Thor Meets Captain America

By David Brin

Copyright © 1986 (revised 12/98), by David Brin. All rights reserved. No duplication or resale without permission.

4.

     Poor Major Marlowe had been right about one thing. The Nazis would never have won without the Aesir, or something like them. Hitler and his gang must have believed from the start that they could somehow call forth the ancient "gods," or they would surely never have dared wage such a war, one certain to bring in America.
     Indeed, by early 1944 it had seemed all but over. There was hell yet to pay, of course, but nobody back home feared defeat anymore. The Russians were pushing in from the east. Rome was almost taken, and the Mediterranean was an Allied lake. The Japanese were crumbling -- pushed back or bottled up in island after island. Meanwhile the greatest armada in history gathered in England, preparing to cross the Channel and lance the Nazi boil for good and all.
     In factories and shipyards across America, the Arsenal of Democracy poured forth more war materiel in a month than the Third Reich produced in its best year. Ships rolled off the ways at intervals of hours. Planes every few minutes.
     Most important of all, in Italy, Africa and the Pacific, a rabble of farmers and city boys had been tempered, becoming warriors in a great army. Man to man, they were a match for their experienced foe, and outnumbered them as well.
     Already there was talk of the postwar recovery, of plans to help in the rebuilding, and a "United Nations" to keep the peace forever.
     In '44 Chris had been just a child in knee pants, devouring Chet Nimitz novels and praying with all his might that there would be something half as glorious to do in his adulthood as what his uncles were achieving overseas right then. Maybe there would be adventures in space, he hoped. For after this, the horror of war would surely never be allowed again.
     Then came the rumors... tales of setbacks on the Eastern front... of reeling Soviet armies sent into sudden, unexpected retreat. The reasons were unclear... mostly, what came back were superstitious rumblings that no modern person credited.
     Voices on a street corner:
     Damn Russkies... I knew all along they didn' have no stayin' power... Alla time yammerin 'bout a "second front"... Well, we'll give 'em a secondfront. Save their hash. Don't fret, lvan. Uncle Sam's coming...
     Then it was June, and the Norman sky was filled with planes. Ships covered the Channel, as far as any eye could see. The greatest armada of free men ever assembled...
     Sitting against a cold stone wall in an underground cell, Chris pinched his eyes shut and tried to crush away the memory of grainy black and white films he had been shown. Photographs never seen by the public.
     D-Day...
     D for disaster.
     Cyclones, hundreds of them, spinning like horrible tops, rising out of the dawn mists. They grew and climbed till dark funnels seemed to stretch beyond the sky. Approaching the ships, one could make out terrible figures riding those whirling winds, driving the storms faster and faster with beating wings...

     "Marlowe's come up aces and eights, man." O'Leary sighed heavily as he sagged down next to Chris. "You're the big cheese now, dad."
     Chris closed his eyes. All men die, he thought, reminding himself that he hadn't really liked the dour marine all that much, anyway.
     He mourned nonetheless, if for no other reason than that Marlowe had been his insulation, protecting him from that bitch called command.
     "So what gives now, chief?"
     Chris looked at O'Leary. The man was really too old to be playing kids' games. There were lines at the edges of those doelike eyes, and baby fat was turning into a double chin. The Army recognized genius, and put up with a lot from its civilian experts. But Chris wondered -- not for the first time -- how this escapee from Greenwich Village ever came to a position of responsibility.
     Loki chose him. That was the real answer. Like he chose me.
     So much for the god of cleverness.
     "What gives is that you damp down the beat-rap, O'Leary. Making only every third sentence incomprehensible should be enough to provide your emotional crutch."
     The beatnik technician winced, and Chris at once regretted the outburst.
     "Oh, never mind." He changed the subject. "How are the rest of the men doing?"
     "Copacetic, I guess... I mean, they're okay, for guys slated for ritual shortening in a few hours. They all knew this was a suicide mission. Just wanted to take a few of the bastards with them, is all."
     Chris nodded. If we had another year or two...
     By then the missile scientists would have had rockets accurate enough to go for a surgical strike, making this attempt to sneak in bombs under the enemy's noses unnecessary. The Satellite was just the beginning, if they had time.
     "Pearson was right, man," O'Leary muttered as he collapsed against the wall next to Chris. "We shoulda pasted them with everything we had. Melted Europe to slag, if that's what it took."
     "By the time we had enough bombs, they had atomic weapons, too," Chris pointed out.
     "So? After we fried Peenemunde, their delivery systems stagnated. And they haven't got a clue how to go thermonuclear! Why, even if they did manage to disassemble our bomb..."
     "God forbid!" Chris blinked. His heart raced, even considering the possibility. If the Nazis managed to make the leap from A-bomb to fusion weapons...
     The tech shook his head vigorously. "I scoped -- I mean I checked out the destruct triggers myself, Chris. Anyone pokes around to try to see how a U.S. of A. type H-bomb works will be in for a nasty surprise."
     That had, of course, been a minimum requirement before being allowed to attempt this mission. Had they been able to assemble the weapon near the "Great Circle" of Aesgard, the course of war might have changed. Now, all they could hope was that the separate components would melt to slag as they were supposed to when their timers expired.
     O'Leary persisted. "I still think we should have launched everything we had back in '52."
     Chris knew how the man felt. Most Americans believed the exchange would be worth it. A full-scale strike at Hitler's homeland would have seared the heart out of it. The monster's retaliation, with cruder rockets and fission bombs, might have been a price worth paying.
     When he had learned the real reason, at first Chris refused to believe it. He had assumed that Loki was lying... that it was an Aesir trick. But since then he had seen the truth. America's arsenal was a two-edged sword. Unless used carefully it would cut both ways.
     There was a rattling of keys. Three SS guards stepped in, looking down their noses at the dejected Allied raiders.
     "Great Thor would speak vit' your leader," the officer said in thickly accented English. When no one moved, his gaze fell on Chris. "This one. Our lord wants him especially."
     Guards seized Chris by the arms, lifting him bodily.
     "Cool as glass, dad," O'Leary said. "Drive em crazy, baby."
     Chris glanced back from the door. "You too, O'Leary."
     The dungeon gate slammed shut behind him.

