Fiction 1, Chapters 11 & 12

Chapter 11

"Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep,

And in his simple show he harbours treason.

The fox barks not when he would steal the lamb."

Second Henry VI, William Shakespeare

CAROUGE, SWITZERLAND

It was almost time.

This close to the execution of Canadian Shield, Marcus Bakker had little more to do personally in connection with it. His other business concerns had long since been stripped of assets to provide working capital for the bold venture. Now Bakker's holding company controlled only a core group of corporate shells, staffed by skeleton crews __to keep them barely alive for an uncertain length of time. The international marketplace knew of this, of course, but not why. Their burning curiosity was kindled even further by Morgen Industries' obvious lack of corporate indebtedness.

The reasons for that were simple: Of all the Swiss, Bakker could tolerate the bankers of Zurich least __and it was fortuitous that their services were not required. The South African wanted no Gnomes looking over his shoulder, and Fortune had been kind, allowing him that rarest of indulgences in Switzerland. Fortune and his family, that is __smuggled gold and diamonds had provided all of the liquid assets a young "Dutchman" in Switzerland would ever need for start-up capital.

Success had kept the ball rolling.

Until Canadian Shield. It had taken one-hundred such wealthy South African families to fund that. The fact was astonishing even to Bakker at times, that fifty-one of those were English, two of Indian descent, and one no less than Chinese. The remainder were Dutch descendants, like himself.

Idle now; Bakker busied himself now with dictating his memoirs, an apologia in the classic sense __less a defense of his actions than a logical exposition of their inevitability.

His father had seen the dismal light as early as 1950.

"This country will die now, Marcus; perhaps even before I do. This damned Apartheid bill they passed the year before last will kill it. Therefore you must prepare yourself for that eventuality and make ready a way for others like us, reasonable men, to protect and preserve our families."

He had always spoken to all six of his sons __including the youngest, Marcus__ only in Dutch or English, despite their Afrikaans environment. And that policy befitted the tri-lingual man. He considered the latter language, also called the Taal, to be merely a degenerate Dutch/native patois __and the former, English, to be the premier tongue of the new global marketplace. Marcus, named after the boy's maternal grandfather, had been well educated in five languages __adding wonderful French and a passable German to the list of his father's linguistic accomplishments.

"Your moeder died, mijn zoon, of such stupidities as this; because of foolish dreams in the minds of raving lunatics. Foolish dreams that proceeded unchecked and almost unchallenged to a ghastly nightmare. It must never happen again; not to us, nor to anyone."

The boys' deceased mother had been of Polish birth and of Jewish extraction, the victim of a terminal visit to see her family at the worst possible time.

Marius Bakker, the father, had not been just another hide-bound or reactionary South African white of Dutch ancestry. In point of fact, his family had arrived from Holland only just in time to be thrown into a British concentration camp during the Boer war __over two hundred years late by Afrikaaner standards. The family's flexibility in dealing with the problem of Blacks and Coloreds in South Africa had not been well received among his father's few Boer confidants and all the Bakkers learned to hold those opinions very closely indeed.

"They will not see it, my boy," he'd tell Marcus, especially. "They think that courage and discipline __and a strongly fortified laager__ can stand against the higher birth rate and growing envy of the black people indefinitely. Your moeder's people do the same in Palestine with the Arabs and the bloody British __no disrespect to your stiefmoeder__ do it all over the world, where they haven't been thrown out already. And they call me weak and foolish for reading history to them. Ask our neighbors: Where are the Spartans, or the Persians, the Etruscans, the Mongols?" He seemed to peer like a lop-sided Cyclops into young Marcus's eyes in search of an answer.

"They cannot answer," he would say, "because they do not know where," and then pause for effect. "Out-bred by their slaves and serfs," his father would continue after a second or two, "that is where and that is how they disappeared. Just as our white volkjie here in the Natal will someday be overwhelmed by empowered kaffirs, a dozen to one. Then their men will die in useless conflict and the white race in South Africa will blend with their new overlords as their women's wombs bear the seeds of bitter rape. I tell you, jonge man, you and your broeders must take your families and depart this land someday."

Marcus stopped the tape and thought again of the three most vivid memories of early youth __well before Apartheid__ that he still possessed.

