The Victorious Opposition by Harry Turtledove Page A
Authors: Harry Turtledove
Tags: Fiction
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said.
He opened another nondescript envelope. This one also held a single sheet of paper. Its message, also in untraceable block capitals, was, YOUR WIFE AND LITTLE GIRL WILL DIE, YANK SWINE!
Seeing that, Moss abruptly changed his mind about the letter he’d thrown away. He fished it from the trash can and flattened it out as best he could. The letters in both were about the same size and in about the same style. Moss rummaged for the envelope in which the first threat had come. He set it next to the one he’d just now opened.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?” He was no detective with a microscope, but he didn’t need to be to see that his address on the two envelopes had been typed with two different machines. Not only that, one U.S. stamp bore a Manitoba overprint, while the other had one from Ontario. The notes, as near as he could see, were identical. The envelopes not only weren’t but had been mailed from different provinces. (He checked to see if the postmarks confirmed what the stamps said. They did. One came from Toronto, the other from a town south of Winnipeg.) What did that mean?
Two possibilities occurred to him. One was that somebody didn’t like him and had got his bother-in-law or someone of that sort to help show how much. Somebody like that was a pest. The other possibility was that he’d fallen foul of a real organization dedicated to—What? To making
his
life miserable, certainly, and, odds were, to making Canada’s American occupiers unhappy
en masse
.
He’d hoped time would reconcile Canada to having lost the Great War. The longer he stayed here, the more naive and forlorn that hope looked. English-speaking Canada had risen once on its own, in the 1920s. More recently, the Empire of Japan had tried to ignite it again. Great Britain wouldn’t have minded helping its one-time dominion make the Yanks miserable, either.
With a sigh, Moss put both sheets of paper and both envelopes in a buff manila folder. With a longer, louder sigh, he donned his overcoat, earmuffs, hat, and mittens. Then he closed the door to the law office—as an afterthought, he locked it, too—and left the building for the two-block walk to occupation headquarters in Berlin.
Had he been in a tearing hurry, he could have left off the earmuffs and mittens. It was above zero, and no new snow had fallen since the middle of the night. Moss had grown up around Chicago, a city that knew rugged weather. Even so, his wartime service in Ontario and the years he’d lived here since had taught him some things about cold he’d never learned down in the States.
He saw three new YANKS OUT! graffiti between the building where he worked and the red-brick fortress that housed the occupation authority. Two shopkeepers were already out getting rid of them. He suspected the third would in short order. Leaving anti-American messages up on your property was an offense punishable by fine.
Occupation Code, Section 227.3,
he thought.
The sentries in front of occupation headquarters jeered at him as he came up the steps: “Look! It’s the Canuck from Chicago!” He wasn’t in the Army—indeed, most of his practice involved opposing military lawyers—so they didn’t bother wasting politeness on him.
“Funny boys,” he said, at which they jeered harder than ever. He went on into the building, or started to. Just inside the entrance, a sergeant and a couple of privates stopped him. “They’ve beefed up security, sir,” the sergeant said. “Orders are to pat down all civilians. Sorry, sir.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.
Moss shed his overcoat and held his arms out wide, as if he were being crucified. After he passed the inspection, he went on to the office of Major Sam Lopat, a prosecutor with whom he’d locked horns more than a few times. “Ah, Mr. Moss,” Lopat said. “And what sort of fancy lies have you got waiting for me next time we go at each other?”
“Here.” Moss set the manila
He opened another nondescript envelope. This one also held a single sheet of paper. Its message, also in untraceable block capitals, was, YOUR WIFE AND LITTLE GIRL WILL DIE, YANK SWINE!
Seeing that, Moss abruptly changed his mind about the letter he’d thrown away. He fished it from the trash can and flattened it out as best he could. The letters in both were about the same size and in about the same style. Moss rummaged for the envelope in which the first threat had come. He set it next to the one he’d just now opened.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Isn’t that interesting?” He was no detective with a microscope, but he didn’t need to be to see that his address on the two envelopes had been typed with two different machines. Not only that, one U.S. stamp bore a Manitoba overprint, while the other had one from Ontario. The notes, as near as he could see, were identical. The envelopes not only weren’t but had been mailed from different provinces. (He checked to see if the postmarks confirmed what the stamps said. They did. One came from Toronto, the other from a town south of Winnipeg.) What did that mean?
Two possibilities occurred to him. One was that somebody didn’t like him and had got his bother-in-law or someone of that sort to help show how much. Somebody like that was a pest. The other possibility was that he’d fallen foul of a real organization dedicated to—What? To making
his
life miserable, certainly, and, odds were, to making Canada’s American occupiers unhappy
en masse
.
He’d hoped time would reconcile Canada to having lost the Great War. The longer he stayed here, the more naive and forlorn that hope looked. English-speaking Canada had risen once on its own, in the 1920s. More recently, the Empire of Japan had tried to ignite it again. Great Britain wouldn’t have minded helping its one-time dominion make the Yanks miserable, either.
With a sigh, Moss put both sheets of paper and both envelopes in a buff manila folder. With a longer, louder sigh, he donned his overcoat, earmuffs, hat, and mittens. Then he closed the door to the law office—as an afterthought, he locked it, too—and left the building for the two-block walk to occupation headquarters in Berlin.
Had he been in a tearing hurry, he could have left off the earmuffs and mittens. It was above zero, and no new snow had fallen since the middle of the night. Moss had grown up around Chicago, a city that knew rugged weather. Even so, his wartime service in Ontario and the years he’d lived here since had taught him some things about cold he’d never learned down in the States.
He saw three new YANKS OUT! graffiti between the building where he worked and the red-brick fortress that housed the occupation authority. Two shopkeepers were already out getting rid of them. He suspected the third would in short order. Leaving anti-American messages up on your property was an offense punishable by fine.
Occupation Code, Section 227.3,
he thought.
The sentries in front of occupation headquarters jeered at him as he came up the steps: “Look! It’s the Canuck from Chicago!” He wasn’t in the Army—indeed, most of his practice involved opposing military lawyers—so they didn’t bother wasting politeness on him.
“Funny boys,” he said, at which they jeered harder than ever. He went on into the building, or started to. Just inside the entrance, a sergeant and a couple of privates stopped him. “They’ve beefed up security, sir,” the sergeant said. “Orders are to pat down all civilians. Sorry, sir.” He didn’t sound sorry at all.
Moss shed his overcoat and held his arms out wide, as if he were being crucified. After he passed the inspection, he went on to the office of Major Sam Lopat, a prosecutor with whom he’d locked horns more than a few times. “Ah, Mr. Moss,” Lopat said. “And what sort of fancy lies have you got waiting for me next time we go at each other?”
“Here.” Moss set the manila
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