5.

     "You are a Dane, are you not?"
     Chris stood tied to a pillar in front of a crackling fireplace. The Gestapo official peered at Chris from several angles before asking his question.
     "Danish by ancestry. What of it?" Chris shrugged under his bonds.
     The Nazi clucked. "Oh, nothing in particular. It is just that I never cease to be amazed when I find specimens of clearly superior stock fighting against their own divine heritage."
     Chris lifted an eyebrow. "Do you interrogate a lot of prisoners?"
     "Oh, yes, very many."
     "Well, then you must be amazed all the time."
     The Gestapo man blinked, then smiled sourly. He stepped back to light a cigarette, and Chris noticed that his hands were trembling.
     "But doesn't your very blood cry out when you find yourself working with, going into battle alongside, racial scum, mongrels... ?"
     Chris laughed. He turned his head and regarded the Nazi icily.
     "Why are you here?"
     The fellow blinked again. "See here. I am in charge of intelligence and party doctrinal -- "
     "You're a jailor. The priests of the Aesir run everything now. The mystics in the SS control the Reich. Hitler's a tottering old syphyllitic they won't let out of Berchtesgaden. And you old-fashioned Nazis are barely tolerated anymore."
     The officer sucked at his cigarette. "What do you mean?"
     "I mean that all that racial claptrap was just window dressing. An excuse to set up the death camps. But the SS would've been just as happy to use Aryans in them, if that was the only way to..."
     "Yes?" The Gestapo man stepped forward. "To do what? If the purpose of the camps was not the elimination of impure races, then what, smart man? What?"
     There was a brittle, high-pitched edge to the man's laughter. "You do not know, do you? Even Loki did not tell you!"
     Chris could have sworn that there was disappointment in the officer's eyes... as if he had hoped to learn something from Chris, and felt let down to find out his prisoner was just as much in the dark.
     No, I wasted a question. Loki didn't tell me about the reason for the camps.
     Chris glanced at the other man's trembling hands, that had doubtless wreaked more hell on broken bodies than bore contemplating. All in a cause that was no longer even relevant to the winning side.
     "Poor obsolete National Socialist," Chris said. "Your dreams, mad as they were, were human ones. How does it feel to have it all taken over by aliens? To watch it change beyond recognition?"
     The Gestapo man reddened. Fumbling, he plucked a truncheon from the wall and smacked it in his gloved left hand.
     "I will change something else beyond recognition," he growled. "And if I'm obsolete, at least I am still allowed the pleasure of my craft."
     He approached, smiling, a thin film on his lips. Chris braced himself as the arm swung back. But then the leather curtains parted. A large shadow fell across the rug. The officer paled and snapped to attention.
     Red-bearded Thor nodded briefly, shrugging out of his fur cloak.
     "You may go," he rumbled.
     Chris did not even look at the Nazi as the interrogator tried to meet his eye for the last time. Chris watched coals in the fireplace until the curtains swished again and he was alone with the alien.
     Thor sat cross-legged, joining Chris in contemplating the flames. When he used his hammer to prod the logs, heat brought out fine, glowing designs in the massive iron head.
     "Fro sends word from Vineland... from the sea thou callest Labrador. There has been a slaughter of many brave men. Those cowards tools -- 'submarines' -- did frightful harm to our fleet. But in the end, Fro's tempests were masterful. The landing is secured.
     Chris controlled a sinking feeling in his stomach. This was expected. Worse would come this winter.
     Thor shook his head. "This is a bad war. Where is the honor, when thousands die unable even to show valor?"