It was October, 1940 and he had been still a child, just started in school. Predictably, his father had chosen an English school for him __no problem in Durban__ and the going was tough for young Marcus, especially in those early days. But this particular day was Sunday, and there would be a special parade. Marcus, like all boys, loved parades.

Starting at the beginning of each march route, the boy would normally wait for a particularly appealing segment to pass and then he would march alongside for as long as his short legs could keep up __three steps of his for every one taken by his comrades of the moment. After tiring of such a set pace, as he inevitably did within a few minutes, Marcus would drop out to the sidelines for a time __until the next flashy set of uniforms stepped to the beat of the big base drum, accompanied by shrill fife, brassy bugle and the drummer-boys' staccato sticks outgunning their bigger brothers eight-to-one, or holding the line with an endless tattoo.

When the boy finally did abandon a group __unable to wait__ he'd quickly run back along the dusty road he'd just marched to find his next heroes, that happy band of brothers who would sample his loyalty for a just few precious minutes.

By the end of each parade, Marcus would wind up at the termination of the march route, having covered two or three times the mileage that exhausted the adults he'd imitated.

Often when there were parades on Sundays, his father would carry the sleeping boy from his dining room chair, directly upstairs to the lad's small bed __huge fingers awkward at unfastening little buttons and tiny laces. The lonely man, almost tearful at such times, felt especially clumsy compared to his wife and mother to his sons, trapped for an indefinite duration behind the ironclad battle lines overseas.

But that's not what happened on that Sunday in 1940.

On that momentous day, young Marcus had marched beside his father all the way. He would never really know how much courage and good cheer his small boy's proud and solemn presence had lent to the sagging spirits of the men who marched behind his father. Their uniforms were even more drab than their morale __compared to the previous summer's issue of both__ and the boy was quite dissatisfied with his father's appearance, although he did not come right out and say so.

The military bands that led the marching men were few and far between now, also; mostly comprised of old men who were always too tired to march and play well at the same time.

Marius Bakker had done something unusual earlier that year, something that angered many of his Afrikaaner neighbors in Natal and the Transvaal; he'd volunteered for foreign service in an unpopular war. And __after a brief period of training__ Marcus's father was going off to fight the British war in Europe, as a Lieutenant with a Light Cavalry unit attached to the Second South African Division.

All the men who marched behind him wore, as he did, the red flash on their uniforms that identified their willingness to fight the Nazis on foreign soil. For a change, no rocks were thrown that day at the Rooi Luisies, or "Red Lice," as they were often called. There were many Nazi sympathizers, even in Durban, and street fights were common between the opposing factions.

To his son's intense disappointment, horses and lances were not standard equipment in this cavalry. Instead, Ford trucks __hastily converted to light armor with ordinary steel plate__ were to be their mounts, and those vehicles had already been loaded aboard their transport at the quay-side in downtown Durban. The Light Horse __often so called, nonetheless__ now carried rifles at shoulder arms and packs on straightened backs. The raw, unprepared men took their first hurried steps toward a deadly, faraway war.

The older Marcus Bakker now recalled precisely how his father shook his six year old hand that day. Each and every one of the parting words were still as firmly fixed in his memory as though they had been engraved there.

Father had always spoken well, and at some length __often too long for the youthful attention that his sons were prepared to pay him. But his words that day were few to all the brothers, though years worth of emotion were carried on the back of each one.

Finally it was time to bid farewell to his youngest. "Jochie, you and your broeders will be well taken care of by your grootouders, and you will now have to learn to help each other and oma en opa __instead of squabbling and yelping like side-striped jackals__ until your moeder can safely come home to us."

A warm smile and hug had salved any possible sting of criticism that such words might otherwise have inflicted on such a serious child. Marius Bakker had a manly appreciation for the positive competitive aspects of the sibling rivalries among his sons __ as long as things didn't get completely out of hand. The boy was still a little shocked, however. He couldn't recall his father ever chiding him in advance like that. It had generally been assumed by all of the family __or at least its elders had adopted such a posture and affected confidence in it__ that their young men would do the right thing automatically, as Bakkers.

Marius said one more thing before he left. "At times like this, many fathers would say to you that it is time to grow up, to become men and shoulder the burdens of the world, keeping our home safe for our return __your moeder and me. I say this: Help your grandparents, but above all things hold on as tightly as you can to all of the childhood that still remains to you. You rush away from it now, but once it is gone, it is gone forever and someday we will all regret whatever portion of it you may have missed."

