If history really goes in cycles …

HERBIE BRENNAN

I

“Is this actual film or a construct?”

“Actual film,” Brother Matthew told him. “We have reconstituted the base material and used various chemicals to intensify the images.”

“Astonishing,” Allegro breathed.

Rank upon rank of brownshirted SA troopers filled the screen. They were marching past a review stand where several tiny figures were taking the salute. The camera tracked in on one of them, a very upright, fat man with a stern expression.

“Is that the famous Fuhrer?” Allegro asked.

The monk shook his head. “No—that is Ernst Roehm. He was the original head of SA. Hitler had him assassinated in 1934 as part of the Blood Purge. I understand he was a homosexual.”

“He certainly doesn’t look it,” Allegro remarked.

The ranks of SA gave way to ranks of SS. They wore black shirts, black tunics, black breeches, black jackboots. Their caps were black with a centered silver death’s head. At first sight of them, Allegro sucked in his breath sharply.

“The Schutzstaffel—SS,” Brother Matthew murmured impassively. Then quickly as the scene changed, “That’s Himmler.”

The uniform remained the same, but the man inside it looked less like a soldier than a civil servant. There was a smugly vacant expression on the plump, middle-class features. His right arm was raised stiffly in a salute to the troops.

Momentarily the screen went blank, then black. Allegro had half turned toward the monk when it flared again. This time the scene was a vast auditorium draped with flags and lit by searchlights. On the platform, a lightly-built man with plastered-down black hair and a small toothbrush mustache was giving a speech. He appeared to be excited. After a second, the film cut to a close-up of his face. The eyes seemed very dark, possibly an effect of the intensifier the historians had used.

“That’s Hitler,” Brother Matthew said.

For a second it did not sink in. Then Allegro echoed in astonishment, “That’s Hitler?”

The historian nodded.

“The Fuhrer?”

“Yes,” Brother Matthew said.

A new camera angle showed the entire platform party. Allegro could make out Himmler, seated impassively staring at his hands. Beside him was a giant of a man in Luftwaffe uniform who must have been Goering. He had been handsome once, but both body and face had run to fat. There were several others, all in uniform, whom Allegro did not recognize. But despite his interest, his eye kept being drawn back to the antics of the figure in the foreground.

“Is there sound with this?” he asked suddenly.

The historian rose to the control console and pressed a switch. Instantly the room was filled with a harsh, excited voice, speaking in Old German. Allegro had a scholar’s acquaintance with the language, but though he strained, he could not make out the words: the delivery was far too fast for him.

He shook his head. “I can’t understand it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the monk said. “Listen for a moment.”

Allegro listened. The raucous voice washed over him in waves. After a moment, the figure of the Fuhrer ceased to look ridiculous and began instead to look dramatic.

It was possible to rationalize the effect, of course. The whole scene was rather nicely stage-managed in a barbarous sort of way. The searchlights and the giant swastika flags threw Hitler into a sort of central focus and Allegro was on his feet, gesturing lightly but convulsively with his hands. Brother Matthew walked away from the console where he had just killed the sound again. “Interesting effect, isn’t it?” he remarked blandly. “Imagine how you might have acted if you’d understood what he was saying …”

Allegro stared down at his hands. They were still now, except for a slight tremor. He sat down slowly. He tore his eyes away from the screen and stared at the historian in bewilderment. “He did that to me?”

“Yes.”

“What was it—some sort of neural pulse?”

“Hardly: the film is Twentieth Century.”

“Hypnosis then?”

Brother Matthew sighed. “Perhaps. To be honest, we’re not quite sure. The effect is more pronounced on some people than on others. Quite a few don’t react at all.”

“How did I compare?”

The historian shrugged. “About average.”

“My God!” Allegro breathed.

After a moment, Brother Matthew said, “We have an entire department analyzing every extant film and sound recording of his speeches. They’re not sure, but provisionally they think it might have something to do with his peculiar combination of pitch and rhythm. There are scores of emotional triggers in the speeches, of course: key words geared to the cultural responses of his listeners. He had an adviser called Goebbels who really seems to have had an amazing grasp of what made people jump, considering the primitive state of psychology in those days.”

Allegro shook his head wryly. “He certainly made me jump. I can hardly believe it.”

“Most people say that.” The little monk walked over to a cupboard and opened it using a key hanging from a ribbon round his neck. He took out a bottle and two glasses. “If it’s any consolation, the response wears off. You become immune after you’ve listened to him a few times.”

On screen, the vast crowd in the auditorium was on its feet, faces convulsed, mouths screaming, arms rocketing forward in the stiff Nazi salute.

