Otto was in a lousy mood. That wasn't unusual. His nerves were getting badly frayed lately, specially after having to quickly dispose of some badly contaminated primates. It was clear from the bits of information that were trickling in from Ursula that Fermi's group was nearing some kind of major breakthrough on the top secret Manhattan Project, and something drastic had to be done about it very soon. It so happened that Ursula, in the persona of a cosmetics salesgirl named Betty Melnicki, had succeeded in seducing no less than five American servicemen and/or officials. One was involved with radar development, another in the production of Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, another with naval intelligence, and yet another with the allocation of K-rations, of all things, to the troops overseas. No moss grew under Ursula, thought Otto cynically. It never had time to.

But the most important thing was her fifth patsy. He was an MP connected in a peripheral way with security at Stagg Field. It was from hints "Betty" had gleaned from this fellow in his weaker moments that Otto knew for sure that the project was nearing a crucial juncture. The future of the world was at stake. Otto could feel it in his bones, and he intended not to be found wanting when the time for decisive action came...as it must by very early December. And it was now mid-November.

The other matter that really troubled Otto was Brehmer. His dark and rebellious mood had altered totally. He was now cheerful and upbeat and seemed to have at least temporarily forgotten about his usual obsession...returning at the first opportunity to his bloody fighter squadron, where he would probably get killed within a few weeks or months. The news from Russia was increasingly bleak, and the Luftwaffe was losing men and machines at an unprecedented rate as Goering tried to do the impossible and supply the entire trapped Sixth Army by air! The fat fool had guaranteed it to Hitler. Now he was trapped in a web of his own making, losing his precious airplanes by the hundreds and presiding over what was beginning to look like a catastrophe.

But back to Brehmer. What in the world was on his mind? What did he have to be so cheerful about anyway? He had gone out to see an American movie on Sunday...a rare treat...a musical of some kind.   Otto didn't mind, because he figured Brehmer needed a break and would perform his duties more efficiently afterward. He wasn't the kind to get drunk to let off steam...like Bruno...nor did he lose himself in novels, like Martin. Martin was presently reading "The Grapes of Wrath" and enjoying it immensely. The man was becoming a real Americanophile. Matter of fact, Brehmer was too, it seemed. He and Martin were having long conversations now about the lot of migrant workers and the oppressed farmers and such...they were starting to sound like a pair of bloody communists! On the other hand, the Fuhrer had championed the rights of the "little people" on his way up too, thought Otto, but that was different. These American radicals had little or no respect for authority. They were vulgar and anarchistic, and their language was atrocious.

Otto had quizzed Brehmer thoroughly, and gotten nothing out of him whatsoever other than that he liked to take "long walks". The man was unquestionably a fitness freak, but one didn't get this cheerful by taking long walks. No indeed. Brehmer was hiding something.

And then there was the other incredible thing. Brehmer had quit smoking. Just like that. It had happened the day after his movie outing. Everyone was lighting up, and Brehmer didn't join them. He just sat there, going through his airplane magazines and humming a little tune to himself. Eventually Martin had offered him a Camel..."Say, Brehmer, try one of these and see what you think..."

"No thanks," Brehmer had said. "I've decided not to smoke anymore."

"What???" said Martin, and they all looked at the boy with disbelief. "Why would you do that?"

"Well..." said Brehmer, appearing to think it over carefully, "I just don't like it that much anymore. Besides, it is liable to weaken the lungs over time, and a pilot needs to stay at the top of his form. You need good lungs when you're pulling a few 'G's or you'll black out."

"What the hell?" exclaimed Bruno. "And when do you expect to be pulling 'G's? And what about your big hero, Adolf Galland? He smokes like a chimney. He even smokes his expensive cigars in the cockpit of his 109 for Christ's sake! And you say he's the best pilot on the Western Front."

"So he is," replied Brehmer evenly. "Galland is Galland. The one and only. He can smoke till hell freezes over if he wants to and it's no concern of mine. I am not Adolf Galland, I am Jurgen Brehmer and I have decided not to smoke. Period. Just wait and see," he went on, grinning, "You, Bruno, are going to spend every last dollar or deutschmark you ever get on whores, cigarettes, and cheap liquor and you will finally end up with nothing. I on the other hand will save my money, and when this war ends I'll buy a nice little house and start up a flying school in Schaffhausen."

Martin laughed. He was enjoying the new Brehmer's sense of humor. The fellow was a true oddball. Martin liked oddballs, they kept life interesting.

"Ach!" snorted bruno in disgust. "You're a bloody health nut, that's all. You lost your wits in 1940 due to breathing too little oxygen at 15,000 meters, and there's nothing to be done about it. To hell with you then. Don't smoke. See if I care."

Otto, peering sharply over his spectacles, had observed all of it, but had said nothing. It was very peculiar, and he meant to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible. He would have Ursula find out what was going on with Brehmer. Ursula was good at finding out things. She would unlock Brehmer's little secret in jig time. And then Otto would know what to do about it.

- LH