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

     "There, there, Hugin. Fear not the dark Americans. They shall not hurt thee."
     The one-eyed being called Odin sat upon a throne of ebony, bearing on his upraised hand a raven the same color as night. A jewel set in the giant's eyepatch glittered like an orb more far-seeing than the one he had lost. Across his lap lay a shining spear.
     On both sides stood fur-clad beings just as imposing, one blond, with a great axe laid arrogantly over his shoulder. The other, red-bearded, leaned lazily on a hammer the size of a normal man.
     Guards in black leather, twin lightning strokes on their collars, stood at attention around the immense hall of hewn timber columns. Even their rifles were polished black. The only spot of color on each SS uniform was a red swastika armband.
     Odin gazed down at the prisoners, chained in a heap on the floor of the great.hall.
     "Alas. Poor Hugin has not forgiven you Americans. His brother, Munin, was lost when Berlin boiled under your Hellfire bombs."
     The Aesir chief's remaining eye gleamed ferally. "And who can blame my poor watch-bird, or fail to understand a father's grief, when that same flame deluge consumed my bright boy, my far-seeing Heimdallr."
     Survivors of the ill-fated raiding party lay exhausted on the cold stone floor. Unconscious and dying, Major Marlowe was in no condition to answer, but one of the Free British volunteers stood, rattling his chains, and spat in front of the massive throne.
     "Pearson!" O'Leary tried to pull on the man's arm, but was shrugged off as the Briton shook his fist.
     "Yeah, they got your precious boy in Berlin. Like you killed everyone in London an' Paris! I say the Yanks were too soft, stopping there. They shoulda gone ahead an' fried every last Aryan bitch an' cub..."
     His defiance was cut off as an SS officer knocked him down. Troopers brought their rifle butts down, again and again. Finally, Odin waved them back.
     "Take the body to the center of the Great Circle, to be given full rites."
     The officer looked up sharply, but Odin rumbled in a tone that assumed obedience. "We value courage, even in our foes. I want that brave man with me, when Fimbul-Winter blows."
     Black-uniformed guards cut the limp form free as the chief Aesir chucked his raven under the beak, offering a morsel of meat. He spoke to the huge redhead standing beside him.
     "Thor, my son. These other creatures are thine. Poor prizes, I admit, but they did show some prowess in following the Liar this far. What will thou do with them?"
     The giant stroked his hammer with gauntlets the size of small dogs. He made even Loki seem small. Stepping forward to scan the prisoners, Thor seemed to be searching for something. When his gaze lighted on Chris, it seemed to shimmer. Thor's voice was as deep as the growling of earthquakes.
     "I will deign to speak with one or two, Father."
     Odin nodded.
     "Have them cast in a pit somewhere," he told an SS general nearby, who clicked heels and bowed low. "Await my son's pleasure."
     The Nazis hauled Chris and the other survivors away, but not before Chris overheard the elder Aesir tell his offspring, "Find out what you can about that wolf-spawn, Loki. Then give them over for ritual sacrifice."

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.