“They don’t seem to have grown immune.”

“Oh, no,” the historian agreed. “They never grew immune—that was the trouble. But of course we don’t have the same cultural background, so we’re not subjected to the same emotional pressures. He must have been virtually irresistible in his own day, speaking to people in their own language.”

Allegro stared at the screen. “No wonder he got as far as he did.”

“As you say, no wonder.” The monk walked back to his chair. “Now this”—he waved the bottle—“is an interesting liqueur compounded—strictly against the rules, you appreciate—by several of the more depraved members of our Order. May I, ah, tempt you—?”

But Allegro was watching the screen again with a sort of horrified fascination. In a series of blends and cuts, one scene followed another in quick succession. German tanks rolled across open countryside. Guns fired and buildings blazed. Heavy aircraft droned beneath the clouds to drop stick after stick of bombs through the beams of probing searchlights-. Explosions mushroomed.

And then the camera cut back to the excited face of Hitler, eyes blazing, features mobile, body jerking in convulsive gestures.

Allegro swallowed. “You really think it’s starting again?”

The historian filled two glasses with the liqueur. “Yes,” he said very softly. “Yes, I do.”

II

It was a heavy, gloomy mansion, one of the few surviving examples of late Nineteenth Century architecture. Its masonry was sound. It had survived tempest and flood—not to mention several minor riots—to provide the shell of a modern house today. Inside it was completely renovated, of course. Much use had been made of the fashionable Japanese partitions, combined with synthetic fur and silk.

The contrast between the rambling exterior and the slick new interior gave Karl a vaguely schizoid sensation.

There were three other houses of the same type in the street and not one of the remainder had been built any later than mid-Twentieth Century. This was the old quarter of the town, carefully preserved by the Party because of its links with the fabled Golden Age.

Because of the parades, the houses were all empty. The residents had been moved out yesterday and would be permitted to return tomorrow. It was perfectly standard security procedure.

When the residents had moved from this house, Karl had stayed. It was not difficult, since there was no check at that time other than a state trooper’s cursory glance over the building.

The problem was to survive the check which took place immediately before the parades started. There were many people in the streets outside, a sign that the parades were due to start before long.

The house overlooked a square. According to the guidebooks, a gallows had once stood there. Karl doubted this: it had too many earmarks of the sort of thing the Ministry would write in. Besides, he was fairly certain hanging had been abolished long before these houses had been built.

Because the power was off, he could not use the jump chute. He climbed the stairs wearily, feeling primitive. The entire area conveyed this primitive feeling even when the power was on. That was why Victor Ling had chosen it for his latest rally. Unlike so many other districts, it did not offend his sense of history.

Climbing the stairs, Karl Ernst felt not only primitive, but very frightened. Even the long months of training could not combat this fear. His mind was running on, circling irrelevancies about Ling and the house and the decor and his own personal reactions. He was a slimly built man with long, delicate hands. He had brown hair and blue eyes and a friendly, open expression. He was very young.

The room at the top of the house was empty and looked as if it had always been empty, even before the house itself was evacuated. Perhaps it never had been lived in—except in the distant days when the house was new. He stepped over to the fireplace (the fireplace?) and looked up. From this vantage point, and only from this vantage point, it was possible to see a hairline crack in the ceiling.

Karl unslung his pack, opened it and set up an extension ladder. He scaled it until his head was a foot or so below the ceiling, then reached up and pushed with the flat of his hand. A section moved away smoothly on a counterbalance. He continued to climb, pulling himself over the lip; and drew the ladder up after him.

The section slid smoothly back into place and, simultaneously, a light came on.

The cell was not very big, but big enough. A basic cube of permaplastic had been built into the roof-space and equipped to sustain life. There was cooking equipment and food stocks and a lavatory which automatically disposed of waste and disinfected itself. There was even a shelf of books.

Apart from the lavatory, he was unlikely to use any of this. But the units were standard. Everything was utility nowadays. Even for a holy espionage department.

Karl unslung his pack again. He took out the pieces of the rifle, each one floating in its own plastic bag of oil. He slit the seals with his thumb, allowing the oil to drain away into the lavatory pan. The rifle parts gleamed slickly as he joined them together with movements that were largely automatic, the results of months of training.

When the gun was completely operational, he propped it carefully against one wall. He had taken care not to load it.

He glanced at his watch. In about an hour the state troopers would make their security check of the house. Unless he was very unlucky, they would not find him. Fifteen minutes later, the main parade would enter the square. Another ten or fifteen minutes and Victor Ling would mount the rostrum.