Then he kissed young Marcus, much to the boy's embarrassment, and turned away to board the ship. Afterwards, Marcus had waved and waved at the departing transport until he thought his arm would fall off; then he'd lift it again just in case his distant father could still see him. His heart was in his throat and there were tears in his eyes at the thought of parting from his father as well as his mother. At six, any time period beyond a month seemed like forever.

Marcus now, reviewing the events that had occurred more than half a century before, smiled to himself at the little boy's chagrin over the kiss and felt again the same lump in his Adam's Apple.

And then he remembered further that he'd run away from his accompanying brothers on the walk home, as far and as fast as his little legs could take him. His racing feet had tripped over a low brick border around an unfamiliar flower bed, and the resulting fall had knocked the wind out of him. As he'd lain there __with a convulsing diaphragm denying room for his lungs to expand__ the little boy thought for a time that he might die alone, far from mother and father and even from his barely-tolerated and much-admired elder brothers.

He had not been afraid of dying __much to his surprise__ only of the need to wait alone for many years perhaps, before his family would join him. After a few minutes though, the boy was able to catch his breath, get up, and brush himself off. Then he'd walked home carefully, almost desperate to be with oma en opa, his grandparents.

The youngster was just eight and his grandmother had been dead a year when he'd seen his father again, in a sergeant's battle-dress with a strange cap shield. It pictured a winged dagger above the motto, "Who Dares Wins." Young Marcus hadn't quite understood how or why his father had given up a captaincy of troops to sign on with the Long Range Desert Group and then Stirling's Special Air Service as a sergeant-major.

The sun-seared, hard-bitten non-com didn't expect his son to understand; even Generals and Field-Marshals couldn't begin to comprehend how a squadron that flew Jeeps was able to destroy more enemy aircraft with their lightning raids than any conventional flying squadron on either side of the hostilities during the same period.

Or, for that matter, how unimportant rank was to a man like him.

He had been on detached reconnaissance duty when Tobruk was surrendered to the Germans, along with his division, by a South African __General H.B. Klopper. Technically, Bakker was included in the turnover just as though he had been with the troops trapped in Tobruk.

In disgust, Marius Bakker resigned his commission and went right back to war with a vengeance.

Stirling's raiders were where the hottest action was then, often hundreds of miles behind enemy lines. Within a year or so, that unit was honored by the adoption of its patch, motto, spirit and leadership in the formation of a new regiment, the famous __and infamous to the Irish__ British SAS.

The courage that Stirling's unit displayed during its brief and bloody history was exemplified by its mode of transport.

Their jeeps were loaded with mines and grenades, and mounted four Vickers machine guns, each firing a thousand rounds a minute of tracer ammunition. They prowled enemy territory, hiding by day and navigating by starlight like pirates of the desert.

But there was no such thing as stealth for them after the battle was joined. Nor was there as much as an ounce of armor to protect them.

On this particular day in Durban it was Sunday again, but parades there were long-since a thing of the past. And Marius Bakker would not talk of his rank that day, nor of his war-time activities.

He spoke of the old days to Marcus.

Fortunately or not, war had hardened him enough to converse with his young son about their past life without giving vent to despair. Disbelieving __yet all-but-convinced by the shocking intelligence reports beginning to emerge from eastern Europe__ the father sought desperately to keep his wife's memory alive in Marcus's young mind.

The boy had only been four when she had left him in the capable hands of her mother-in-law for what should have been a two month absence. This was all that her husband could do for her now, aside from fighting a war for her sake.

"Do you remember when your moeder and I," he asked, "and all of you boys, took the train to Victoria Falls? And then to Capetown. Do you?" he repeated anxiously. The boy nodded, his face lighting up as he remembered his mother unpacking their picnic basket; he'd only been three at the time.

"And you saw that little antelope animal from the train near Etosha, out west, and Moeder told you its name. Do you remember?"

"Yes, I think so, Vader." The boy nodded, but was unsure now.

"And for the next year, you called every dog or cat you saw, by that name. Remember?"

The boy screwed up his face trying to recall something that had become so important that he must recapture it at all costs.

