he shouted at
Henry, who held him at arm’s length with his free hand.
“Yeah, give it back to him, fascist!” shouted another.
In that moment, Henry felt a strange sensation of heat growing in his right hand—the one holding the comic. While he fought to be delicate with Ackerman and not accidentally crush his
bones, he felt Del Rey yank the materials from his hand. And when Del Rey did, he yelled and threw them on the floor. Everyone stopped to watch as flames licked up over the comic’s pages.
Myrtle screamed as the flames gave out a final burst, then died. All that remained was a smoldering mark on the hardwoods.
Ackerman looked like he might cry. Myrtle put her arms around him and rubbed his shoulder, squinting at Henry in disgust. Bradbury just stared at the ashes and rubbed his jaw. “What could
make a book burn like that? It’s not
that
hot in here.”
Henry shoved past them and made his way out of the convention. Whether there were Plus Ultra staff on hand or not, it wouldn’t pay to attract more attention now. Perhaps this was the wrong
entry point into their scheme. Perhaps he needed another way. What were the chances he’d find one of the other three books now? Even as he thought it, stepping down the stairs in front of the
building, fortune smiled.
He saw them on the sidewalk. A boy, not much older than he’d been before his accident. The boy supported a woman; probably his mother. She seemed faint from the heat, and her son helped
her into a cab while fanning her with a copy of the Plus Ultra comic. Henry couldn’t reach them before the boy closed the cab door and it pulled away, but he read his lips when he gave a
destination to the driver.
Sloane House.
T HE THICK atmosphere of cigarettes and diesel dissipated as Rotwang stepped through the submarine’s exit hatch and
into the fresh air. The mouth of the Hudson lay three miles ahead, crowned by the afternoon glow of New York City’s towers. He hoped he wouldn’t step foot inside a U-boat for the rest
of his hopefully infinite life. It would have also been fine if old Lohman died reclined in Rotwang’s leather chair, with two lungs full of salt water and Nazi blood.
Unfortunately, Lohman was getting off the boat, too. He stood just ahead of Rotwang, clasping the U-boat’s deck rail with a frail hand wrapped in a plastic antimicrobial glove. Hagen stood
by his master, ready to help him down the sub’s starboard ladder and into one of three twenty-foot open-topped motorboats bobbing along the
Dunkelstar
’s side. The Nazis’
Plus Ultra mole had arranged for the boats, and they were waiting for the
Dunkelstar
when it surfaced. The skippers, American Nazis and members of the mole’s network of spies, wore
civilian suits of the finest make, though not nearly as fine as the threads worn by Rotwang and the German away team that was accompanying him ashore. When it came to disguises, Lohman’s
policy was to err on the side of high fashion.
Rotwang took an uneasy step toward Lohman as the submarine rocked under them, and the old man turned to give him a reptilian smile. The spotted skin of his face crinkled against the marine air,
and he sucked in a jagged breath through his acrylic oxygen mask. Rotwang had seldom seen Lohman outside of his preferred sterile habitat, but the old man made a surprising show of strength as he
stepped down the boarding ladder. “Good luck, Werner,” he said. “I will await your good report at Herr Duquesne’s safehouse. Please say hello to the Great White Way for me!
I have always wished to take in a show there. Perhaps I will when it belongs to us. Heil Hitler.”
Rotwang saluted him with his own “Heil Hitler.” Commander Hagen helped the old wretch into his boat. When the craft launched with a four-member crew attending to Lohman, Hagen was
not among them. “Herr Rotwang,” the commander called up to him, “you may descend. I will help you aboard our boat.”
The phrase “our
Henry, who held him at arm’s length with his free hand.
“Yeah, give it back to him, fascist!” shouted another.
In that moment, Henry felt a strange sensation of heat growing in his right hand—the one holding the comic. While he fought to be delicate with Ackerman and not accidentally crush his
bones, he felt Del Rey yank the materials from his hand. And when Del Rey did, he yelled and threw them on the floor. Everyone stopped to watch as flames licked up over the comic’s pages.
Myrtle screamed as the flames gave out a final burst, then died. All that remained was a smoldering mark on the hardwoods.
Ackerman looked like he might cry. Myrtle put her arms around him and rubbed his shoulder, squinting at Henry in disgust. Bradbury just stared at the ashes and rubbed his jaw. “What could
make a book burn like that? It’s not
that
hot in here.”
Henry shoved past them and made his way out of the convention. Whether there were Plus Ultra staff on hand or not, it wouldn’t pay to attract more attention now. Perhaps this was the wrong
entry point into their scheme. Perhaps he needed another way. What were the chances he’d find one of the other three books now? Even as he thought it, stepping down the stairs in front of the
building, fortune smiled.
He saw them on the sidewalk. A boy, not much older than he’d been before his accident. The boy supported a woman; probably his mother. She seemed faint from the heat, and her son helped
her into a cab while fanning her with a copy of the Plus Ultra comic. Henry couldn’t reach them before the boy closed the cab door and it pulled away, but he read his lips when he gave a
destination to the driver.
Sloane House.
T HE THICK atmosphere of cigarettes and diesel dissipated as Rotwang stepped through the submarine’s exit hatch and
into the fresh air. The mouth of the Hudson lay three miles ahead, crowned by the afternoon glow of New York City’s towers. He hoped he wouldn’t step foot inside a U-boat for the rest
of his hopefully infinite life. It would have also been fine if old Lohman died reclined in Rotwang’s leather chair, with two lungs full of salt water and Nazi blood.
Unfortunately, Lohman was getting off the boat, too. He stood just ahead of Rotwang, clasping the U-boat’s deck rail with a frail hand wrapped in a plastic antimicrobial glove. Hagen stood
by his master, ready to help him down the sub’s starboard ladder and into one of three twenty-foot open-topped motorboats bobbing along the
Dunkelstar
’s side. The Nazis’
Plus Ultra mole had arranged for the boats, and they were waiting for the
Dunkelstar
when it surfaced. The skippers, American Nazis and members of the mole’s network of spies, wore
civilian suits of the finest make, though not nearly as fine as the threads worn by Rotwang and the German away team that was accompanying him ashore. When it came to disguises, Lohman’s
policy was to err on the side of high fashion.
Rotwang took an uneasy step toward Lohman as the submarine rocked under them, and the old man turned to give him a reptilian smile. The spotted skin of his face crinkled against the marine air,
and he sucked in a jagged breath through his acrylic oxygen mask. Rotwang had seldom seen Lohman outside of his preferred sterile habitat, but the old man made a surprising show of strength as he
stepped down the boarding ladder. “Good luck, Werner,” he said. “I will await your good report at Herr Duquesne’s safehouse. Please say hello to the Great White Way for me!
I have always wished to take in a show there. Perhaps I will when it belongs to us. Heil Hitler.”
Rotwang saluted him with his own “Heil Hitler.” Commander Hagen helped the old wretch into his boat. When the craft launched with a four-member crew attending to Lohman, Hagen was
not among them. “Herr Rotwang,” the commander called up to him, “you may descend. I will help you aboard our boat.”
The phrase “our
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