By that stage, Karl would be out of his hiding place and at the window of the room below. He would have his rifle.

As Ling began to speak, Karl would sight through the scope and shoot him dead. With a lot of luck, he might even manage to get away afterwards, but that was not really important, of course.

He sighed. It was a hell of a job for a priest.

III

Crossing the courtyard, Martin Allegro was not thinking of how incongruously comic the historical Fuhrer had looked, not even thinking of the gloomy future Brother Matthew had predicted. He was thinking how all the members of the Order seemed to look alike.

His guide at the moment—a Brother Samuel, if he’d heard correctly, which he probably hadn’t—might have been a blood relative to Matthew. The same plump, rosy features, the same benign blue eyes, the same short tubby build; and, of course, the same robes and tonsure.

Allegro himself looked very different. He was a tall, slim man in his early fifties, well-dressed, graying, really rather distinguished. He had good features, with clearly defined planes to the face. As the historians looked the monks they were, so Allegro, in a manner of speaking, looked what he was.

But the chief historian, the “Abbot” as he called himself, did not look what he was.

Allegro was taken aback enough to stare momentarily. The man who rose from the chair was built like a Sumo wrestler. It was a resemblance that did not end with build: the face was flat and Mongoloid, with high cheekbones and tiny glittering eyes that folded into slits of fat at each outer corner. He wore a heavy, hanging black mustache. The overall effect was threatening.

He stepped forward with one huge hand outstretched. “Mr. Allegro. How very good to meet you. I really must apologize that I was not available when you arrived. I fear …” He let it trail without completing the explanation. There was no trace of the Orient in his voice, which was natural enough considering his position and the world situation.

All the same, his appearance was disturbing.

Allegro shook hands perfunctorily, wondering if there could be any possible doubt about the man’s loyalty. But it was really little more than a reflex. All he said aloud was, “Please don’t distress yourself, Abbot—I have been watching some very entertaining film.” He hesitated momentarily, then added, “Perhaps ‘entertaining’ is not quite the right word.”

“No, indeed.” He gestured Allegro into a chair and sat down himself. He sighed heavily, as big men sometimes do. “I left instructions that our theories on the present situation should be outlined to you. Was this done clearly, Minister?”

“Very clearly. I found them most … disturbing.” Allegro suddenly noticed the abbot hissed his sibilants.

“It is pleasant to find you take them seriously,” the other said dryly.

With inbred caution, Allegro leaned forward in his chair. “Seriously, yes, Abbot. But that’s not to say I’m convinced, of course.” One was required to keep one’s options open at all times: it was the first law of politics. He leaned back to cross one leg over the other and look benignly at the abbot. He appeared more relaxed than he was. Could Victor Ling actually develop a Fuhrer’s talents? At the same time, the coincidence of the SS troops was staggering. If it was coincidence. “Do you not feel, sir, that Premier Ling may have based his whole Party-State system on the historical precedent quite consciously?”

“I wish I did,” the chief historian replied.

When he failed to enlarge, Allegro prompted, “But you don’t?”

“No. I don’t see how he could—we have the only accurate historical records. Certainly we have the only reconstituted film. He would have heard of Hitler, of course, in the sense that we all have—a semi-mythical personification of evil like Napoleon or Genghis Khan.” The abbot’s great hands clasped tightly on the arms of his chair and his bulk shifted forward. “But he could not have obtained accurately detailed information about Nazism without reference to our records.”

“And he couldn’t have seen your records?”

“Hardly.”

Allegro tapped the arm of his chair thoughtfully with one fingernail. He looked up abruptly at the abbot. “You were prepared to show a great deal to me—including film. I’m not a member of your Order. I’ve taken no vows as a historian.”

“You are a cabinet minister,” the chief historian said blandly.

“And Ling is a head of state.”

A slow, humorless smile crossed the abbot’s features. “Hardly the same thing, Mr. Allegro. One does not even think of comparing the treatment of historians by your government in this country and the treatment of historians by Ling’s Party in his own country.”

Allegro fell silent.

“Well,” said the abbot briskly, “time for tea.” He rose to pull a hanging rope and distantly a bell tolled.

IV

A one-way sonic screen was built into the capsule room. As a result, Karl Ernst could—had he felt the urge—have sung, danced or screamed hysterically and no sound would have penetrated to the room beneath. By the same token, every noise outside the capsule reached him clearly. He could, as his instructor had once put it, have heard a mouse sneeze.

