Galactic Patrol, the title. One of those bizarre, feverish fantasies that some Americans seemed to dote on. Ableidinger had found the book enjoyable enough, despite the overwrought prose and the preposterous plot. If nothing else, he'd gotten a new joke out of it.
"The Ram?" blustered Seifert. "What `ram'?"
Unlike the other councilmen, who had by now slouched into the chairs provided for them in the center of the room, he had remained standing. An attempt, obviously, to retain what little semblance of authority he still had.
One of the Jaeger stepped forward and put a stop to that. A quick thrust of a rifle butt into the large stomach collapsed Seifert onto the chair behind him. More from the continuing series of shocks, Ableidinger thought, than the actual force of the stroke. The Jaeger who'd done it was Gerhardt Jost, a man so strong that if he'd delivered the sort of blow he was capable of, Seifert would have been on the floor, gasping for breath.
"Don't waste my time," Ableidinger said. "What difference does it make—to you—what ram it is? Accept that it is, and that it is a ram. Or you will continue to be afflicted by head-butts."
Constantin leaned back in his own chair, and waved his hand toward the windows high on the wall of the room that looked out over the square. "Do we need to make another demonstration? You thought you were in control, here in Bamberg, and would have the American flogged in order to prove it. We showed you otherwise."
Finally, one of the other councilmen spoke. His name was Färber, if Ableidinger remembered Frau Kronacher's briefing properly. The description fit, anyway.
"You planned this?" he asked. His jaw seemed a bit loose.
Ableidinger wagged a scolding finger. "For shame! Was it the ram who plotted to inflict injury on the American? Was it the ram who schemed with monks to humiliate him?"
"He's a heretic," Seifert hissed.
Such a stubborn man.
Foolish, too. Jost came forward to deliver another butt-thrust, but Ableidinger waved him back.
"Yes, he is. A most flagrant heretic. "`Latter-day saints,' no less. And so what? Haven't you read the new legal decrees, Herr Seifert?"
Seifert set his jaws and half-muttered, "We did not charge him with heresy."
"No, you didn't. Instead you trumped up civil charges. Do you think everyone is as stupid as you are?"
"You can't—"
Jost was still standing there. He lifted his rifle and gave Seifert a tap on the head. Not enough to injure the man, although it couldn't have been enjoyable.
"Yes, he can," the Jaeger growled.
"Do you want us shoot him, Const—ah, Helmut?" asked one of the other men in the room.
Seifert's eyes widened and his red face got redder still. The man who'd asked the question was Hermann Ackers, one of the ensigns of the city's militia. No outsider, he; no rural bumpkin.
"Ackers, you can't—"
Jost tapped him again; harder.
"Yes, he can," the Jaeger repeated.
Ableidinger decided to elaborate. "Unfortunately—for you, not Bamberg—Herr Fassbinder is no longer in command of the militia." He pointed a finger at Ackers. "He is."
Stubborn to the point of mindlessness. "You can't—"
"Hit him," Ableidinger commanded.
Jost came around the chair and sent Seifert sprawling to the floor of the cellar, his mouth a ruin.
Ableidinger glanced at a tooth skittering across the stones until it came to a stop against the leg of the chair where another city councilman was sitting. The man—Reimers, he thought the name was—lifted his foot in automatic reflex. Pale-faced, he stared down at the bloody tooth.
"So foolish of you, Herr Seifert," Ableidinger mused. "The only good dentists are in Grantville, you know. Although I am told a German has opened a practice in Jena. The Americans have started a dental school in the university there."
But Seifert was in no condition for repartee. Not that he ever was, of course, being so thick-witted. All that came out through the hand covering his mouth was a groan.
"So it is," Ableidinger pronounced, his eyes leaving Seifert to scan the faces of the rest of the city council.
He was pleased to see that all the faces were pale. That boded well for the future.
"For the moment, you may keep your offices. At least, those of you who did not directly instigate the flogging of Herr Thornton. Until such time as the city can replace you in an orderly manner. Do not, however, make the mistake of thinking your titles have any significance. They have none, any longer. They are merely figures of speech."