Chapter 1: Kunst ist Scheisse

"I can't draw it properly," Edward said, holding the pencil awkwardly in his left hand as he tried to render the design more accurately. "I want to get the curvature right—here," he said, biting his lip, a bit frustrated. "You know I can't draw detail for shit…here, you do it."

Alfons took the pencil and the pad of blank newsprint and studied the drawing. Yes, it was crap and would not do. He turned the page over and started afresh.

Edward described what he wanted. "Do a forty degree curve on the cap. I think that would work well, since we didn't have a lot of success with the fifty, but I think we were going in the right direction…also, maybe we should suggest that we go with a diameter of thirty centimeters, I think that proportion should make a nice model, small but we can scale it up if it works…let me see what you've got…"

Alfons Heiderich had never before shown Edward that he could draw portraits, but he had done a quick but serviceable sketch of Edward, catching, he thought, the light in his eyes and the correct curve of his nose, just so. The chin was tough, he always had trouble getting the right proportion with chins, but…Alfons kept peeking up at Edward while the other examined a blueprint. Edward was biting and sucking on his lower lip, eyes cast down at the drawing, and Alfons endeavored to capture the way his face looked. Intent. He didn't know exactly what he found so captivating, seeing Edward like this, but he couldn't stop looking. Finally, he was finished.

"Here."

Edward leaned forward and took the pad from him.

"You drew me?" He stared at the picture.

"What? You hate it." Alfons studied the drawing; his drawing skills—aside from rockets and plans—were pretty rusty, but he thought this was quite a good likeness.

"No…I just…I don't think anyone has ever drawn me before, you know?"

Edward seemed to turn a bit red, and turned his face away to start fussing with some papers that Alfons knew didn't need fussing with.

It wasn't until Alfons had gone out on his own that Ed took the time to really look at the picture he had drawn. Is that what I look like to him? he wondered, examing the pencil strokes that approximated his likeness. His eyes were half-closed, almost as if he were falling asleep, or just waking up. He held the pad at arm's length and narrowed his eyes. He felt strangely, pleasantly flattered that his roommate had drawn his picture like this, without asking.

He sat down with the pad on his lap and flipped the page over to a new sheet of newsprint. Taking up a pencil, he examined the tip, decided it was too dull, and took out his penknife to sharpen it. He felt like he was procrastinating. He wanted to draw Heiderich. It would be hard from memory, and even harder with his left hand. He had never been much for drawing, he had always focused on alchemy when he was younger, and when he had lost his natural hand, he had had to concentrate hard enough just to write with his left, let alone draw.

But, somehow, he felt an obligation, or a strong desire, to return the compliment.

Within moments, he realized it was stupid to try. If he could barely draw a simple rocket, how the hell was he going to draw a portrait, and from memory?

Memory. He painstakingly sketched the shape of the face, the eyes, the nose, the mouth. It took him ages to get each part even vaguely satisfactory. He concentrated hard on that face, every line of it, to try to get it right, to get it to look even remotely, remotely like the face he remembered.

He wanted to remember every part of it, every expression he made, how he looked when he spoke, when he smiled, when he was concentrating. It had been so long since he had seen him, he knew that he would look different now, but knew in his heart that…he was sure that…

He was drawing Al.

Immediately upon realizing this he tore the sheet from the pad and crumpled it up in his hand.

The University was like its own little city, its own little world, with microcosms within separated by all sorts of rules and castes and hierarchies that Ed could not begin to fathom. He had little interest in what was going on outside the physics department, although occasionally he would find himself pushing his way through a clot of students on campus, and if he paused to figure out what they were up to, it was usually a klatsch of communists watching someone standing beneath a flagpole issuing some rant or a group of feminists in ankle-high skirts demurely applauding some fiery female, likewise ranting. Once he even came across a bunch of graduate students demanding that they be paid a living wage for imparting their learning to their younger peers, asking in anguish whether it wasn't too much to ask that they earn enough to feed themselves one meal a day.

These distractions were of passing interest to Ed and to Alfons, but they might stand and observe them for a few moments before moving on toward the library or the science labs. On one particular early spring day, however, the warmth of the weather led them to seek to stay outdoors longer than usual, and they wormed their way into a crowd to observe the one of the oddest spectacles Ed had yet seen in this world.