"It started with a 'D,' I think," his father prompted him. "What could it be, Marcus? Can you remember? Let's see, 'D____' What could it be?

"'D____' I know, Vader! I know. 'Dik-dik,' that's what it was. 'Dik-dik,' yes! Moeder held my shoulders and pointed to the dik-dik. And she smelled like soap and sandlewood, Vader; I remember. I won't ever forget again."

"And how beautiful she was, Marcus." Marius Bakker could have bitten his tongue for having used the past tense but his son thought nothing of it.

"Oh, yes! Vader, she was, she was."

The writer of memoirs, the creator and destroyer of nations, stopped dictating for a moment and wiped the tears from his eyes. Suddenly, the room seemed chilly.

The next recollection of his father had been on the day of his arrival home for good. Letters had been few and far between, but the Bakkers knew what to expect when they saw him.

They knew that he had scoured Europe after VE-day for any trace of his wife. There was none.

They knew that he had left part of himself in the bloody sand of Libya. An arm and an eye.

They knew that he would need what remained of his family desperately when he returned. And they were right.

They didn't know how old and beaten he would look.

And they had assumed that his tears could only flow down from the remaining eye. In that they were wrong. They were rare; tears, but equitably distributed in a way that was fitting. He wept from his good eye in gratitude for the family that remained to him, and from his missing eye for those who were lost.

Somewhat after the war __two years following his demobilization__ scarred Marius had somehow married happily again; to a much younger and very attractive woman. A South African this time, but of English descent.

His boy Marcus, now grown almost to young manhood, had come to love the bride; first with a boyish crush, and then with an adolescent lust __and finally, with a Platonic appreciation for her virtues and inner beauty, as an older sister; perhaps even as a second mother.

His feelings for his father in that one regard had progressed from resentment to jealousy and, eventually, to gratitude and approval. In every other respect, the son's love and respect for his father had been unfailing.

With Marius Bakker long in his grave, Marcus often felt that there was no one for him to turn to. So he would pray to the man who, in reality, had always been his God anyway. "Jesus, Vader, you did not know. I am grateful that you never knew what this has cost me. You had six fine sons and I have none. I must be a stranger to my broeders, for thirty years now; never to go home."

Soon now they would all be together though; already some of his nephews worked at the Farm and at Elkprong, his Institute.

Occasionally he wondered about his only wife __he still thought of her that way__ an American teacher who had come to South Africa so long ago. In love with the veldt, or rather some romantic notion of the veldt she had seen in Hollywood movies, Marcus Bakker had seemed the perfect embodiment of Tyrone Power to her Susan Hayward. But his family's vast land holdings, the fields of grain, the endless grassy steps that held their teeming herds of cattle were ten times more a responsibility and a hundred times less romantic than Hollywood had suggested.

Eventually, she had left him, and Africa as well, when it became clear that he could not give her the sons to which she felt entitled.

Naturally unpopular with her sisters-in-law, Marcus's wife had wrongly attributed the estrangement to the difference in their maternal status; the only aspect of her person that she was willing to assess with a critical eye. Given the Bakker family genealogy, and the fourteen existing sons of his five older brothers, that failure on his part to rectify her one shortcoming had seemed almost a deliberate personal affront to her.

Eventually, the entire spectrum of their life together had turned sour. Still, he'd made sure that she wanted for nothing when she had returned to the States and afterwards for as long as she had lived, only ten years.

In spite of everything, he had loved her deeply when they had been young. Her name had been Caroline. Both of them had been too disillusioned finally to think of remarriage.

In any event Marcus had spent thirty years of precious time deliberately obliterating any trace of connection to his original family. That was too much of a sacrifice already for him to even contemplate the thought of raising another that could be made to suffer for his actions, for the dream of his father.

Twenty years to make ready, Bakker reflected, and ten to build the Institute and the huge conglomerate holding companies that were swallowing the Canadian North. Only Mother Earth and Father Time were his parents now. And those of his family and all the others who would come to this new nation would be his children in the most meaningful sense, even if the man known as Marcus Bakker might not live long enough to see that day.

Already, two of his brothers had died at home. But their sons and daughters and their grandchildren lived and were dedicated to the dream in their father's place.