Just now he was listening to something more ominous than mice.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the sober, stolid features of the state troopers. There would be at least five of them, armed with hand weapons. They would search mechanically, faces impassive, but eyes alert. They would search methodically, according to a predetermined pattern which experience showed produced the maximum of results for the minimum of effort.

If they found anyone, they would question him. If they found Karl, hidden as he was in a permaplastic cell of Jesuit design, they would kill him.

Despite the sonic screen, Karl found himself frozen into immobility, holding his breath, trying desperately to still every little sound. He was more frightened now than he had been when he entered the house originally. What price the cool, collected hero?

“Kaar deinen?” They were educated tones, probably the unit leader. “Find anything?”

“Banag swev, Hakan.” “Not yet, Officer.” Even through his terror, Karl found it strange how mechanical the voices sounded. He knew, of course, the police training was designed to turn men into robots—everybody knew that—but it was slightly eerie to find this was actually the result achieved, right down to vocal tone.

“Bene nachen dorst ven sorten!” the officer snapped. “Well, hurry it up then!”

In his hiding place, Karl sighed, suppressed the sound instantly, then remembered the sonic screen and relaxed a little. If the officer was impatient, it might mean the unit was behind schedule. The search would be more cursory for that.

Every little bit of luck helped.

They were directly below him now, possibly examining the fireplace. It was almost certain to draw their attention since it was an unusual room feature, even in houses of this age. The Order’s psychologists had chosen the roof-space above the fireplace for that reason. If there were any shortcomings in the camouflage, they might well be overlooked because attention tended to be focused on the fireplace.

There was, mysteriously, the sound of metal on stone.

“Nachen dorst ven sorten!” the officer snapped again.

And then, as Karl’s bloodstream ran to liquid ice, the dead voice of the trooper said, “There is a crack in the ceiling, Officer.”

V

“So,” said the chief historian. He rubbed his huge hands together in a curiously childlike gesture as a novice placed the tray with tea things on the table between them. He looked up at Allegro and smiled. “Some of the old customs are worth preserving.”

It was a gibe at government policies, but said with such obvious warmth that Allegro smiled back. “I wouldn’t dream of arguing with that.”

Moving like a wraith, the novice poured tea. As he withdrew, the chief historian glanced at Allegro over the rim of his steaming cup. “I think, Minister, I shall try to tell you everything now. Then you can take whatever action you feel necessary.”

“Recommend whatever action I feel necessary,” Allegro corrected him mildly. “I can only recommend, whatever my views. It is up to the Cabinet to decide about action.”

He sipped his tea.

“Quite,” the abbot said. There was silence in the room. They both knew Allegro’s recommendation was a thing of power.

The abbot began to stroke the palm of his right hand with his left thumb. He drew in a deep breath. “Our Order functions to study history, Mr. Allegro. Our records are the most comprehensive available to humanity at the present time—”

Allegro coughed lightly. “But they are not … available.” He was instantly sorry he had said it.

The abbot frowned. “I appreciate your annoyance, Minister. I am aware that not everyone agrees with our Order’s policy. And naturally to someone of integrity like yourself, there is absolutely no reason why our archives should not be open. But to everyone… ?” He raised his shoulder and spread his hands in a massively Gallic gesture. “Not all the lessons to be learned from history are theoretical. There are technical descriptions of weapons which … but you’re already very well aware of these arguments I’ve no doubt. Historians take their vows and undergo their training. It’s our way of safeguarding—”

“Let me apologize, Abbot,” Allegro cut in. “I won’t pretend to be any happier with your Order’s policies than most politicians, but I’m prepared to accept that your arguments have a certain validity.”

The chief historian nodded briefly. “Let me try to tell you something about history itself. I suppose the most important thing to realize is that history moves in cycles.” The dark slanted eyes began to smolder. “Many men have suspected this, Mr. Allegro, but we have the proof, we have the facts. All you need is to take a large enough segment—anything over five thousand years. You’ll see the patterns for yourself. The repetition isn’t exact, of course, but …”

Allegro nodded. It was orthodox enough doctrine.

“You are probably well enough aware of the Order’s teachings on this subject, Mr. Allegro,” the abbot said. He stared intently at his hands for a moment, then looked up again. “We perhaps have laid less public stress on another of our theories. We believe history is the expression of … how shall I put this? … inner pressures. Our friends the Jesuits have coined a wonderful expression to describe this—”

“Psychohistory,” Allegro said.

