What Doctor Gottlieb Saw by Ian Tregillis

Author:Ian Tregillis [Tregillis, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2010-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

Gottlieb woke when the rising sun cleared the forest, high enough to stream through the office window and spear him in the eyes. Sleeping at the desk had made for terrible posture, so now his headache throbbed in time to the carpenters’ hammering. Each blow reverberated in his skull.

As the last vestiges of sleep abandoned him, Gottlieb remembered fragmentary dreams of snowflakes and avalanches, butterflies and hurricanes, corn poppies and ravens.

He’d slept through breakfast, but it mattered little because anxiety had shot his appetite in the temple. The fortifying fire of last night’s drink had become a heap of cold ashes in his stomach and bitter despair on his tongue. Dr. von Westarp would return from Berlin today, but Gottlieb was no closer to staying his own execution. No closer to unraveling Gretel’s actions.

He had to know what had happened to Klaus’s battery.

Rudolf arrived at the office, yawning and rubbing bleary eyes, just as Gottlieb was stepping out. He frowned when he saw Gottlieb locking his office.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “I really need to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Gottlieb. “I’m quite busy. We’ll have to reschedule.”

“When?”

Gottlieb squeezed past him. Over his shoulder, he called, “Find me this afternoon.”

Look hard, though. I might be buried in the forest.

He had to skirt the training field on his way to the battery laboratory. Reinhardt stood in the center of the field, frowning at moist piles of hay until they sprouted violet flames. Gottlieb retraced his path past the generator station (still more cursing and banging). The hammering grew louder as he passed the carpenters at work on the new building.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Doktor.”

Gretel swung out from behind a wall stud. Gottlieb jumped. He hadn’t seen her chatting with the foreman. She leaned in his path, a buttercup tucked behind one ear.

Her eyes, darker than overripe plums, searched his face. She said, “You look troubled.”

His heart thrashed inside his ribcage, seeking escape. She’d frightened him on purpose, to play with him, to keep him off-balance. But Gottlieb didn’t need to wait for the panic to subside before he could craft a suitable response. His professional training took over. He turned the question back on Gretel.

“I’m sad about Oskar. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She jumped down beside him. It fluttered the mud-stained hem of her dress, as well as her hair, and the wires protruding from her skull. He caught a whiff of the flower, and tried not to flinch as she brushed against him.

She clucked her tongue. “Poor Oskar. Such a tragedy.”

“And a senseless one,” he said. “An accident like that might have happened to anybody.”

“Not anybody.” The tone of her voice carried faint disapproval, as though he’d said something dim. More brightly, she said, “Are you looking for a late breakfast? I’ll walk with you.”

And she did. Neither spoke. Gretel was, of course, unconcerned by the awkward silence. The clinician in Gottlieb, the small part of him not overwhelmed with the desire to flee, double-checked his diagnosis against her behaviors. The superficial charm fit.

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