Two young men were standing facing one another, tied together by their waists with a length of rope about two meters long. One was fully dressed and ostentatiously swinging a pocket watch in his hand. The other was stripped to his worn, long underwear, with dramatic rips at the shoulders and knees, barefoot. The latter appeared to be tugging at the rope, while the former stood with his feet apart, swinging his watch and affecting an arrogant manner.

"No more will I be your slave, bourgeois beast!" ranted the one in his underwear. "I am an artist!"

"Submit to my rules, or you risk losing my patronage!" was the other's riposte.

"I will break these bonds!" declared the Artist. They watched as the Artist deployed a large knife from somewhere within his drawers, and proceeded to saw away at the rope.

It took such a long time for the man to break the rope with the knife that Alfons and Edward glanced at one another a few times, secret smirks, before the sturdy hemp gave up the ghost.

The audience clapped politely.

"What the hell was that supposed to be?" Ed asked loudly, causing several people around him to hiss and cluck.

"Performance art," supplied a girl standing next to Alfons. She had dark hair cut close to her chin, a severe short fringe cut across her arched brows. She gave both of them a disapproving look. "It's very serious," she informed them. "It's not nice of you to mock it."

Alfons was quick to blush and apologize, while Edward crossed his arms and watched the two young men take bows and wave their arms with great affected humility.

"You two are not in the art department," observed the girl. "Let me guess—mathematicians."

"We're with the physics department, actually," said Alfons.

"Of course," she conceded, dipping her chin. "Even though you are scientists, you should open your minds to art. Our circle has a gallery showing on Saturday. You should come." She produced a piece of card from somewhere that was stamped with a sort of abstract picture in red and black ink, and included information on date time and place.

Alfons took the proferred card and pretended to study it with interest, but Ed could not suppress a snorting noise.

"I'll have work on display," said the girl, and now she suddenly seemed earnest. "We'd just love to get as many people we can to come…really, you might be surprised. Broaden your horizons!" She smiled, small red mouth revealing tiny, even teeth. Ed noticed for the first time that she was wearing a very, very large velvet flower pinned to her jacket…no, it was more like a cabbage, he thought, and as big as her head, now that he looked at it.

She must have taken the smile on his face for friendliness because she exclaimed, "Oh, good! My name is Maria, by the way…and here comes Otto, you must meet him, he's the star of our department…"

She had drawn a young man with an imploring wave of her hand, and he eagerly approached them, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. He was tall but stoop-shouldered—Ed always wondered at how anyone with the good fortune to be tall wouldn't stand to their full height—and wore a worn velvet jacket with an equally faded peach-colored shirt underneath, and a pair of the most dismal brown trousers Ed had ever seen on someone not lying in the gutter.

Otto seemed friendly and eager, but a bit scattered as he shook both their hands and made introductions.

"We need a crowd at the gallery on Saturday…need to impress the department and the governors, you know, so they don't cut us off entirely…we're lucky we still get to use some space at the University, but they are cutting the art college loose…as many people as we can get…please come!"

His dark eyes were very imploring and earnest, as was his greasy, floppy hair. Otto finished his speech with raised eyebrows, hoping for the best, no doubt, and Alfons, with all the goodness in his heart, could not say no.

"Sure, we'll come," he said. Ed rolled his eyes.

"Good!" Otto clapped Alfons on the back. "Come have a drink with us. It looks like the performance has finished." He turned to Maria. "I think they really outdid themselves this time, don't you?"

The critique continued as they set off. "I don't know," said Maria, adjusting the shoulder strap of the large leather bag that bounced at her hip. "I didn't think Ernst had his heart in it this time." She glanced at Edward and Alfons. "He wasn't convincingly bourgeois, I didn't think. Did you?"

Not wishing to admit that he didn't quite comprehend what class of people "bourgeois" was meant to encompass, Ed just shrugged. From what little he knew, it would seem that anyone who went to university was bourgeois. But since that didn't seem like the right thing to say, he said nothing.

Maria laughed and as they walked, she reached out and tugged gently on his ponytail. "And what's this? Such long hair on a boy! Is this normal where you come from, foreigner?"

Alfons chuckled at this, and, Ed noted with disapproval, was suddenly far too comfortable with the art students.