     Chris had more experience than most Americans in holding conversation with gods. Still, he took a chance by speaking without permission.
     "I agree, Great One. But you can't blame us for that."
     Thor's eyes glittered as he inspected Chris.
     "No, brave worm. I do not blame you. That you have used your flame weapons as little as you have speaks well for the pride of thy leaders. Or perhaps they know what our wrath would be, if they were spent wantonly."
     I never should have been allowed on this mission. I know too much, Chris realized. Loki had been the one to overrule High Command and insist that Chris come along. But that made him the only one here who knew the real reason the H-bombs had been kept leashed.
     Dust from atom blasts, and soot from burning cities -- those were what Allied High Command feared, more than radiation or Nazi retaliation. Already, from limited use of nuclear weapons so far, the weather had chilled measurably.
     And Aesir were much stronger in winter! Scientists verified Loki's story, that careless use of the Allied nuclear advantage would lead to catastrophe, no matter how badly they seared the other side.
     "We too prefer a more personal approach," Chris said, hoping to keep the Aes believing his own explanation. "No man wants to be killed by powers beyond his understanding, impossible to resist or fight back against."
     Thor's rumble, this time, was low laughter.
     "Well said, worm. Thou dost chastize as Freyr does, with words that reap, even as they sow."
     The Aes leaned forward a little. "You would earn merit, small one, if you told me how to find the Brother of Lies."
     Those gray eyes were like cold clouds, and Chris felt his sense of reality waver as he looked into them. It took an effort of will to tear his gaze away, replying with a dry mouth.
     "I... don't know what you're talking about."
     The rumbling changed tone, deepening. Chris felt a rough touch as Thor brushed his cheek with the leather-bound haft of his great war hammer.
     "Loki, youngling. Tell me where the Trickster may be found, and you may yet escape your doom, you may even find a place by my side. In the world to come, there will be no greater place for a man.
     This time Chris steeled himself to meet the hypnotic pools. Thor's eyes seemed to reach hungrily for his soul, as a magnet might call to native iron. Chris fought back with a savage heat of hatred.
     "Not... for all the Valkyries in your pathetic alien pantheon," he whispered, half breathless. "I'd rather run with wolves."
     The smile vanished. Thor blinked, and for a moment Chris thought he saw the Aesir's image waver just a little, as if... as if Chris were looking through a man-shaped fold in space.
     "Courage will not save thee from the wages of disrespect, worm," the shape warned, and solidified again into a fur-clad giant.
     All at once, Chris was glad to have known O'Leary.
     "Don't you dig it yet, daddyo? I don't fucking believe in you! Wherever you're from, baby, they probably kicked you out!
     "You Aesir may be mean enough to wreck our world, but everything about you screams that you're the dregs, man. Leaky squares. Probably burned out papa's stolen saucer just gettin' here!"
     He shook his head. "I just refuse to believe in you, man."
     The icy gray eyes blinked once. Then Thor's surprised expression faded into a deathly cool smile.
     "I did not ken your other insults. But for calling me a man, you shall die as you seem to wish, before the morning sun."
     He stood and placed a hand on Chris's shoulder, as if emparting a friendly benediction, but even that casual touch felt viselike.
     "I only add this, small one. We Aesir have come invited, and we arrived not in ships -- even ships between the stars -- but instead upon the wings of Death itself. This much, this boon of knowledge I grant thee, in honor of your defiance."
     Then, in a swirl of furs and displaced air, the creature was gone, leaving Chris alone again to watch coals flicker slowly and turn into ashes.

6.

