Down to Earth (67 page)

Jane thought for several seconds before saying, “If another war would get rid of the Lizards once and for all, I’d be for it no matter what else it might do. But I don’t think that will happen, no matter how much I wish it would. And the bloody Nazis wouldn’t be any better than the Race as top dogs, would they?”

“Worse, if you ask me,” Reuven said. “Of course, they’d throw me in an oven first and ask questions later.”

Jane got up and started for the exit. “Hard to believe they really did that to people-that it’s not just Lizard propaganda, I mean.”

“I wish it were.” Reuven said. “But if you don’t believe me, talk to my father. He saw a couple of their murder factories with his own eyes.” This was, he knew, not the ideal sort of conversation when out for a good time with a very pretty girl. But
The Battle of Chicago
and the present world situation had put such thoughts in both their minds. He went on, “If the Lizards hadn’t come, there probably wouldn’t be any Jews left in Poland.”
I wouldn’t be alive,
was what that meant, though he shied away from thinking of it in those terms. “If the Germans had won the war, there probably wouldn’t be any Jews left anywhere.”

They walked out into the night, past people coming in for the next show. Slowly, Jane said, “When I was a little girl, we used to think Jews were traitors because they got on so well with the Lizards. I never really understood why you did till I came here to Palestine to study at the medical college.”

Reuven shrugged. “If the only choices you’ve got are the
Reich
and the Race, you’re caught between—between . . .” He snapped his fingers in annoyance. “What are you caught between in English? I can’t remember.”

“The devil and the deep blue sea?” Jane suggested.

“That’s it. Thanks,” Reuven said. “What would you like to do now? Shall I walk you back to the dormitory?”

“No,” Jane said, and used one of the Race’s emphatic coughs. “Between the dorm and the college, I feel like I’m in gaol half the time. This is your city; you get to go out and about in it. I don’t, not nearly enough.”

“All right, then,” Reuven said. “Let’s go to Makarios’ coffeehouse. It’s only a couple of blocks away.” Jane nodded eagerly. Smiling, Reuven slid his arm around her waist. She snuggled against him. His smile got broader.

Run by a Greek from Cyprus, Makarios’ was as close to neutral ground as Jerusalem had. Jews and Muslims and Christians all drank coffee—and sometimes stronger things—there, and ate stuffed grape leaves, and chatted and argued and dickered far into the night. Lizards showed up there, too, every now and again. Rumor was that Makarios sold ginger out the back door of the coffeehouse; Reuven didn’t know if that was true, but it wouldn’t have surprised him.

He and Jane found a quiet little table off in a corner. The coffee was Turkish style, thick and sweet and strong, served in small cups. Jane said, “Well, I won’t have to worry about sleeping any more tonight.” She opened her eyes very wide to show what she meant.

Reuven laughed. He drained his own demitasse and waved to the waiter for a refill.
“Evkharistô,”
he said when it arrived. He’d learned a few words of Greek from children he’d played with in London during the fighting.
Thank you
was one of the handful of clean phrases he remembered.

He and Jane didn’t leave Makarios’ till after midnight. The streets of Jerusalem were quiet, almost deserted; it wasn’t a town that hummed around the clock. Reuven put his arm around Jane again. When she moved toward him instead of pulling back, he kissed her. Her arms went around him, too. She was as tall as he was and very nearly as strong—she all but squeezed the breath out of him.

His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her against him. She had to know what was going through his mind—and through his endocrine system. And she did. When at last the kiss broke, she murmured, “I wish there were somewhere we could go.”

If they went back to the medical students’ dormitory, they’d hatch gossip, maybe even scandal. Reuven didn’t know which hotels turned a blind eye to couples who wanted to check in without baggage. He imagined making love to Jane in the parlor of his family’s house and having the twins interrupt at the worst possible moment.

And then, instead of despair, inspiration struck. “There is!” he exclaimed, and kissed her again, as much from delight at his own cleverness as from desire—although desire was there, too: oh, indeed it was.

“Where?” Jane asked.

“You’ll see,” Reuven answered. “Come along with me.”

