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I am the squeeze of my jaws away from whatever happens next.

Canidy had told him that, while he couldn’t of course speak from personal experience, he had been reliably informed that once you bit the vial, that was it; you never knew what hit you. Then he said there was another theory, that after you bit the vial, first your balls fell off, then you dropped dead.

Fulmar reached into his mouth, took the Q pill in the palm of his hand, and looked down at it. It was three-quarters full of what looked like watery milk. He wondered how much of it was actually necessary to take you out.

What if I bit it and sneezed and three-fourths of it got blown away? Would what was left do anything to me?

Then he looked in vain in the SS tunic for a counterpart to the change pocket in “Reber”’s jacket. Finally, he took the brimmed cap and found a place for the vial between the headband and the stiff whatever-it-was that held the front of the crown up.

His feet were hurting him, and he remembered about soaking the boots so they would stretch.

There was a water faucet, and a small, well-worn glass. He had to push the button that opened the faucet so hard and so long to fill the glass that his thumb hurt. And when he poured the water on the boot, it beaded and ran off.

He filled the glass again, took off the left boot, poured the water into it, and with great effort managed to get the boot back on. He stood and looked down at the foot of the boot. A little water was oozing out. When he pressed downward, there was a squishing noise. He wondered if it was as loud as it sounded or whether he was “hearing” the sensation.

He filled the glass and repeated the operation with the other boot.

Then he walked back and forth between the

compartment door and the window until he could detect no more “loose” water slopping around. His socks and feet were still wet, and now they seemed to grow cold.

The train began to slow. It was the scheduled stop at Offenburg.

He opened the window. People were streaming from the train for the station.

It’s piss-call time!

He took Reber’s suitcases from the rack, adjusted the brimmed cap on his head at an angle appropriate for a young lieutenant of the SS-SD, and picked up the suitcases and left the train.

He was disappointed when he got inside the station. There were long lines before the rest rooms, and there didn’t seem to be any other place he could “forget” the suitcases. He made a circle of the crowded waiting room and started for the train.

“Watch it, please, Herr Sturmbannführer!” a voice called, and Fulmar looked over his shoulder and saw two workmen pulling a station cart loaded with luggage and packages. Fulmar stepped out of the way and then, taking the chance, added Reber’s suitcases to their load.

Wherever they were going, it would take them some hours to find they had two suitcases more than they were supposed to, and several hours more before they did anything about them. He followed the baggage cart onto the platform and stood watching it for a moment. The handlers pulled it all the way down the platform past his train, then crossed the tracks behind it.

Feeling very pleased with himself, he boarded the train again. From the aisle, he could see what had happened to the luggage cart. It was standing under a sign, “Tuttlingen/Mengen/Neu-Ulm.” It would be at least a day before someone asked questions about it there. By then, for sure, they would have discovered the Gestapo agent’s body anyway, and the shit would begin to hit the fan.

When the train was moving again, he went into the compartment. There were two people in it, two middle-aged men who looked like bureaucrats.

“Heil Hitler! ” they said, almost in unison.

Fulmar raised his hand from the elbow, answering the salute, but did not speak.

He had a choice now. The remaining suitcase was empty and could not be tied to him. He could leave it, claim it, or leave and come back later and claim it.

It was time to eat. There were ration cards with his identification, but Baker had told him to avoid using them if at all possible because they could not positively guarantee they would be accepted.

The “suggested solution” was to offer money in lieu of the coupons.

He would order something to drink. If there were ration coupons required for that, a young officer could credibly be expected to ask for them without coupons. All they could say was no. Then he could watch the others in the dining car and see how they handled the ration coupons for food. He would tip generously for the drink, or drinks, make it clear to the waiter that he had plenty of money.

Both alcohol and food proved to be simple. They had only wine, and he had two glasses, tipping generously each time. He saw that there was food, but that ration coupons were necessary in advance.

When he ordered the third glass of wine, he looked up at the waiter and smiled.

“What is a hungry man to do?”

“If he has coupons, he eats,” the waiter said.