Read Online The Black Gate by Michael R. Hicks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael R. Hicks
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place was set with fine china and silver.
Von Falkenstein occupied the seat at one end of the table, and was involved in a conversation with the bespectacled man to his left. The other seats were occupied mostly by men, although a few women were present, as well. The women all wore formal evening gowns, while the men were dressed in formal evening attire, mess-dress uniforms for the SS officers and tuxedos for the civilians. None of them paid him the least bit of attention.
Peter breathed a small sigh of relief at having made the right choice in clothes, if nothing else. He stood there, surveying the scene, uncertain how to proceed in what would otherwise be a straightforward social situation.
One chair, on the opposite side of the table near the center, was empty, and he could only assume it was meant for him. He had a choice of going around the foot of the table and trying to avoid von Falkenstein for the moment, or taking the tiger by the tail.
Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the head of the table.
“Ah!” Baumann exclaimed from his seat at von Falkenstein’s immediate right. “Our hero has decided to join us. Please, Müller, be seated.” Baumann threw a glance at the civilian who sat beside him. The man instantly rose to his feet and moved down to the empty chair Peter had intended to take.
It was as if Peter had stepped through a curtain and was now visible to the assembled illuminati of the project, all of whom paused in their conversations to look at him.
“Thank you, Standartenführer .” Peter limped around the table, taking the proffered seat. A waiter in white livery whisked away the as yet unused china and silverware and another waiter placed a new setting. Yet another stepped forward as part of the carefully orchestrated ballet and filled Peter’s wine glass.
As Peter sat down, he saw that he was directly across the table from Mina. If she had appeared beautiful before, she was absolutely radiant now, even with the scar on her cheek, which was partially concealed with makeup. Her long blond hair was in an elegant coif, and she wore a simple black dress that hugged her body. In an irony of Nazi ideology that did not escape him, she was the only other person in the room beside himself and Baumann who had blond hair and blue eyes. She favored him with a perfunctory nod of her head, but nothing more.
“ Herr Professor ,” Baumann said to von Falkenstein as he put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “you met him briefly when he arrived earlier, of course, but please allow me to formally introduce the latest addition to our merry company, Hauptsturmführer Peter Müller, fresh from Berlin.”
“Professor von Falkenstein, sir,” Peter said, “it is a great honor to meet you.”
Von Falkenstein graced him with a flick of his eyes and an absent nod, as if Peter were nothing more than a new file clerk.
“I heard your lecture in Berlin in 1938,” Peter went on, “and followed your work before then. It was a great pity that I wasn’t able to find out any more about your theories after that. You seemed to have disappeared as if through an Einstein-Rosen bridge.”
The room instantly fell silent. Across from him, Mina sat rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed on the china plate before her. The stewards who were just bringing out the first course stopped in their tracks. Beside Peter, Baumann quietly hissed through his teeth.
Von Falkenstein slowly turned his head back to face Peter, who forced himself to return the older man’s gaze. “Is that so?” The professor said in the baritone voice that Peter well remembered, even now. Von Falkenstein was a captivating public speaker. “And what did you think of my theories, Hauptsturmführer ?”
Peter heard the underlying threat in the man’s voice, but the die had been cast. Ignoring the knots that were tightening in his stomach, he said, “I must confess, sir, that much of your work is, of course, over my head, and I would be lying
Von Falkenstein occupied the seat at one end of the table, and was involved in a conversation with the bespectacled man to his left. The other seats were occupied mostly by men, although a few women were present, as well. The women all wore formal evening gowns, while the men were dressed in formal evening attire, mess-dress uniforms for the SS officers and tuxedos for the civilians. None of them paid him the least bit of attention.
Peter breathed a small sigh of relief at having made the right choice in clothes, if nothing else. He stood there, surveying the scene, uncertain how to proceed in what would otherwise be a straightforward social situation.
One chair, on the opposite side of the table near the center, was empty, and he could only assume it was meant for him. He had a choice of going around the foot of the table and trying to avoid von Falkenstein for the moment, or taking the tiger by the tail.
Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the head of the table.
“Ah!” Baumann exclaimed from his seat at von Falkenstein’s immediate right. “Our hero has decided to join us. Please, Müller, be seated.” Baumann threw a glance at the civilian who sat beside him. The man instantly rose to his feet and moved down to the empty chair Peter had intended to take.
It was as if Peter had stepped through a curtain and was now visible to the assembled illuminati of the project, all of whom paused in their conversations to look at him.
“Thank you, Standartenführer .” Peter limped around the table, taking the proffered seat. A waiter in white livery whisked away the as yet unused china and silverware and another waiter placed a new setting. Yet another stepped forward as part of the carefully orchestrated ballet and filled Peter’s wine glass.
As Peter sat down, he saw that he was directly across the table from Mina. If she had appeared beautiful before, she was absolutely radiant now, even with the scar on her cheek, which was partially concealed with makeup. Her long blond hair was in an elegant coif, and she wore a simple black dress that hugged her body. In an irony of Nazi ideology that did not escape him, she was the only other person in the room beside himself and Baumann who had blond hair and blue eyes. She favored him with a perfunctory nod of her head, but nothing more.
“ Herr Professor ,” Baumann said to von Falkenstein as he put a hand on Peter’s shoulder, “you met him briefly when he arrived earlier, of course, but please allow me to formally introduce the latest addition to our merry company, Hauptsturmführer Peter Müller, fresh from Berlin.”
“Professor von Falkenstein, sir,” Peter said, “it is a great honor to meet you.”
Von Falkenstein graced him with a flick of his eyes and an absent nod, as if Peter were nothing more than a new file clerk.
“I heard your lecture in Berlin in 1938,” Peter went on, “and followed your work before then. It was a great pity that I wasn’t able to find out any more about your theories after that. You seemed to have disappeared as if through an Einstein-Rosen bridge.”
The room instantly fell silent. Across from him, Mina sat rigid as a statue, her eyes fixed on the china plate before her. The stewards who were just bringing out the first course stopped in their tracks. Beside Peter, Baumann quietly hissed through his teeth.
Von Falkenstein slowly turned his head back to face Peter, who forced himself to return the older man’s gaze. “Is that so?” The professor said in the baritone voice that Peter well remembered, even now. Von Falkenstein was a captivating public speaker. “And what did you think of my theories, Hauptsturmführer ?”
Peter heard the underlying threat in the man’s voice, but the die had been cast. Ignoring the knots that were tightening in his stomach, he said, “I must confess, sir, that much of your work is, of course, over my head, and I would be lying
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