"Neuebersdorf," said the man curtly. He glanced at his watch, and in
lieu of further explanation, leaned forward and twirled a knob beneath
the port beside them; the scene mirrored in it shifted and swung to
straight ahead, and they could see the coast line that had appeared in
the west and was sweeping rapidly nearer. There was a great island and
a sound, and at the latter's narrowest point was concentrated a smudge
of city, almost as vast as the Hamburg of this time, but dark and
jumbled beneath the afternoon sun, lacking the German seaport's ordered
spaciousness.
"Hey!" exclaimed Dugan. "That's New York!"
The Gestapoman looked at him in silent contempt.
"It is--or was," amended Manning sorrowfully. As the rocket plunged
closer, they see that much of the city was in ruin. The downtown
district, in particular, showed an unrelieved prospect of devastation,
empty windows in walls standing or fallen, and fields of shattered
blocks and debris, testifying to a tremendous destruction and an even
greater neglect. Something had toppled the towers that had stood there,
and no one had come to clear away their wreck.
* * * * *
Manning turned from the window. Later on he would be curious to learn
more of what German rule had meant to America--for the moment a sick
feeling in his stomach told him he had seen enough.
On Long Island, however, where the ship landed, the desolation of
New York was not in evidence; where Brooklyn had been was a German
settlement, and there were fair dwellings, broad green lawns and trees,
and smooth-paved streets along which shining traffic moved with the
whisper of electric motors.
They saw this last outpost of the master race briefly as they were
whisked through in a chauffeured car that had met the rocket; their
destination lay across the river, where eroded heaps caricatured the
skyline of Manhattan. Guards with machine guns passed them onto a
narrow span that had replaced the vanished Triborough Bridge; and
inside five minutes the car halted on the American shore. It stood with
motor running, and one of the Gestapomen ordered, "Get out."
Manning and Dugan got out, feeling numb in mind and body, and looked
at the waterfront. From the air nothing had been visible except the
colossal ruin of the world's once greatest city; but from close by
could be seen that which was far worse--the dwellings of its present
inhabitants, sprung up among its rubble like the grass through the
cracks of its pavements. The houses were less than peasant huts, built
of stone and concrete fragments and rotting lumber, sometimes against
the still-standing wall of a shattered building.
Some distance away a small crowd had collected and stood dumbly
watching the activity about the gleaming vehicle that had come over the
guarded bridge. Others peered from the doorways of the nearer huts. All
were ragged and soiled and in their faces was the dull resignation of a
beaten inferiority.
Those were the American natives of Neuebersdorf, which had been New
York, U.S.A.--_magni nominis umbra_.... Manning wondered, with a surge
of horror and pity, what made them grub here to construct their dens on
the edge of the desolate city, whence they could look across the water
and see the abodes of German pride and power and luxury--was it merely
envy, or the need to nourish an undying hatred? The blankness of the
watching faces gave no answer.
The car door slammed. The machine swung about and purred swiftly away
up the bridge approach.
Dugan stared after it and said softly, "What the hell!" And when
Manning failed to answer: "Well, Ray, what now?"
The other passed a hand across his forehead. "I don't know. But maybe
we'd better start looking for invisible men."
"Fine," said Dugan. "When I see one, I'll yell."
Manning glanced toward the ragged crowd that had watched their arrival;
it was already beginning silently to disperse, losing interest. Most
of the two soldiers' clothing had been given back to them, but minus
such items as leggings and steel helmets their 1945 combat dress looked
sufficiently unmilitary and nondescript.
"No use just standing here," said Manning. They started to walk,
turning at random into a narrow street that crooked among the ruins.
Then Manning began to talk in a lowered voice. "If I'm not badly
off, we're going to be followed and watched. Obviously the Germans
have taken us for somebody else, and they didn't ship us across like
ambassadors out of the kindness of their hearts. They think we belong
to an American underground, and what we do now--they figure--is lead
them to it. I wouldn't be surprised if--Uh huh." He pulled a hand out
of the pocket of his field jacket with a small bundle of paper--money.
It was marked, stamped _Ausland_. "They even slipped us a stake to
make sure we didn't have any trouble in getting to underground
headquarters--with the goon squad on our heels."
"Well, at least we can eat. And I guess we can wander around, looking
as ignorant as we are, and lead them a wild goose chase.... That sounds
like a hell of a life," Dugan appendixed glumly to his own description.
"You and me both. Sooner or later we've _got_ to get in touch with
whoever's still carrying on the war. Because the war's still going on,
in spite of--this." He didn't gesture, and Dugan knew he meant more
than the broken buildings around them--the broken look they had both
seen in the eyes of the people.
"Sure we've got to," said Dugan fiercely. "But how?"
* * * * *
Manning shrugged. Their footsteps echoed, died away, echoed again in
the deserted street, which here, in what must be the heart of the
destruction, was hardly more than a tunnel between leaning walls where
tons of masonry still hung in the twisted steel frames. From behind
them the trick echoes brought briefly the sound of other footsteps.
They were being followed, all right.
"If the Gestapo just knew it," muttered Dugan, "they'd come nearer what
they're looking for if that guy was leading us."
Manning nodded somberly; then he drew sharp breath and looked at his
companion with kindling eyes. "Maybe that's the answer to our problem,
Eddie."
"What answer?"
"Just an idea--maybe there's nothing in it. But if I'm right, we'll
meet the underground--and soon!"
"Okay," said Dugan. "Anything you say. But what do we do?"
"I think we can concentrate on digging up something to eat," said
Manning judiciously. "The sun's still up here, but it's been all of
eight hours since we had dinner."
They emerged at last, tired and hungry, from the labyrinth of total
devastation into a more populous district--a squalid village sprung up
amid the ruin of New York. Along the edges of its dusty main street,
where no lights were lit against the descending dusk, stood or squatted
the people, talking listlessly in low voices or merely staring at the
passers-by. Before one of the larger groups Manning halted.
"There's a joint down the street says 'Eat'," Dugan nudged him.
"Wait." Manning faced the bunch of idlers and raised his voice. "Were
any of you folks ever in Germany? It's a wonderful place. We just
got back from there. They have beautiful cities with paved streets,
millions of automobiles and helicopters and airplanes, with broadcast
power to run them--"
"What are you giving us?" demanded a deep voice, its owner a blur in
the twilight. "We know all that. And who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I know," insisted Manning. "I was in Germany only this morning."
A little, wrinkled man scurried out of a doorway and laid a protesting
hand on Manning's arm. "You'd better shut up," he said sharply. "That's
inflammatory talk, and it can get you in bad trouble."
"He's crazy," suggested another voice.
"I'm crazy," agreed Manning affably, and turned to go. Out of the
tail of his eye he saw the little man go back inside, and he felt
unreasonably optimistic.
"Now we can see about that chow," he told Dugan.