"What are we doing here?" Ed moaned quietly to Alfons as they sat squashed into a large oak booth in the dark beerhall, surrounded by about fifteen art students.

"They're sporting the beer," Alfons noted. "And we're broke. Besides, they're kind of …"

"Strange?" supplied Ed.

"I was going to say interesting," said Alfons.

The art students had quickly adopted the habit of addressing both Edward and Alfons as "Scientist" or, in Ed's case, sometimes "Foreigner."

Most of them smoked cigarettes that they rolled on the table before lighting them with matches. One of the crowd, a scowling dark-haired young fellow called "Wolf", had an interesting silver lighter that was passed around several times. Ed accepted a cigarette but ended up smoking it down too far, singeing the fingers of his white glove and forcing him to swear.

"Why are you wearing those gloves indoors anyway?" asked Maria, leaning across the table.

It didn't take Ed long to choose a lie from his repertoire. "Chemistry experiment, I burned my hands with acid…nasty scars," he said. Usually that led people to shut their mouths and look embarrassed for asking, but Maria's lips parted with interest.

"Ooh," she said, perking up. "Can I see?"

As if the wounds had suddenly become real, Ed crossed his arms and shoved his hands tightly into his armpits.

"No."

"Shy about it?" she asked challengingly.

"Not really, it's just that some people find it disturbing."

"Disturbing?" she said, eyes brightening. "Then you should let Oskar photograph them. His latest work—you'll see it at the gallery show—is all photographs of scars and burns and things." She tapped the ash off her cigarette onto the table. "It's fascinating stuff."

It obviously wasn't fascinating enough for her to press any further; as she had been doing all afternoon, she quickly turned back to Heiderich and began asking him questions, about his work, where he was from, what sort of music he liked. It finally dawned on Ed that she was flirting with him. Alfons seemed oblivious, answering her questions as straightforwardly as he could, not watching her hands fluttering close to his on the table, or at her throat as she nervously toyed with a jet bead necklace. Ed watched with mounting annoyance as she leaned closer and closer to Alfons, and their conversation contracted to encompass only the two of them.

Eventually he stopped making a fool of himself by trying to take part in the conversation and turned away in annoyance. He tried to find something in the room to stare at.

"Foreigner, you're interesting." It was Otto who finally decided to pay him attention. "I would like to draw you. May I? Sometime?" and he cocked his head to the side, looking innocent and imploring, what a favor Ed would be doing for him.

But Ed was suspicious. "Interesting how?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"Your hair, the color of your eyes, so unusual" said Otto, and he bit his chapped lower lip. Alfons indicated that he had overheard by digging his sharp elbow into Ed's ribs.

A moment later when the others' eyes were off them Alfons leaned toward him, whispering smugly so that Ed wanted to punch him in the head: "Can't I talk to a girl without you getting all tied up in knots?"

"I don't," Ed said casually, pushing his empty beer glass toward the center of the table. "Stop flattering yourself."

They were crammed together on the narrow, worn setee in their flat. The pattern on the coarse fabric—a faded, melancholy maize-yellow brocade with some giant flowers embossed in its threads—was making its imprint on Ed's cheek as he lay it against the threadbare arm of the sofa. He was on his side, and Heiderich was behind him, in a similar position, but his long legs were bent and his knees were jammed not entirely comfortably behind his own.

"He wants to draw you because he thinks you're a freak." Occasionally Alfons teased Ed in a way that was shocking; he didn't seem capable of such sharpness.

"You know, you can be really fucking mean when you want to. "

Alfons smiled.

"Are you proud of that?"

"No," he said, smiling still.

"I can be interesting, can't I?" Ed asked, fishing for a compliment, less because he wanted one than to see if Alfons would respond as he liked. He didn't like to feel that he didn't have the upper hand, or at least that they were on equal footing.

"No, you're boring," said Alfons, pretending to stifle a yawn.

He knew that Alfons was waiting for him to say something banter-y in response to that last teasing remark but he kept silent. A hand fell against his side, casually, as if by accident, long-fingered and warm. It lingered there. Ed's favorite part of any day was when they lay on the sofa tangled together. Ed felt the fingertips dig gently into his back, then brush back and forth before climbing up to his neck and resting there. Then Alfons did that thing—kissed the back of his neck and then the edge of his ear—the thing that made him shudder from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Ed twisted his head back and parted his lips for a kiss.

