That might permit them to stretch.
He found a match and burned the Reber passport and tickets one page at a time, catching the ashes on a sheet of newspaper. Then he opened the window and quickly closed it again. Up ahead the track was curving, and there were buildings in sight that suggested they were approaching a town.
The town flashed by the window a minute or two later. When there were no more buildings in sight, he opened it again. He got rid of the ashes by letting the wind catch them. But the track ahead was curved, and he could see six or seven cars and the locomotive. If he could see those cars, someone in those cars could see his. And might see him throwing the suitcases out.
After what seemed like a very long time, the track straightened out.
He seemed to be thinking more calmly now. There was no reason to throw the suitcases out the window at all.
If someone came into the compartment, he could say the suitcases had been here when he came into the compartment and he had no idea whom they belonged to. It would be much safer to wait until they got to the next stop and see if there would be an opportunity to safely dispose of them then.
He put Reber’s suitcases in the rack and carefully checked to see if there was anything he had missed in the compartment. He stepped to the compartment door and unlatched it, then sat down and picked up the newspaper.
The excitement of a few minutes before was gone, replaced now by terrible feeling of depression.
He allowed himself to dwell on the feeling that he was being used.
He wondered what Dick Canidy would have done if he had told him to go fuck him serf, that he had no intention of putting his head on the block under the guillotine by going inside Germany.
Shit! The fucking Q pill is in the change pocket of Reber’s jacket.
If or got about it I almost threw it out the fucking window!
He took the suitcase from the rack, found the jacket and the glass vial, and–taking a perverse pleasure from doing so–put it between his teeth as he closed the suitcase and replaced it on the rack.
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 fur of what looked like watery milk. He wondered how much of it was actually necessary to take you out.
What gi 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 of 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.