The Sword and the Net

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I here was a hard, pale sun outside. It shone down through the tracery of the naked lime trees and made their branches black against the chill blue of the sky. It shone through the window of the room they had lent Otto in the new S.S. barracks and glittered cheerfully on the bright surfaces of paint and chromium. It brought with it the music of a band playing at the far side of the grounds—good, swinging martial music which seemed to swell in Otto’s head—and in his throat, where that fantastic and unpredictable and most unmilitary lump had been gathering all the morning.

He coughed harshly; then swallowed three times. That sometimes worked all right. . . .

There was a rapping at the door, and a voice, harsh yet respectful. “Herr Captain. . . . Is the Herr Captain ready?”

Otto swallowed again; then put both hands to his collar. It was clipped already, but he constricted his aching throat yet further with two fingers.

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