In a moment Ed had moved onto his back and Alfons had shifted on top of him. Ed felt that feeling coming on, the thing that had confused him so thoroughly only weeks before, making him think he must be going out of his mind. Heiderich—awkward, cheerful, self-conscious Heiderich—made him feel things he had never even thought of before. Now his knee was pressing hard into his crotch, almost painfully so, and all Ed wanted to do was rip off his clothes and climb all over him. They breathed together, huffing and gasping as they scrambled to remove layers of clothing. Heiderich's silly suspenders got tangled in Ed's hair and they laughed almost manically as they struggled to release the hair that had gotten wound around a button.

"I swear I am going to forbid you to wear those stupid things, they're a menace," Ed grumbled, as Alfons finally slid them off his shoulders.

There was a procedure, on the sofa, necessitated by the limits imposed by space. First their shirts, then Ed would torment Alfons by ghosting his teeth across his nipples. Today, however, Alfons gave one deep gasp, then collapsed over Ed's shoulder, breathing hard. Ed felt his heart beating hard against his own chest.

"What's the matter?"

Alfons took a shallow breath and swallowed hard. "Nothing. I'm just…more tired than I thought I was."

"Do you want to stop?" Ed asked, tentatively. This had never happened before. He didn't think he himself could ever be too tired for something so exciting, he always managed to find the energy, in fact, it seemed to grow within him as things progressed, and any fatigue he felt would be easily forgotten.

But Alfons sighed and said yes, he was too tired, and drew himself up, clearing his throat and still breathing quick and shallow.

"I'll just lie next to you if that's all right," Alfons said, stretching out on his side again.

Ed said, "Sure," but he was still surprised by the sudden cease in the action. He wasn't sure what to do with himself.

"You can carry on by yourself, I don't mind," Alfons said drowsily. His eyes were already closing when Ed turned his head to look at his face. "Sorry, we shouldn't have started…"

"You started it by calling me boring," Ed reminded, turning away to face the room, while pulling Alfons's hand over his shoulder and lacing the fingers of his left hand with Alfons's right, so that their tangled fingers rested against Ed's chest.

"I was just joking," offered Alfons, gently enough to make Ed feel as if he were being condescended to.

"I'm not boring," Ed snapped. He thought of Maria's attentions toward Alfons and became even more annoyed. "Those art losers are boring. We're not actually going on Saturday, are we?"

"I think we should. We said we would. Just imagine if we had to turn out that kind of crowd to keep our projects going, wouldn't you want people to keep their word to come? Besides, they bought us beer."

While he considered himself fair-minded, Ed found that Alfons was even more so. And earnest.

"All right," Ed conceded. "For the beer."

Sometimes they fell asleep like that, on the sofa, and Ed would wake up either on the floor or cramped with pain for sleeping in his prosthetics in that static position, but still, he looked forward to it happening, again and agin.

This was hard, and lonely; he didn't like this. This was, in fact, one of the least favorite things he'd ever done. Alone, he sat on the steel examination table, bare except for a thin, cotton shift, open in the back. A lattice of chill spread red webs across the skin of his arms and he shivered in the cold, bare room, which seemed far bigger than it needed to be for what it held; a medicine cabinet, a white-painted counter against the wall. A ceramic basin half-filled with water sat on a small, square table, with a narrow ribbon of flannel draped across it.

Alfons Heiderich sat indian-style, his elbows on his knees. Sitting here practically naked, with his gangly legs and long arms exposed, he felt ungainly and weird. He waited, holding the book he had brought with him in his hand, unopened, too jittery to read. A clock on the wall ticked and ticked.

Eventually the doctor swanned into the room, smiling pink lips surrounded by a trim, blond beard, small steel-rimmed half-moon spectacles; a young man trying to look older. He looked at the file he held in his hand.

"Mister Heiderich!" he said, and held out his other. He shook vigorously, friendly. His hand was warm. Alfons began to relax. "Now let's have a look at you."

It was the x-ray that had caused young Herr Doktor Ries to lose some of that jolly demeanor. It wasn't until then that Alfons had real reason to worry. But Ries held the x-ray up to the window and frowned and blanched a little.