     The Teutonic priests were resplendent in red and black, their robes traced in gold and silver. Platinum eagles' wings rose from top-heavy helmets as they marched around a great circle of standing stones, chanting in a tongue that sounded vaguely Germanic, but which Chris knew was much, much older.
     An altar, carved with gaping dragons' mouths, stood beside a raging bonfire. Smoke rose in a turbulent funnel, carrying bright sparks up toward a full moon. Heat blazed at the ring of prisoners, each chained to his own obelisk of rough-hewn rock.
     They faced southward, looking from a Gotland prominence across the Baltic toward a shore that had once been Poland, and for a little while after that had been the "Thousand-Year Reich."
     The waters were unnaturally calm, almost glassy, reflecting a nearly perfect image of the bonfire alongside the Moon's rippling twin.
     "Fro must be back from Labrador," O'Leary commented loudly enough for Chris to hear him over the chanting and the pounding drums. "That'd explain the clear night. He's the god of tempests."
     Chris glanced at the man sourly, and O'Leary grinned back apologetically. "Sorry, man. I mean he's th' little green alien who's in charge of weather control. Make you feel any better?"
     I had that coming, Chris thought. He smiled dryly and shrugged. "I don't suppose it matters much now."
     O'Leary watched the Aryan Brothers march by again, carrying a giant swastika alongside a great dragonlike totem. The technician started to say something, but then he blinked and seemed to mumble to himself, as if trying to catch a drifting thought. When the procession had passed, he turned to Chris, a mystified expression on his face. "I just remembered something."
     Chris sighed. "What is it now, O'Leary?"
     The beatnik frowned in puzzlement. "I can't figure why it slipped my mind until now. But back when we were on the beach, unloading the bomb parts, Old Loki pulled me aside. It was all so hectic, but I could swear I saw him palm th' H-bomb trigger mechanism, Chris. That means..."
     Chris nodded.
     "That means he knew we were going to be captured. I already figured that out, O'Leary. At least the Nazis won't get the trigger."
     "Yeah. But that's not all I just remembered, Chris. Loki told me to tell you something for him. He said you'd asked him a question, and he told me to relay an answer he said you might understand."
     O'Leary shook his head.
     "Can't figure why I forgot to tell you till now."
     Chris laughed. Of course the renegade Aes had put the man under a post-hypnotic command to recall the message later... perhaps only in a situation like this one.
     "What is it, O'Leary? What did he say to tell me?"
     "It was just one word, Chris. He said to tell you -- necromancy. Then he clammed up. It wasn't much later that the SS jumped us.
     "What'a he mean by that, Captain? What was your question, anyway? What does the answer mean?"
     Chris stared at the funnel of sparks climbing toward the Moon, and pondered. With his last question he had asked Loki about the camps -- about the awesome, horrible, concentrated effort of death that had been perpetrated, first in Europe and then in Russia and Africa. What were they for? There had to be more to it than a plan to eliminate some bothersome minorities.
     Moreover, why had Loki, who normally seemed so oblivious to human life, acted to rescue so many from the death factories, at so great a risk to himself?
     Necromancy. That was Loki's delayed reply to his final question -- told in such a way that Chris might never be able to tell anyone who mattered.
     Necromancy...
     The word stood for the performance of magic. A special, terrible kind. In legend, a necromancer was an evil wizard who used the concentrated field created by the death agony of human beings to drive his spells.
     But that was just superstitious nonsense!
     Light-headed, Chris looked out across the sand at the hulking Aesir seated on their gilded thrones, heard the chanting of the priests, and wished he could dismiss the idea as easily as he once would have.
     Was that the reason the Nazis had dared to wage a war they otherwise could never win? Because they believed they could create such concentrated, distilled horror that ancient spells would actually work?
     It explained much. Other nations had gone insane. Other movements had been evil. But none perpetrated crimes with such dedication and efficiency. The horror must have been directed not so much at death itself, but at some hideous goal beyond death!
     "They... made... the Aesir. That's what Loki meant by thinking that, maybe, his own memories were false. When he suspected he was actually no older than..."
     "What was that, Cap'n?" O'Leary leaned as far as his chains would allow. "I couldn't follow..."
     The procession stopped. The High Priest, carrying a golden sword, held it before Odin's throne. The father of the "gods" touched it and the Aesir's rumbling chant could be heard, lower than human singing, a hungry sound like a growl that trembled within the Earth.
     One of the chained Allies -- a Free Briton -- was dragged, numbed with dread, from his obelisk toward the fire and the dragon altar.
     Chris shut his eyes, as if to hold out the screams.
     "Jesus!" O'Leary hissed.
     Yes, Chris thought. Invoke Jesus. Or Allah, or God of Abraham. Wake up, Brahma! For your dream has turned into a nightmare.
     He understood now why Loki had not told him his answer while there was even a chance he might make it home alive.
     Thank you, Loki.
     Better America and the Last Alliance should go down honorably than be tempted by this knowledge... by this horrible way out. For if the Allies ever adopted the enemy's methods, there would be nothing left in the soul of humanity to fight for.
     Who would we conjure? Chris wondered. If we ever used those spells? Superman? Captain Marvel? Oh, they'd be more than a match for the Aesir! Our myths were boundless.
     He laughed, and the sound turned into a sob as another scream of agony pierced the night.