Getting maudlin now, he thought. Perhaps, I might call Theo and see how things are progressing, before the time difference is too inconvenient. Then, possibly, arrange an escort for dinner and the theater tonight. Thank God, he laughed at himself, not all women demand six fine sons for their favors.

The Chairman knew that his paternal affection for Theodore Langerhans was a handicap, even if it had been sincerely returned. And another problem of his own making: he was too busy shielding Theo from the full impact of Polewicz's unofficial activities, for either of them to effectively control the latter man. Bakker was walking a tightrope, allowing a man to remain in power who, by his very nature, would abuse that power horrendously.

But a useful man whose actions, morally borne on Bakker's broad shoulders, were utterly deniable legally. Even Polewicz, himself, thought that his personal machinations were unsanctioned by __and unknown to__ his employer. "Bad enough," he muttered, "that I must know these things. God help me, it must not touch Theo or my family."

Someday __soon he hoped__ Polewicz could be dispensed with.

Chapter 12

"The Master said, 'The man who is fond of daring and is dissatisfied with poverty, will proceed to insubordination. So will the man who is not virtuous, when you carry your dislike of him to an extreme'."

Analects, Confucius

WINNIPEG, MANITOBA:

"The first thing is credibility, guys," I told them. "You have to believe that a major Indian uprising could fracture Canada, if you're going to take me seriously. You probably don't remember hearing an awful lot __down south__ about the troubles up here in the last couple of years. Basically, the French in Quebec and the English speakers everywhere here have been at odds for the whole history of the country. Now the Indians are taking a hand. Do you know anything about the Oka reservation uprising a couple of years ago, or the Meech Lake Accord screw-up?"

It turned out that only Mickey had heard something about Meech Lake, but he couldn't remember what. That's par for the course in the U.S.A.. Canadians are often infuriated that we don't take them seriously, unless they are hockey players. They have a larger country than we do and a little more than ten percent of our population to fill it.

"Don't worry, Mickey," I comforted him, "most Americans either never heard of it or didn't care about it. You're right! But we should have. All the breaking up that's gone on in the old Soviet Union and Yugoslavia and Africa doesn't have to stay ten thousand miles away. It could happen here, tomorrow even."

They still looked as though they didn't believe it.

I got graphic. "For ninety-plus percent of the people, this country is a hundred and twenty-five miles high and four thousand miles wide. That's how many of their people live that close to the U.S. border, in the biggest country in the Western Hemisphere."

"Only a hundred and twenty-five miles high?" Mickey was trying to picture that. Squinting didn't help.

We had a road atlas with us. Finding the map that covered all of Canada, I took my pen and drew a line less than an inch north of the U.S. border, an ink wall about two feet wide that excluded the other ninety percent of the country, an area about the size of China or the U.S.A..

"Yeah," I tapped the narrow belt with the pen. "Can you understand how easy it would be for a structure stretched out like that to break up? It's already cut by nine or ten provincial borders, and each province can be so different from some of the others, that they're like different countries. There are two different major languages and a multitude of minor ones."

Uncle John looked doubtful. "So the Frogs check out of the Union, so what?"

"Well, it's the Confederation, actually. Look at it this way; if the French are entitled to a plebiscite, why not the Indians and the Metis', who are part-French and part-Indian? And if it comes down to a vote to decide who and what secedes, guess who gets most of the north country. It's not going to be the French __even in Quebec__ or the English, I'll tell you that. That was the big failure of the Charlottetown Agreement, or maybe I should say disagreement. In the end, the Quebecers couldn't stomach giving the Indians the same rights they wanted, and the rest of the country couldn't tolerate the whole abysmal situation."

Mickey scoffed. "No way. America wouldn't let it happen."

"It already happened, about a hundred and fifty years ago. There was a successful revolution of the Metis' that ruled most of Manitoba, under the leadership of a man named Louis Riel and they lasted for a few years. America didn't do anything then, and it wouldn't interfere now. We'd just stand by to pick up a couple of new states, if any of the provinces decided eventually to vote themselves closer to us; that's all."

"I still don't see a country of only Indians, Uncle Dick?"

"I didn't mean only Indians; I meant mostly Indians or mixed-breeds."

Uncle John got a little sly look, "Mixed-breeds like you, boy."