"You see these?" he said, pointing to two slightly darker gray spots that resided in the field of grey that represented his lungs. "This is the problem."

Ries made him sit on the examination table again and called a nurse in to take his temperature. As he sat with the glass thermometer under his tongue, Ries held his wrist to take his pulse. He suddenly felt fragile, being ministered to by two people in a cold room, naked except for a cotton shift, and without anyone to treat him as anything but a patient.

He was allowed to dress afterwards, then Ries returned, looking grim.

"I'd like to admit you to hospital as soon as possible; there's a treatment I'd like to try with you. Can you come back Tuesday? I'll make sure there's a bed for you."

Alfons felt his heart nearly skip a beat and shudder. Since when was this about being admitted to hospital? He couldn't adjust to the idea.

"What? What do you mean? For how long? I can take a day, two days, maybe…but I'm in the middle of a project …"

Ries stared at him. "You do realize that you're very ill? That's why you came here, isn't it?"

No, he had come here to be told that it wasn't anything serious, and not to worry, and to go back home and drink some fluids and get some rest, and then get on with his life.

"You've been spitting blood," said Ries. "You say it hurts when you breathe. You don't even appear to have an infection, so this is very serious."

"Oh." Alfons blinked. Blindsided. His mind felt blank.

"I'd like to try a therapy with you that may help improve your breathing and decrease the pain, at least for a while. There has been some success with the use of inhalant steam; it's been used to treat tuberculosis and I see no reason that it wouldn't work with you. The least we can do is try." Ries began to sound chirpy and upbeat again. As he spoke he hugged the clipboard he was holding to his chest. "I think we could see some improvement…you're so young, and quite strong, I think, to have lived with this for so many months. Whatever exposure caused this did its work very quickly, but perhaps we can arrest its progress, if just for a while."

"You keep saying 'just for a while'," Alfons said, zeroing in on that phrase. "That doesn't sound like a cure."

Ries cleared his throat. "It's not a cure, Mr. Heiderich. It's a palliative."

"A what?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. "Something to make you feel better, maybe slow down the progress of the disease. To make it easier."

Alfons looked at the nurse. She had a white paper crown pinned to her hair, and a long, starchy-looking apron over her grey dress. When he caught her eyes, she looked away, busying herself with collecting and cleaning the thermometer. He felt a hand on his arm, warm against his chilled skin.

"I'm sorry, you've obviously been caught off guard." Ries spoke gently, keeping his hand on his arm. He suddenly recognized the gravity of the situation; the doctor's tone of voice, so gentle and indulgent, suggested terrible things were going to happen. "But the best place for you right now is in hospital. We can treat your pain and who knows, maybe see some improvement. Are your parents around? A friend? Someone to bring with you when you come back?"

Alfons closed his eyes and didn't reply. Before taking his leave, the doctor squeezed his arm again.

He took the longest possible route to the university. He was expected at the laboratory, and he wasn't going to let anyone down—the team, Edward, himself. He would pretend that nothing in particular had happened that morning, that he hadn't just learned what he had, that nothing had changed, even though everything was suddenly different. Now, holding this new and terrible knowledge, he found himself walking slowly to conserve his abbreviated stamina; now that he knew that it was all real and serious he saw himself as fragile. Suddenly, he wasn't like everyone else. Now he was set apart, special.

It was unsettling, certainly, but he also felt strangely euphoric. He also had the sense that this would wear off, that soon something heavier and frightening and more oppressive was going to descend upon him, but right now…this was interesting. In a way, he felt lighter. Vindicated. He had known, he realized. He should write to his mother.

His biggest worry was that Edward would notice something different about him, and how difficult it would be to tell him…and then, when he thought about it some more, he realized that his biggest worry was that Edward wouldn't notice at all, which made him laugh at himself.

"Here he is," said Kanter, the moment Alfons pushed open the door to the laboratory. "We were just talking about you."

"You were?" Alfons was forever amazed that he existed in spaces where he wasn't present. Where did that self-effacement come from? Edward could always be counted upon to roll his eyes at this knee-jerk modesty, and when Alfons glanced at him, there it was. Edward's mouth was twisted to the side as if he had been in mid-sentence and had had to stop himself. "What?"