The abbot glanced at him in mild surprise. “Exactly. Events seen as the outward manifestation of energies playing through the collective psyche of the race. A fascinating theory, Mr. Allegro—and quite incredibly ancient, by the way: a philosopher called Jung was coming close to it with his ideas about what he called a ‘collective unconscious’ right back at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. But I must stick to the point. It is these collective psychological forces which are cyclical; not, so to speak, the patterns of events themselves—although the events follow the cyclical nature of the forces, needless to say.”

He hesitated. “Am I making myself clear, Mr. Allegro?”

“Perfectly,” Allegro said. “What we are discussing is a racial parallel to the individual. I am influenced from time to time by urges originating in my unconscious mind. You are saying the human race as a whole is subject to similar urges originating in the collective unconscious.”

“Precisely! That’s why history appears so irrational. It is irrational. Just as the unconscious mind is irrational. But that does not mean it obeys no laws. History obeys psychological laws—that’s the key to understanding it. History obeys the laws of the unconscious mind. Once you understand these laws, you understand history.” He leaned forward excitedly. “Once you understand the cycles in the collective unconscious, you can predict future manifestations of their pressures!” He subsided abruptly and said with great calm, “I’m sorry, Mr. Allegro: these researches arouse me. I sometimes forget they can be very boring to others.”

“Not at all,” Allegro said truthfully. He hesitated, then asked, “You feel we might be at the beginning of a cycle just now?”

“Yes, although putting it like that gives the wrong impression. Let me use your own excellent analogy with the human individual, Mr. Allegro. There are atavistic levels of our minds which are, frankly, better left alone. When energies arise from these levels—as sometimes happens in mental illness, for instance—a man begins to behave like a beast. We say he’s mad, but I can’t help feeling there’s a very old term that’s somehow closer to the truth: possessed.” One huge hand came up in a fluid gesture. “Oh not by demons, of course. The man is possessed by constellations of energy from deep inside his own unconscious mind.” The abbot paused, then added softly, “As an Order, we have concluded there are atavistic levels of the collective psyche as well as the individual. An upsurge of energy from these levels gave rise to the manifestation of Nazism in the Twentieth Century. I think we are witnessing the first manifestation of a similar upsurge in events of our own time.” He stared at Allegro for a moment, then rose abruptly from his chair. “Let me show you something—it may, incidentally, give you deeper insight into why we want to protect the public from the detail of history.”

He walked over to a table and depressed a switch. A tapestry on one wall rolled itself up to reveal a lighted screen. The familiar flicker told Allegro he was about to watch another reconstituted film. He half expected more parades, or possibly more war scenes.

“Toward the end of his career,” the abbot’s voice came through the darkness, “Hitler came close to being assassinated by several high-ranking army officers.”

On screen, a small, bare room swam into focus.

“This was their punishment.” Watching, Allegro felt his stomach heave.

VI

Karl lay in a pool of sweat. There were no sounds from the room below now. The state troopers had gone. But over and over his mind replayed the same cameo.

—There is a crack in the ceiling, Officer.

—So, a crack in the ceiling. —Yes, Officer.

—And what does that convey to you?

A pause.

—Nothing, Officer.

—Precisely!

Another pause.

—Why do you waste my time with talk of cracks in the ceiling? Silence.

—There are many other buildings in this street. We are behind schedule.

More silence, then the crisp sounds of their departure.

Karl listened to the pounding of his heart.

VII

“Please forgive me, Minister. I was thoughtless.”

Allegro dabbed a handkerchief to his lips. “Don’t distress yourself. My fault entirely.”

The novice reappeared, wooden-faced, to clean up the mess.

“The point I was trying to make,” the chief historian said in distressed tones, “was that what you were seeing was not the aberration of a single man—it was a symptom of forces that were playing through the whole of German society at that time. Even after Germany was defeated in war, there were still millions throughout Europe who were terrified by the image of the Nazi bully boy. The most extensive wounds were psychological and they were very, very deep.”

Allegro, his stomach somewhat settled, was thinking of the film he had seen of the mass parade of SS troops, their uniforms identical in almost every detail to those of Ling’s Stromgarde. He closed his eyes in a gesture of profound weariness. “Let me be perfectly clear, Abbot. You are suggesting, as a chief historian of your Order, that Victor Ling is some sort of reincarnation of Adolf Hitler and—”

“Certainly not!” the abbot snapped. “That’s the last impression I want to give. There is no question of anything mystical or occult in this situation. It may be that the pressures of the collective psyche actually throw up a man like Hitler or like Ling as part of their manifestation. Some of my best historians would actually maintain this. Personally I do not believe it. I believe that it requires an individual of a peculiar personality type—like Hitler or Ling—to unlock the atavistic forces of the psyche. I think there have been other periods since the Twentieth Century when the inner cycle recurred, but since there was no one comparable to Hitler on the world stage at the time, nothing very much happened. Today the cycle is again recurring. But today, entirely by chance, there is someone comparable to Hitler on the world stage: Victor Ling.”