     Thank you, Loki, for sparing us that test of our souls.
     He had no idea where the renegade "trickster god" had gone, or whether this debacle was only a cloak for some deeper, more secret mission.
     Could that be? Chris wondered. Soldiers seldom saw the big picture, and President Marshall didn't have to tell his OSS captains everything. This mission could have been a feint, a minor ploy in a greater scheme.
     Lasers and satellites... they may be just part of it. They might have a silver bullet... a sprig of mistletoe, still.
     Chains rattled to his right. He heard a voice cursing in Portuguese and footsteps dragging the latest prisoner off.
     Chris looked up at the sky, and a thought suddenly occurred to him, as if out of nowhere.
     Legends begin in strange ways, he realized.
     Someday -- even if there was no silver bullet -- the horror would have to ebb at last. Perhaps when humans grew scarce and the Aesir were less well fed on the death manna they supped on from charnel houses.
     Then a time might come when human heroes would count for something again. In secret laboratories, or in exile on the Moon, or at the bottom of the sea, free men and women would toil to build armor, weapons, maybe the heroes themselves...
     This time the scream was choked, as the Brazilian ranger tried to defy his enemies, only breaking to show his agony at the last.
     Footsteps approached. To his amazement, Chris felt feather-light, as if gravity were barely enough to keep him on the ground.
     "So long, O'Leary," he said distantly.
     "Yeah, man. Stay cool."
     Chris nodded. He offered the black-and-silver-clad SS his wrists as they unchained him, and spoke to them softly, in a friendly tone of voice.
     "You know, those costumes make you look pretty silly for grown men."
     They blinked at him in surprise. Chris smiled and stepped between them, leading the way toward the altar and the waiting Aesir.
     Someday men will challenge these monsters, he thought, knowing that the numb, light-headed feeling meant he wouldn't scream... that nothing they could do would make him take more than casual notice.
     Loki had made certain of this. It was why the Trickster had spent so much time with Chris, this last year. Why he insisted that Chris come along this time.
     Our day will come. Revenge will drive our descendants. Science will armor them. But those heroes will need one more thing, he realized.
     Heroes need inspiration. They need legends.
     Approaching the humming Aesir, they passed before a row of human "dignitaries" from the Reich. A few of the aging Nazis wore faces glazed in excitement, but others sat numbly, as if lost. He felt he could almost read the despair in those darkened, mad eyes. They knew that something they had wrought had gone far out of their control.
     Thor frowned as Chris flashed him a smile. "Hi. How'ya doin'?" he said to the Aesir, interrupting their rumbling music. Where curses and screams had only resonated with the chant, good-natured sarcasm broke up the ritual in a mutter of surprise.
     "Move, swine!"
     An SS guard pushed Chris, or tried to, but stumbled instead on empty air where the American had been. Chris ducked underneath the jangling, cumbersome uniform, between the Nazi's legs, and swatted the fellow's behind with the flat of his hand, sending him sprawling.
     The other guard reached for him, but crumpled openmouthed as Chris bent his fingers back and snapped them. The third guard he lifted by a belt buckle and tossed into the bonfire, to bellow in sudden horror and pain.
     Hysterical strength, of course, Chris realized, knowing what Loki had done to him. In rapid succession, four onrushing underpriests went down with snapped necks or spines. Of course no human could do these things without being used up, Chris knew distantly. But what did it matter? This was more fun than he had expected to be having, at this moment.
     A golden flash warned him. Chris whirled and ducked, siezing Odin's spear with a sudden snatch.
     "Coward," he whispered at the hot-faced "father of the gods."
     Flipping the heavy, gleaming weapon around, Chris held it in two hands before him.
     God, help me...
     With a cry he broke the legendary spear over his knee. Pieces fell to the sand.
     Nobody moved. Even Thor's whirling hammer slowed and then dropped. In the sudden silence, Chris distantly realized his femur was shattered -- along with most of the bones in his hands -- leaving him perched precariously on one leg.
     Yet his only regret was that he couldn't emulate an aged Jew he had heard of from one of the concentration camp survivors. Standing in front-of the grave he had been forced to dig for himself, the old man did not beg, or try to reason with the SS. Nor did he slump in despair. Instead, the prisoner had turned away from his murderers, dropped his pants, and said aloud in Yiddish as he bent over --
     "Kish mir im toches..."
     "Kiss my ass," Chris told Thor as more guards finally ran up and grabbed his arms. As they dragged him to the altar, he kept his gaze on the red-bearded "god."
     The priests tied him down, but Chris met the Aesir's gray eyes.
     "I don't believe in you," he said.
     Thor blinked, and the giant suddenly turned away.
     Chris laughed out loud then, knowing that nothing in the world would suppress this story. It would spread, at first in whispers, then rumors and tales. There would be no stopping it.
     The death-manna from tonight's ceremony would not nourish monsters. It would be a poison. A medicine.
     Loki, you bastard. You used me, and I suppose I should thank you.
     But rest assured, Loki, someday we'll get you, too.
     He laughed again as he watched the dismayed High priest fumble with the knife. A wide-eyed assistant jiggled and dropped his swastika banner. Chris roared.
     Behind him, he heard O'Leary's high-pitched giggle. Then, another of the prisoners barked, and another. It was unstoppable.
     Across the chilly Baltic, an uncertain wind began to rise. And overhead, a new star sailed swiftly where older ones merely drifted across the sky.

