He listened while she told him how their enemies had ringed them in--how the great white wastes of Russia had swallowed their men, and the British fire bombers had murdered children in the night. How the Wehrmacht fought, and fought, and smashed their enemies back time after time, until all the best soldiers were dead. And how the Americans, with their dollars, had poured out countless tons of equipment to make up for their inability to fight. How, at the last, the vulture fleets of bombers had rumbled inexhaustibly across the sky, killing, killing, killing, until all the German homes and German families had been destroyed. And how now the Americans, with their hellish bomb that had killed a hundred thousand Japanese civilians, now bestrode the world and tried to bully it, with their bombs and their dollars, into final submission. How? Professor Kempfer thought. How could such a thing have happened? Slowly, he pieced it together, mortified to find himself annoyed when Marthe interrupted with constant questions about his Berlin and especially about his equipment. And, pieced together, it still refused to seem logical. How could anyone believe that Goering, in the face of all good sense, would turn the Luftwaffe from destroying the R.A.F. bases to a ridiculous attack on English cities? How could anyone believe that German electronics scientists could persistently refuse to believe ultra-shortwave radar was practical--refuse to believe it even when the Allied hunter planes were finding surfaced submarines at night with terrible accuracy? What kind of nightmare world was this, with Germany divided and the Russians in control of Europe, in control of Asia, reaching for the Middle East that no Russian, not even the dreaming czars, had seriously expected ever to attain? "Marthe--we must get out of this place. We must. I will have to rebuild my machine." It would be incredibly difficult. Working clandestinely as he must, scraping components together--even now that the work had been done once, it would take several years. Professor Kempfer looked inside himself to find the strength he would need. And it was not there. It simply was gone, used up, burnt out, eaten out. "Marthe, you will have to help me. I must take some of your strength. I will need so many things--identity papers, some kind of work so we can eat, money to buy equipment...." His voice trailed away. It was so much, and there was so little time left for him. Yet, somehow, they must do it. A hopelessness, a feeling of inevitable defeat, came over him. It was this world. It was poisoning him. Marthe's hand touched his brow. "Hush, Jochim. Go to sleep. Don't worry. Everything is all right, now. My poor Jochim, how terrible you look! But everything will be all right. I must go back to work, now. I am hours late already. I will come back as soon as I can. Go to sleep, Jochim." He let his breath out in a long, tired sigh. He reached up and touched her hand. "Marthe...."