Emil Günther
Physical state: A slowly subsiding adrenaline rush
Mental state: Sane
He doesn't like me. Service. In France, most likely. A stalemate. Michael's father went blind. W. Steinkopf. Senfgas. Emil's mind flashed across the French trenches in a blitz, drawing on the canvas of his mind eerie images of men walking faceless through a miasma of poisonous gas, howling in that deathly stillness of the Western front. Maybe he was imagining it, but the muscles of the man of imposing stature seemed to take a subtly scornful look, from what he could see, being on the man's flank; but even that minute hint of possible hostility triggered in Emil the consciousness of his belonging to the German race. Emil had a different approach to life, and the political schemes and games were not a part of it. At least not in the amounts that would warp the way he approached people.
”Perhaps not,” he said when his professor, Dr Steiner, told him to contact the authorities.
A few minutes later he span the wheel on the telephone several times, the cold speaker pressed between his earlobe and shoulder. Tootoo. The wheel. Father wears it on his armband. Why did he jump? The Sun-Wheel. Misused, I believe. Indo-European disk of the sun. Tootoo. Kolovrat, the Russians call it. Slavic version. Same root. Doubled. Maybe he saw it rise bef. The voice on the other side interrupted his thoughts and before her knew the ambulance and the policemen were on their way and he was back in the yard, but a bit farther away from the scene than before. He leaned on the wall near the doorway leading into the dormitories and watched, curious, then curious even more after a while, seeing and following with his eye a slender woman sneaking past the commotion unseen and now sneaking around as if she were looking for someone.