THE END

Care to see this epic tale continued? For many years people wrote in about "Thor Meets Captain America," which was a Hugo Award finalist and has been translated into many other languages. Finally, in 2003, DC Comics and Wildstorm commissioned me to write the script for a full saga based on this story, and hired the great artist Scott Hampton to hand-paint illustrations. The result was The Life Eaters, a lavish 144 page graphic novel. (In France, home of the "bande dessinee" tradition of graphic novels, a large format edition was a huge hit under the title "D-Day, Le Jour du Desastre.")

Afterword by David Brin

The parallel-world story is another mainstay of SF. It explores the old question: "What would have happened if...?"

If a fly buzzing above a bowl of soup had dipped too low, getting caught, disgusting a Roman centurion, who took his wrath out on an underling, sending him out on an extra patrol, which detected Hannibal's army in the Alps early enough to catch it far from Rome... You see the point.

Sometimes we like to frighten ourselves. The most frequent "what if' seems to deal with alternate realities in which the Nazis won World War II. Something about that loathsome possibility just invites a horror story.

Trouble is, I never could believe it. Mind you, Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castle is a classic, a great work. But its premise -- that an early assassination of Franklin Roosevelt would have led to an inevitable Axis victory -- is hard to swallow.

They were just such schmucks!

I mean, it's hard to think of any way a single altered event would have let the Nazis win their war. They would have needed an entire chain of flukes even to have a chance. In fact, it took quite a few lucky breaks for them to last as long as they did, and to have the time to commit such atrocities.

I said as much to Gregory Benford when he invited me to write a piece for his upcoming anthology of parallel world stories, Hitler Victorious. Greg's reply? A dare.

"I'll bet you could think of some premise that'd work, David.

How unlikely can it be?"

It can be preposterous, as long as it sings.

Greg was my collaborator on a far larger large novel. I trusted him. But once the story was started, it took off in directions I never expected. I don't know if the story "sings," but it does tie together several curious things about the Nazi cult.

Why were the Nazis so evil? Why did they do so many horrible, pointless things? What was behind their incredible streak of romantic mysticism?

Maybe the bastards really believed something like this was possible.

David Brin is a scientist and best-selling author whose future-oriented novels include Earth, The Postman, and Hugo Award winners Startide Rising and The Uplift War. (The Postman inspired a major film in 1998.) Brin is also known as a leading commentator on modern technological trends. His nonfiction book -- The Transparent Society -- won the Freedom of Speech Award of the American Library Association. Brin's newest novel Kiln People explores a fictional near future when people use cheap copies of themselves to be in two places at once. The Life Eaters -- a graphic novel -- explores a chilling alternative outcome of World War II.

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DESTINY:
The Crystal Spheres
The Loom of Thessaly
The Fourth Vocation of George Gustaf

RECOLLECTON:
Senses Three and Six
Toujours Voir
A Stage of Memory

SPECULATION:
Just a Hint
Tank Farm Dynamo
Thor Meets Captain America

PROPAGATION:
Lungfish
The River of Time

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