Allegro bit his lip and waited. The chief historian said pensively, “He’s no reincarnation. He doesn’t look like Hitler and he doesn’t sound like Hitler. In many ways he does not act like Hitler. But he has the same talent Hitler had. He can unlock some very nasty energies in the minds of his followers. That’s why the movements are so similar.”

“But they’re not similar!” Allegro protested. “Victor Ling doesn’t operate in Germany. He doesn’t even operate in what used to be Germany. Ling’s state is Anderstraad, Abbot. Anderstraad, not Germany. His followers aren’t racial Germans. And Ling’s own ancestry is Asiatic, so far as we know anything about it.”

“You’re still thinking of Nazism as something German. It is not. Remember the Jesuit definition of psychohistory: events seen as the outward manifestation of energies playing through the collective psyche of the race. Nazism happened to manifest in Germany because conditions were right at the time and Hitler was present as a catalyst. Today conditions are right in Anderstraad and we have Ling as a catalyst.” He rose, with the look of distress on his features. “I’m sorry—this is necessary.” He pressed the switch again.

It was a less sickening scenario. Reconstituted film had been married to modern constructs and what appeared to be actual video smuggled out of Anderstraad. Ling’s personal emblem filled the screen: white with a red disc and black cross centered. The film cut to the flag of Nazi Germany: white with a red disc and centered on it the broken cross of the swastika. Then Hitler speaking and his audience in an uproar of excitement. Then Ling speaking: a totally different style, more polished, more civilized. It all seemed worlds apart until the camera swung onto Ling’s audience. There were the same vacant, vastly excited faces, the same mechanical group reactions.

And then the SS marching and the Stromgarde. Apart from the buildings in the background, it might have been two films of the same thing.

“We have a computer evaluation of all this,” the chief historian said abruptly. “Would you like to see it?”

Surprised, Allegro said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”

The abbot pressed another switch. The screen images faded to be replaced by the familiar output patterns of a computer.

Allegro whistled.

“It’s incomplete, of course…”

“If anything I find that even more convincing,” Allegro remarked.

The abbot shrugged and killed the patterns on the screen. “So you see,” he said, without bothering to say what.

After a long moment, Allegro said, “What do you suggest we do?”

The chief historian looked at him impassively. “The lesson of history is perfectly clear on that point, Mr. Allegro. You must persuade your government to declare war on Anderstraad.”

VIII

Karl lowered the rifle, then himself. He went to the door of the room and opened it gingerly. The corridor outside was empty.

He sighed and softly closed the door again.

He moved to one side of the window and looked out. The street was thronged and the parades, of course, had started. There were obelisks of sandstone in solemn rows along the outer edges of the pavement, each one topped by a copper bowl of flaming oil. Ling’s personal standard hung from every house along the route.

Along the center of the roadway, the troops were marching, their ranks occasionally broken by a rumbling antique tank. There were very few modern armaments on display—even the men themselves carried nothing more up-to-date than a self-aiming rifle—but this was in line with Ling’s stated policy that Anderstraad threatened no one. All the display, all the flaunting of trained men, all the military parades were mere ceremonial, a ritual recall of the romantic, distant past.

Everyone knew he had the modern weapons, of course. That had been shown rather neatly when Anderstraad swallowed Ber Gada.

The crisp tramp of marching feet and the steady cheering of the crowd masked any sound Karl might have made in opening the window. All the same, he did it very carefully, very swiftly, stepping back immediately. He remained immobile for a long time, then moved again so he could once more see out.

Fingel Langstrom was on the reviewing stand, flanked by Kirt, Aardwend, Bergen and Sonorbad. There was still no sign of Ling himself, even though it was now past the scheduled time for him to take the salute.

A sensation of unease crawled along Karl’s spine. Ling had a habit of making arbitrary changes to his schedule at the last possible moment, precisely to make assassination attempts more difficult. There was a general agreement that the habit had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Had he changed his schedule now?

Karl pushed the thought from his mind and took up his position, kneeling, at the window. He had been trained to hold the posture for hours if need be, although this would hardly be necessary. He rested the rifle on the window ledge. The dull steel barrel had been specially treated to absorb light, making it virtually invisible from below.

