to only aggravate the situation. Jimbo had witnessed the state of affairs during his negotiations in Austin and Houston: none of his discussion partners had ever been without a drink, not before noon, not at noon, and much less after noon. And their dames certainly hadn’t stood back. Yeah, siesta was important – for sleeping it off…

Jimbo had, of course, planned a sober resettlement of Cuba. That had perhaps been a mistake, seen with hindsight. The colonists – and the guardians – must have been panting for alcohol – after three weeks of enforced sobriety. Rationing the stuff might have been the better solution. – Yet, damage was done. He would have to start once more. The mobsters had to be replaced. That was not a major problem, thank goodness. And the settlers… Damn, he had already recruited the best of the scum available. It had to fly with these boys and girls...

Right now, many folks were still getting sloshed each day. Morale and discipline were down in the gutter – as was his authority. Indeed, the new guardians would have to enforce submission by terror. Whatever! He wouldn’t resign!

 

[rast]

What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself.
(Abraham Lincoln)

Racism was not a matter of skin colour; it was a matter of attitude. Those Middle Africans were the fiercest racists Malcolm Little had ever met. They were looking down on everybody. And they had no qualms about showing their contempt. He had come to hate them. – The Venezuelans were an innocent lot, compared to those snooty gentlemen from beyond the ocean. Even white Texans could pass as lesser cases – and that was really telling a lot… And it wasn’t restricted to the soldiers; the civilians were as bad, man by man.

Currently, Malcolm was on a ship heading for Jamaica. It was a Venezuelan vessel, a packet ship. Malcolm had been embarked as a porter. One was transporting personal demand items for the occupation force – and a team of Middle African engineers, who wanted to reconnoitre whether bauxite extraction on the island could be resumed. – Malcolm remembered faintly to have been on Jamaica before, eons ago, when he still had been young… It didn’t matter; nothing would be as it had been back then…

Unfortunately, he had been detailed as servant for the Middle Africans for the duration of the journey. For them, he obviously was something like a trained monkey. At least, they didn’t know that he was an ‘Ami’, like they used to label US citizens. They considered him a humble Srananese. And they were talking freely in his presence… Only that his German was even poorer than their Spanish. But he was able to understand enough to hate them even more…

The Venezuelans were incompetent fumblers, the Srananese savages, and the Amis utter dipshits. Modern civilisation had never arrived on this shore. – These gentlemen so sure of themselves and their worldview was so cocky that Malcolm had decided to set them up for a honey trap. One was due to arrive in Kingston tomorrow at noon. Bauxite had been mined in the northwest of the island, in Cockpit Country, not far from Montego Bay. The Middle Africans were planning to use three light tracked vehicles to go there. It wasn’t a large distance, just thirty or thirty-five miles.

Malcolm was going to sabotage the vehicles. Simple sugar would do… It should force the blokes to march on foot. The Venezuelan garrison was made up from navy folks. They possessed no all-terrain vehicles. Trekking through the hilly jungle would teach the Middle Africans to eat humble pie…

 

[Radek]

Hmm... if the Midwest basically becomes a giant mud plain, all that water has to go somewhere -say, down towards New Orleans? How fares the city these days?