"Not exactly, Uncle. Maybe thinner. Seriously, what do you think Mexico, Central and South America are made up of? Wasps? We don't run around down there __shooting anybody with Indian blood for the local ricos because there are too many of them voting."

-Well, not often, anyway-

"Remember, I was in Montreal during the Oka uprising there," I reminded them, "and in Newfoundland for the aborted Meech Lake Accord vote. That's something that the Quebecers wanted very badly, even if it was only a token thing. The Accord was filibustered to death by a single Indian member of the Manitoba legislative assembly. Right here __in this city__ in the name of all of Canada's Indians, the First Canadians. And if he hadn't killed it, the Newfoundlanders would have."

"You forgot something, boy. If it didn't work in the eighteen hundreds, why would it work now? And why should we care about whether the Frenchies have to join the program like the rest of us."

"Maybe it wouldn't," I admitted. "But don't forget the weapons and ammo at the Farm and the other depots. Or that virtually all of the tribes in the north would be united; it wouldn't just be the Metis' this time. Or that the rest of the Confederation wouldn't be united at all __with each province out to cut the best deal for itself. Let's take a break. Who's for pizza and some Labatt's Blue to guzzle?"

That break helped a lot to heal what was left of the breach between John McGovern and me. The pizza was so-so but the beer was great, as usual.

Jack made a real effort and called up a story he'd once overheard as a child. It was about a rather large aunt who had used, for the first time, one of the little bathrooms that had been recently introduced in travel trailers.

That was a shocking innovation to the Travellers at the time, by the way.

The little chamber was so small and the aunt so large, that she'd had to back into position all the way with her dress up and her bloomers down, not being able to turn around. An embarrassing and painful contact with the furnace vent pipe had taken place and her bellowed shriek had curdled milk for miles around.

Even milk still in the cow was curdled, Jack swore, with a straight face. And in a moment of uncharacteristic indelicacy, the lady had referred to this latest shock as quite comparable to that of her bridal night many years before.

That was a hundred more words than any of us had heard him say in years. And then he almost smiled. I snuck a peek at Allison's face while that was going on, and I have a much better understanding of Love now than before that night. And the words "transcendent" and "radiant," as well.

We went back to work.

I gave them some more background, having spent a lot more time in Canada than any of them; every province and each territory.

"Above all, Uncle, don't forget the instigators. The old Soviet posing as a Ukrainian priest and the South Africans posing as Dutchmen wouldn't be involved __unless there was some plan for them to take over eventually, or be the power behind the throne. At the least, they'd grab a little Duchy for themselves."

Uncle John lit up a pipe. When that happened __rarely__ you knew that he was getting down to brass tacks.

"What about the Frenchies, Richard, like I said? Who cares? It's not worth Mickey's or Jack's life just so they don't have to listen to the rest of us talking American."

"Think about it, Uncle," I prompted. "You and I speak a little Gaelic now and then, mixed in with the Cant. But there are few now who speak it as their first language, even in Ireland where they've been trying to bring it back."

"So, what's the point?" he wanted to know. The pipe was going fairly well now, and the tobacco smelled sweet and aromatic.

"What the Quebecers are afraid of," I told him, "has already happened to our people. You should have a little more sympathy for them. A thousand years ago, the Irish were the most civilized and prosperous nation in Europe __the envy of our neighbors in every way that counts. We spoke our own language then and ruled our own land. Look at Ireland now, a fifth rate power in the Third World __without a pot to piss in. They have only half the population there that they used to have, maybe two-thirds of Quebec's. By the way, the Irish Republican Brotherhood __they're the fore-runners of the I.R.A.__ used to raid British Canada from bases in the U.S., just after the Civil War. Anyway, now the Irish speak the invader's language __the same one the French resist__ and have almost forgotten their own. Do you think there's no connection?"

Mickey said, "I still don't get it. It's just a million miles of trees. And it gets goddam cold here, even now in the early Fall. Why would anybody want it, anyway?"

Uncle John answered him, "Power, boy __and watch your language. Just because they've got the power to do it, they'll do it. Some kinds of men can't resist using power."

He could have been talking about me as well, I knew.

Jack spoke up. "They'll want a home. They're both fighting a losing battle and they'll need a place to go to ground in."

Trust a predator to know. Jack might as well have been talking about himself __and I think he realized it too. Allison was still with us. That had been his idea, probably, to keep tempers cool.