He tucked the stock comfortably to his shoulder and sighted lazily on Langstrom. Ling’s Deputy seemed even more ill at ease than usual. There had been a lot of talk recently that his mind was cracking. Watching the agitated face through the rifle scope, Karl could half believe it.

Something in the tone of the cheering attracted his attention. He lowered the rifle and glanced over to his right. With a brutal constriction of the heart, he saw Ling’s transport approaching. Ling himself was standing up in the back, a vaguely distracted expression on his face, acknowledging the crowd’s cheers with desultory salutes. He looked for all the world what he actually had been once: a minor official in the Ministry of Taxes. Was this really the man the Order feared so much?

Karl’s eyes strayed to the faces of the crowd. He shuddered.

Should he take him in the transport? It would be an easy enough shot, despite the vehicle’s movement. Karl hesitated. His orders had been quite explicit. He waited.

The transport stopped. Langstrom hurried from the review stand. The two men shook hands formally and Langstrom, arms waving rather wildly, led Ling up the rough steps. Ling was in uniform, of course: not the gray of Supreme Commander, but, in honor of the occasion, the dramatic black of Stromgarde General. As he stepped to the front of the platform, Karl once more raised his rifle. A strangely fatalistic sensation had descended on him. His heart had ceased to pound, his hands were steady as a rock.

IX

“War?” Allegro echoed.

The abbot nodded soberly. “Providing you can persuade your Cabinet.” For no apparent reason his shoulders slumped and a curiously desolate expression crossed the heavy features. “It may not be easy, even for you.”

Allegro glanced impatiently at his watch. “I think, Abbot, I may now mention one or two matters which I have had to avoid previously for security reasons …”

The chief historian looked at him sharply and waited.

“I assume this room … ?”

“Quite secure, Mr. Allegro.” Allegro nodded. The historian’s confidence was not misplaced—Allegro’s own men had seen to that.

Still, it never did to ignore the formalities.

He reached down beside his chair and lifted his briefcase. As he was opening it, he said, “To be perfectly frank, much of what I heard today did not come as a complete surprise. Many of the details were new, of course, but the general outline … well, let me just say I’ve had prior discussions with representatives of another Order who have come to substantially the same conclusions about Victor Ling and the Anderstraad Party-State.”

“The Society of Jesus?”

Allegro nodded. “Exactly. The Jesuits. Their study of psychohistory may be more theoretical than your own, but it is no less deep. Cardinal Benvolio says more or less the same thing about Ling as you do.”

The abbot sighed. An odd look came into his eyes. “Did they mention the possibility of preventative war?”

Allegro smiled slightly. “I hardly think war will be necessary.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and held it out to the historian. “Here is a report of the Jesuit conclusions. If I may paraphrase for your convenience, they recommend that Ling be assassinated. They agree with your personal theory that men like Ling are catalysts. They feel that without him, the entire movement in Anderstraad will collapse.” He coughed. “This is not, I may say, a theoretical recommendation. They have had one of their young priests trained and equipped as an assassin.” He glanced at his watch again. “Unless something has gone badly wrong, he should have shot Ling by now.” He looked up at the historian and smiled.

There was no answering smile. “It will not work, Mr. Allegro. Ling is immune to this sort of attack.” The desolate look returned briefly. “I only hope to God he is not immune to preventative war.”

Allegro lifted a querying eyebrow.

The abbot’s dark eyes held him steadily. “It surprises me that the Jesuits of all people should make such a mistake. The collective unconscious is not simply the sum total of all our personal subconscious minds, Mr. Allegro. It has all the hallmarks of an entity in its own right. A crowd does not behave like the sum total of its components—it develops its own personality. So does the collective unconscious. What we are dealing with is the racial unconscious of Ling’s followers—a collective psychic entity manifesting in Anderstraad. There have been attempts on Ling’s life before, just as there were attempts on the life of the historical Hitler. They all failed.” He fell silent for a moment, still staring at Allegro, then said, “This … thing that Ling can touch and stimulate won’t let him be harmed.”

Allegro smiled. “Oh come now, Abbot—isn’t that bordering on the superstitious?”

But it seemed as if the abbot had not heard him. “Frankly, Mr. Allegro, what worries me is not the psychic entity but the cycle. It is possible events are spinning so closely parallel to what happened in the days of Hitler that we shall not be able to mount a preventative war.” The desolate expression was back in full force as he stared deep into Allegro’s eyes. “We may have to live through another Nazi era. It may be utterly inevitable.”

Allegro smiled again. “I feel you may be worrying unnecessarily, Abbot. Ling is almost certainly already dead.”