He feared she’d said what she said because she thought they really didn’t have anywhere to go, and that she would balk when she found they did. But she held his hand till he got out his keys and used one he’d certainly never thought he would need at this time of night. She gurgled laughter then. In a small, arch voice, she said, “I’m not your patient, Dr. Russie.”

“And a good thing, too, Dr. Archibald,” he answered, closing the outer door to the office behind them and locking it again. “If you were, this would be unethical.”

It wasn’t a perfect place; neither high, hard, narrow examining couches nor chairs made an adequate substitute for a bed. But it was quiet and private, and they managed well enough.
Better than well enough,
Reuven thought dizzily as Jane crouched in front of him as he sat in one of the chairs, then rose from her knees, sat down on his lap, and impaled herself upon him.

It was as good as he’d thought it would be. Considering all his imaginings about Jane, that made it very fine indeed. He did his best to please her, too, letting his mouth glide from hers to the tips of her breasts and stroking between her legs as she rode him. She threw back her head and let out a couple of sharp, explosive gasps of pleasure. A moment later, he groaned as he too spent himself.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the end of the nose. With one arm round her back and his other hand resting on her smooth, bare thigh, he thought of something he realized should have crossed his mind sooner. “I should have worn a rubber,” he blurted. He had stayed hard inside her; that was alarming enough to make him lose his ardor and slide out.

“Not too much to worry about,” Jane said. “My period’s due in a couple of days. I’d have fretted a good deal more a week or ten days ago.”

“All right.” Reuven ran a hand along the curves of her flank and hip. He didn’t want to let go of her—but at the same time he began to wonder what would, or what ought to, happen next. “Not just friends anymore,” he said.

“No.” Jane chuckled, then kissed him again. “Your family won’t approve. Oh, your sisters might, but your mother and father won’t. What are you going to do about that?”

It was a good question, and one Reuven heard with a certain amount of relief. She might have said,
Now are you going to ask me to marry you?
He was a long way from sure he wanted to marry Jane; that was a notion very different from wanting to lay her. And, even though she’d made love with him, he wasn’t at all sure she wanted to marry him, either.

“Right now, I just don’t know,” he answered slowly. “We have to figure out what
we
want to do after this before we worry about my family, I think.”

He hoped that wouldn’t anger her. It didn’t; she nodded and got off him. “Fair enough,” she answered. “I didn’t know if you wanted to play it by ear, but that suits me well enough for now. And,” she added with brisk practicality, “we’d better make sure we don’t leave any spots on the chair or the carpet, or else your father will know a lot sooner than we want him to.”

Money of my own,
Monique Dutourd thought. It was less money than it would have been had she been able to take the grand prize the Lizards tried to press on her. That still rankled. They should have been willing to give her the full cash value of the house she couldn’t accept. Who would have thought there were cheapskates among the Race?

She had a fine mental picture of herself accepting the house and moving in. She might have stayed there by herself for five minutes before
Standartenführer
Dieter Kuhn started pounding on the door and demanding that she take him back to the bedroom. On the other hand, she might not have, too.

But twenty thousand Reichsmarks was a tidy little sum. And, best of all, Pierre didn’t know she had the money—or she didn’t think he did, anyhow. As far as she could tell, her brother didn’t search her room.
I can do what I want with it,
she thought.
What
I
want, not what anybody else wants. If I can get a passport under a name that’s not my own, I can even get out of the
Reich
altogether.

From the bellicose rantings in the newspapers, that struck her as a better idea every day. The Germans seemed as intent on attacking Poland as they had when she was a girl. She thought they were insane, but she’d seen a lot of German insanity over the past generation. More wouldn’t surprise her.

The only trouble was, if the Germans got into a war with the Lizards, the Lizards wouldn’t care that Marseille was properly a part of France. To them, it would be just another city in the Greater German
Reich
—in other words, a target.

That cheerful thought made her more blunt with her brother than she might have been otherwise. Over breakfast one morning, she came right out and said, “I want an identity card with a false name on it.”