She said, "Maybe they're wrong, but I feel sorry for them. You know: they didn't ask to be born in some kind of country like they were, and now everything is changing on them. In a couple of years or so, they'll have no country left. At least, nothing like they knew when they were kids. You know? Maybe that's why they call themselves 'Orphans.' So they figure that they'll make their own country __the way they like it."

I nodded. "You're right, all of you. But that's just the short run, ten or twenty years. Now, we've got ice and snow and trees, but fifty years from now? In time for their grandkids? Who knows? What about the Greenhouse Effect? As cold as it is here __even now__ every winter in the last few years has set a new record for high temperatures. Could be that it's no fluke."

Allison asked, "What kind of name is 'Canadian Shield'?"

I thought for a minute. "Well______ It could be a rip-off of 'Desert Shield,' in Arabia. It could refer to law enforcement badges. Or it might refer to a geological formation, a huge lowland section of central Canada. You've heard jokes about houses big enough to have their own Zip-codes; that area is big enough to have its own tectonic plate. I checked it out. It runs from the Rockies in the northwest to Labrador in the northeast __that's the base__ and in the south it comes to a point just below the Great Lakes. It's like a big triangle with the base up, and the apex down." I drew it on the map, just as I described it.

John McGovern said thoughtfully, "That's the same shape as the emblem they left on what they built: Triangle Construction, in Edmonton." That little confirmation that I might not be totally bonkers put us firmly on the same side, at last.

We ran out of things to speculate about and sat around thinking for a couple of minutes.

"Suppose," I said, a little aimlessly, "we take it for granted that's what the 'Orphans' intend to do. Everything points that way. We don't have to worry if it will work; they do. According to Dupont, they have to move soon for some reason. Our problem right now is that we're caught between them and their enemies, which is turning dangerous, and we still don't know who killed your nephews."

Uncle John asked, "What do you propose?" He emptied the ashes from his pipe into an ashtray on the little desk to the right of my bed.

"They're good boys that you have here, John. If you think that this is a lost cause, or no longer that important, or if you're still leery because of me, take them home now. Because it's a bad bargain if they get hurt for no other reason but our need to know the truth, or for vengeance."

"What about you, Richard? What will you do?"

"I don't want to influence you, Uncle. You'll have to choose for their sake, not for mine."

John McGovern was a troubled man now. No man likes to quit a quest, to fail for lack of will __but if anything happened to either of his boys because of his stubbornness, he would never be able to live with himself afterwards. I could see it in his eyes.

I couldn't fight it; take advantage of him. I didn't even want to.

"Take your boys home, John McGovern," I urged him. "We've lost two of our family already, and that's already more than your sister can bear. I'm sure she'd not want to see her children avenged at the cost of more blood."

"And what of you, Richard? What of you?" he wanted to know.

"I'll see you off, Uncle, and then decide."

John hated to turn away and go home, but he had to.

If I live to be a hundred, I'll not forget the next moment.

There was a hand on each of my shoulders, one of Mickey's and one of Jack's.

Mickey said to his father, "I grew up with Todd and Gary. I went to school with them and I played with them and worked with them. This man has been like an uncle to me ever since I can remember, and he's stood up for the family more than once. I'll be damned if I'll give it up now."

Jack didn't have to say anything, but Allison put her hand on his arm and told her lover's father, "I go where he goes; it doesn't matter where."

Jack smiled at his father.

John McGovern stood in front of us. There was love in his eyes but he wasn't smiling back. Years before __there was no saying exactly when__ he had lost the power to keep his older son from choosing his own path in life. And it had been a disastrous path.

Now, the same thing was happening again with Mickey. This time the only real difference was that he could pinpoint the exact moment, the present, and the agent responsible, myself.

"So," he said reluctantly, "we've worked up a caravan then, and it's on to Edmonton, is it?" The words were cool enough __John McGovern knew that it was the way of the world for the young to leave the nest__ but his eyes told a different story to me only. Not quite a deadly threat, but not far from it.

The "little Colonel." He was not a man to be taken lightly, no matter his size or age. I won't mislead you, though. The tension between us then was nothing compared to the danger that faced us ahead.

That's how we went on:

On to Edmonton.

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You are at Fiction 1, Chapters 11 & 12