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Bruning indicated the chair with a gesture, and walked to the cupboard.
     
    “Thank you, sir.”
     
    “Would you like something to drink? Wine?”
     
    “Oh, no thank you, sir. I have been having a bit too much of it as is. ...”
     
    “I understand.” Bruning pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat near the window facing Weber. The wind outside shrieked, the rain fell. Seconds and then minutes ticked away on the hall clock. Weber’s hand traced the rim of his cap in a nervous gesture of habit, flattening the felt on the lip between gloved fingers. Back and forth. Back and forth.
     
    “Well.” Bruning coughed, waking Weber from his reverie.
     
    “Oh. Excuse me. Hm. Well. I suppose...So, you...you worked on the translation project for Andries?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “I recall a lecture on it. Here, was it? Or Berlin? It was...about cryptography in the later Gutenberg period. Imperial seals and such. Code-wheels. Fascinating. I was quite impressed.” Weber suddenly placed his hat on the bed, as if to keep it from his treacherous, nervous hands. He offered a guilty smile and a half-hearted shrug to Bruning as penance.
     
    “It was hell.” Bruning said simply and stood, stretching. “I will have a glass after all, I think.” Pouring himself a large cup of fortified wine from the cupboard, Bruning held his hand to the window and peered into the dark. Outside a knot of men rushed across the campus in the rain. Bruning watched them run out of view.
     
    Weber looked at him, searching for something, some meaning in Bruning’s manner of speech or the choice of his words. Bruning sat back down and drained half his cup in a gulp. He offered the rest to Weber who shook his head.
     
    “You see. It is all like this. We think...they think...“ Weber’s voice drifted off into silence.
     
    “Yes?” Bruning looked up, suddenly interested.
     
    “They think we have it easy here. We do not. We...”
     
    “Yes.” Bruning swiftly drank down the rest, placing the cup on the bureau, already bored.
     
    “They think they understand. But this is why I am here. I am here to talk of my project, my hell.”
     
    “I’m afraid I have not had a chance to look through your file.”
     
    “What I will tell you is not in the file. But you will be there soon enough, and I want you ready for what you will see...” Weber smiled nervously and looked over his shoulder at the door, the look a child reserves for the opened bedroom closet at night. Like a sudden convulsion, Weber laughed, a horrible sound like a man drowning, and Bruning found himself interested again. Something about Weber, about his predicament, whatever it was, resonated in him. There was an air of conspiracy in the room, suddenly, like a lingering smell.
     
    “May I smoke? You do not mind?” Weber lit a French cigarette without waiting for Bruning to answer. “We have been having difficulties covering this up, my research team and I, but it goes against the Racial Doctrine of the Reich and the project is so important...I shall be frank, it is the only thing which can save us now. Any good soldier knows the war is already over...” Weber glanced furtively around again, as if some divine force would strike him down for simply mentioning the possibility of defeat.
     
    “Go on.”
     
    “The creatures—they call themselves the Deep Ones—they wish to...inter-breed with humans. We thought simply that they...fed on...humans. You see? And so we sent many lower breeds, Russians, Jews, and others out into the waves, but our first meeting indicated they wanted something more...” Weber’s face contorted into a grin for a split second, as if some inward amusement had played across his mind for a moment. He looked up at Bruning.
     
    “They set up colonies on the surface to breed, you see? They wish to mate with humans, and the damned Totenkopf SS keep sending me men from the camps. They want women. We must...give them what they want. Yes? So I did. I