Pierre Dutourd looked up from his croissant and
café au lait.
“And why do you want this?” he inquired, his tone one of mild curiosity.

“Because it’s safer if I have one,” Monique answered. She knew he’d be suspicious, not just curious, no matter how he sounded. He hadn’t stayed in business all these years by virtue of a trusting disposition. She went on, “It’s safer for me, and it’s safer for you, too. In case I ever get picked up, the
Boches
won’t have such an easy time learning who I am, and they won’t squeeze me so hard.”

Lucie took a drag on her cigarette, then stubbed it out. “Why do you think we can get you anything like that?” she asked.

Especially coming in the sexy-little-girl voice of Pierre’s girlfriend, the question infuriated Monique. “Why? Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why,” she snapped. “How many false cards do the two of you have?”

“It could be that I have one or two,” Pierre said mildly. “It could even be that Lucie has one or two. I do not say that it is, mind you, but it could be.”

Acid still in her voice, Monique asked, “Well, could it be that I might have one? You would think I were asking for a diamond necklace.”

“It would be less risky for me to get you a diamond necklace,” her brother replied. “Let me think, and let me see what I can do.” No matter how much she squawked, he would say no more than that.

She didn’t know she’d won her point till she got summoned to a dingy photographic studio a couple of days later. Flashbulbs made her see glowing purple spots. “Those should do the job,” the photographer told her. He didn’t say what kind of job they were supposed to do, but she figured that out for herself.

A few days later, Pierre handed her a card that told the world, or at least the German and French officials therein, that she was Madeleine Didier. The photograph was one the fellow at the little hole-in-the-wall studio had taken. As for the rest of the document . . . She compared it to her old ID card, which she knew was genuine. “I can’t see any difference.”

Pierre looked smug. “There isn’t any difference, not unless you chance to have a high-powered microscope. My friend the printer does these with great success.”

“He’d better,” Monique exclaimed. “No quicker way to commit suicide than an identification card that doesn’t pass muster.”

“I had not finished.” Her brother looked annoyed at the interruption; he liked to hear himself talk. “He has a Lizard machine that makes an image of whatever document he requires and stores it so he can alter it as he pleases on one of their computing devices. This, he assures me, is far easier and more convenient than working from photographs ever was.”

“So the Lizards have brought us a golden age of forgery?” Monique said, amused. “And how long will it be before he finds it easier to print money in his shop than to earn it by honest work there?”

“For all I know, François may be doing just that,” Pierre Dutourd replied. “You will understand, I do not ask him a great many questions about such things, just as he does not ask me a great many questions about my occupation.”

“Yes, I can see that this might be so.” Monique studied the new card. It really did seem perfect: not just the printing but also the rubber stamps and official signatures were exactly as they should have been. “Himmler himself would not suspect anything was wrong with it.”

“Of course not.” Pierre rolled his eyes. “He’s dead, and good riddance, too.” He paused, then after a moment shook his head. “No, it could be that I am wrong. We may be sorry he is gone, for these fools all trying to steal his seat may set the
Reich
on fire to show how manly they are.” He made a sour face. “Some of my best customers are very worried about that.”

“Some of the Lizards, you mean?” Monique asked.

“But of course,” Pierre Dutourd replied. “And they do not care—they hardly even know, except as far as the language goes—we here are French, not Germans. As far as they are concerned, one part of the
Reich
is the same as another. To them, it is all
ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer
.” He looked disgusted now.
“Merde alors!”

Monique almost laughed out loud. From everything she’d seen, her brother was far more mercenary than patriotic. She’d never heard him say much about the
Reich
till living under Nazi rule seemed likely to land him in trouble—he certainly hadn’t cared a great deal when she got slapped around at the
Palais de Justice.
But hearing that he and the Race worried about war ahead did make her sit up and take notice. “Can we do anything?”

“Run for the hills,” he suggested. “It could be I would not bring you back to the city, as I did before. It could be that I would also run. The best defense against an explosive-metal bomb is not to be there when it goes off. This is, I believe, an American saying. It is also, I believe, a true saying.”