"I want that man. I must have him."

"Not yet."

"It's always not yet. Every day is not yet. Yesterday was not yet. Tomorrow will be not yet. I am tired of being deprived. Always deprived. Changing names, changing homes. All the time. Running. From Americans and British and French and Russians. Now even from our own people in Germany and God help us, from the Jews. It disgusts me to run from Jews. I want to tell the whole world who we are, what we are. We should be proud. We are Nazis."

"Quiet."

"Nazis. Nazis. Nazis, Seig heil."

"Quiet."

"Do I get him?"

"Yes. But not yet."

"Nazi, Nazi, Nazi.. Dr. Hans Frichtmann, of Treblinka, Buchenwald and various other resorts of final solution. Dr. Hans...."

"All right. All right. You can have him."

"When?"

"Soon."

"With the pictures too?"

"I don't know."

"I like being a star, daddy. I like to see your face when you photograph me. That is the best part."

"All right. Go home now, dear. I must see Dr. Ratchett," he said wearily.

"I will go. It makes you sick to see me do those things?"

"Yes."

"That is the best part."

He watched his daughter stride happily away, putting another victory in her pocket, then entered the home of Dr. James Ratchett. Ratchett had not yet entered his special place, but was cutting at a dark wedge which looked like dried chewing tobacco, but was really hashish. The wedge was the size of a domino and he watched Ratchett's pudgy fingers work the razor at an edge, cutting slivers into the small bronze bowl of a pipe. Every other sliver missed.

"The beast," Ratchett said, "I can't even fill my pipe."

"Poor man. How could they let this happen to you? Here, I will prepare your pipe." They sat in Ratchett's living room, a dramatic affair of black and white. Behind the fireplace, bordered by two curved elephant tusks, was the place he knew Ratchett would enter.