Escape From Hell by Larry Niven Page B

he is not here now.” She had a thick Germanic accent. “I recognized him, you know. I saw him when you pulled me out of the swamp. You fascists always stick together.”
    “Whoa, I’m no fascist!”
    “Of course you would protest that. Bart does also. But we know, we know.”
    “Now you stop that.” Bart shrugged and gave me a look that invited sympathy. “She’s always doing that. You just come along with me.”
    “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I told him. “But you can get out of here if you come with me.”
    “Sure we can. But if I go with you, Else here will be able to leave.”
    “You’re staying here just to keep her from getting out?”
    “Damn bitch thinks all men are fascists. Why should she be able to leave? She belongs here!”
    “You see?” Else said. “Typical authoritarian behavior. He would rate very high on the F scale. He belongs here, indeed he belongs here.” There was a mad light in her eyes.
    “Hey, stop!” I shouted. “Don’t you remember? I fished you out of that swamp!”
    “Oh, I remember you well,” Else said. “I remember your male dominance, your demonstration of superiority over me. Why should I not remember? And you are proud of it, nein?”
    “You were catatonic. Breathing water. I pulled you out. I was trying to help you.”
    “Ja, ja, of course.” She looked over at Bart. “Him first, I think, ja?”
    “Yeah. Sounds right. Watch out for his woman, though. That Benito was one strong bastard.” The two spread out and came toward me from opposite directions. “In you go,” Bart said.
    Before they could get to me, half a dozen mud–covered people charged into the clearing.
    Their leader was shouting. “There he is!” He pointed at Bart. “Now we have him!”
    “Sieg Heil!” The followers ran toward Bart and Else.
    Bart and Else turned as one. They exchanged glances, and then moved quickly. “So, Commander Rockwell,” Else said. She was laughing. Bart and Else moved in, one on either side of the leader, and before the others could interfere they had him in some kind of practiced grip and were frog–marching him down the hill. The followers stood dumbfounded.
    “Help!” the leader yelled.
    I grabbed Rosemary’s hand. “Time to get out of here!”
    “You know it!”
    We ran down to the water’s edge and turned left. As we ran off we heard shouts and splashes.
    •    •    •
    S ylvia was chortling.
    She stopped abruptly so I broke off a twig. “I still don’t understand what happened,” I told her.
    “You don’t remember Commander George Lincoln Rockwell and his American Nazi Party?”
    I shook my head. “No, should I?”
    “Not really. They seem to be about as effective in Hell as they were in the United States.” Sylvia giggled. “Else, you said her name was.”
    “Something like that. It wasn’t Elsie or Elsa, something in between.”
    “And she was catatonic when you first saw her?”
    “Yeah, lying there in the muck hating everyone. Why, do you know who she was?”
    “Yes, I think I do,” Sylvia said. “Very appropriate antagonist for Mr. Rockwell. Else Frenckel. One of Freud’s disciples, from Vienna days. Came to America, married a Berkeley professor. There was a book about how American men are all authoritarian fascists. She was one of the authors, but a man got most of the credit for the book.
Authoritarian Men,
something like that. Required reading in college.”
    “I must have missed it.”
    “Actually, I wish I had. It set me brooding over how bad the world is. Of course, I brooded about everything else, too.”
    “And the others?”
    “Allen, you really don’t remember Commander George Lincoln Rockwell? The American Nazi Party?”
    “No. I guess I knew something like that existed. But Sylvia, real Nazis? Wouldn’t they be deeper in Hell?”
    “Real ones would,” Sylvia said.
    •    •    •
    R osemary and I ran through the swamp until we were sure we’d lost Bart and Else. There was