X

Pain exploded in Karl’s skull. The rifle went off soundlessly, but the blow had jerked it upward so that the bullet hissed over the far rooftops. He rolled on his back as the jackboot slammed into his side.

“Pig!” hissed the state trooper. The boot slammed down again, this time connecting with the genitals. Karl whimpered and curled in a vain attempt to protect himself.

Through a red haze, he saw that there were three other troopers in the room, all armed with hand guns, all smiling.

From outside, through the open window, Ling’s voice drifted in, amplified by the public address system.

XI

It was an eleven-man Cabinet, but old Kirkgaard was missing, which would complicate the voting on an even split. Allegro finished his report in the crisp, unemotional voice he reserved for serious occasions.

He felt far less composed than he looked. The abbot had been right about assassination. Was it possible his fears were justified about an exact—or near exact—repetition of the cycle? Was it possible the Cabinet could not be persuaded into war?

Allegro looked round the faces of his colleagues. They were inscrutable.

He took a deep breath: it seemed as good a time as any to test the theories of the chief historian. “In the circumstances, Honorable Members, my recommendation is that we embark at once on a preventative war with Anderstraad.”

He waited in the silence. The faces still remained inscrutable. Finally Loris cleared his throat. “That’s a pretty extreme recommendation, Martin.”

“These are pretty extreme circumstances.”

Knowledge might tip the balance, the abbot said. No one had been prepared to war with Hitler until it was too late, but knowledge that the cycle was repeating might tip the balance against exact repetition. It was a new factor, Allegro thought. A new factor had to make some difference.

“You really think Ling cannot be assassinated?” Madame D’ning put in. She leaned across the table, head tilted slightly.

“I don’t know. I assume the basic theory sounds like superstition to you, just as it did once to me. At the same time, three of our own men and one Jesuit assassin have tried without success. Plus no less than seventeen abortive attempts at one time or another from within Anderstraad itself.” He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “Let’s just say his security precautions seem a shade too tough for us to crack.”

No answering smile. Impassive faces.

Jan Vinter was shaking his head. “But war, Martin … war!”

He had to play them cautiously. He had to use every ounce of his old political manipulative skills. “It’s a serious step,” he agreed soberly. “I don’t make the recommendation lightly. I have had months of discussions with the only available experts in this field—the Society of Jesus and the Order of Historians. The Jesuits, as you know, originally favored assassination. So did I. Now both Orders are agreed the only possible measure is war. So am I.”

He had never seen them like this, never found them so difficult to read. Remind them of the cycle, an inner voice was urging him. Make use of the one new factor!

Allegro closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them he said, “The pattern of the Twentieth Century was that no one was prepared to stop the forces manifesting until it was too late. There were at least half a dozen occasions when a comparatively small military action by the great powers of the day would have toppled Hitler and the entire Nazi Party. Substantially the same situation arose at the beginning of the Twenty-first Century with the Asiatic Nationalists. No one was prepared to take action. Consequently the time arrived when war was forced upon them. But on someone else’s terms. The results were pretty grim.”

Instinctively, he felt he might be reaching them. Still nothing showed on any of their fates, but his political antennae responded to the subtle atmosphere of the room. He pressed home his advantage. “The difference now is that we know about the cycles of history. We have the benefits of Jesuit and Historian researches behind us. Knowledge is power. We can use that power to prevent the cycle repeating.” His eyes flickered from face to face. “The cycle does not have to repeat, my friends. The new factor in the situation is our knowledge. Now all we need is courage added to that knowledge.” He paused dramatically. “The alternative to courage now is eventual war too terrible to contemplate.”

“But can we be sure that really is the alternative?” asked Madame D’ning. She smiled. “You are asking us to make a practical decision on the basis of rather academic research.”

Allegro looked around his Cabinet colleagues. They were nodding gravely in agreement with Madame D’ning.

XII

“The decision is taken, Mr. Allegro?” the abbot asked.

Allegro nodded.

“And the news is bad?”

Allegro sighed. “I could not convince them, Abbot. There was no way I could convince them. At one time I thought I was getting through, but then …”

“I fear you were attempting to move the entire weight of history,” the abbot said softly. “It has often proved too much for one man.”

Allegro leaned forward, eyes wide. “But what happens now?” he asked, a little desperately. “What happens now, Abbot?”

The abbot shrugged his massive shoulders. “The cycle turns. The jackboots march again.”

“Oh God!” Allegro breathed.

The abbot stood up. “It is perhaps a little late for prayer, Mr. Allegro. We must prepare to meet another Armageddon.”

Table of Contents

Start