"Nothing," said Edward, waving his hand.

"It's not nothing!" breathed Kanter, leaning forward onto the counter in front of him, littered with tools and pieces of metal. He had a pair of goggles on top of his head, and a protective glove on his hand—he'd been welding wires. He was the resident electrical engineer, an eager graduate student with enthusiasm to spare when he and Edward entered the realm of discouragement. "A couple of guys from a contracting company are coming this afternoon to recruit for a project team. I've heard that they're offering salaries, can you imagine, getting paid well? And they've got resources, we wouldn't have to requisition every wire and piece of scrap we use--"

Edward gave Alfons a meaningful look. A look meaning he had no interest in these visitors.

"Yeah, but we'd have to do what they want," said Alfons to Kanter. "What about our project?"

Kanter looked gultily at the jumble of wires on the worktable in front of him.

"I don't know about you guys, but I could sure use some real money," he said. "I have a wife and a baby on the way. Elric's just been ranting about scientific integrity and how he's not going to be bought off—"

"Hey, you don't need to justify yourself to me," said Alfons, shrugging out of his jacket. "I hope they take you, if that's what you want."

"We need you here," said Edward. "We don't have another electrical engineer who knows the project."

Kanter sighed and pulled the goggles back over his face, pretending to be intent on his wires. Alfons edged over to Edward and leaned over the design that he had been studying. Edward had made some barely legible marks and notes along the edges.

"This is so frustrating," said Edward, running a finger along the sketch of the rocket's cap. "The prototype worked in the first test but not on the second…Oberth's going to kill us for destroying the model when he gets back from Berlin, but should we really be wasting our time re-building it when it failed?"

Alfons felt tired; his brain wanted time to rest, he couldn't think. He leaned over the worktable, wanted to lay his chest and head down and sleep. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"What's the matter?" Edward asked. "Are you all right? Where've you been all morning, anyway?"

Alfons Heiderich made himself stand up, blinking to stay awake.

"I'm fine. So, when are these people supposed to turn up?"

Edward narrowed his eyes. "Why? Are you interested?"

"No…it's just that, if Kanter is, and probably some of the other guys are too, we should put on a good show for them, don't you think?"

"Whatever," said Edward, turning back to the plans. "It's none of my business."

By two o'clock a number of people had gathered in the laboratory, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the esteemed guests with lots of money to offer around. Kanter, Peters and Bergmann had all oiled their hair and put on new collars and neckties over lunch. They kept adjusting their labcoats to make sure they looked spiffy and asking each other if their new neckwear was straight and visible. There was much chattering over whether Oberth had already been in touch with these people—now referred to as "the company"—and whether he had recommended any of his lab team.

"You don't think they're interested in the wunderkinder over there, are you?" asked Peters, nervously straighening his collar again.

"No, of course they'd want more seasoned professionals," said Bergmann. "Those two don't even have their first degrees yet."

"I'm not sure degrees are what they're after," said Peters. "From what I've heard, they just want raw talent. I have a copy of my dissertation proposal…"

"I have mine too," said Kanter. "And my article….damn, where did I put that, I thought I had it right here…." He started frantically looking around for it.

Ed was minutes away from bolting from the laboratory completely, to leave the three of them to it. He and Heiderich were immersed in revising the plans for a new rocket prototype to replace the model they had destoyed in last week's test, but they could just as well do that at home without all these distractions and the preening grad students. Maybe, though, part of him was curious. Not that he wanted the job, but he was interested in seeing who these people were and what they wanted. It reminded him of his father and the Thule Society, something that he had been forced to stay away from, but that all the same intrigued him. He was thoroughly mistrustful of any group that attempted to use scientists for questionable means—and that went for anything, including alchemy--and he wondered how forward these recruiters were going to be with the hopefuls. He had no interest himself in becoming part of a project that had any goal beside his own. He was already uneasy about the fact that he had lost touch with his father, wondering where he had gone and in service of what organization. He had his suspicions, but he was afraid to indulge them. In this world, he didn't have the power to control much of anything, and he knew it.

Meanwhile, Heiderich was looking secretive himself, and a little wilted, as he sleepily went through the motions of reviewing statistical records of past rocket tests. He was off his game today, distracted, and Ed had an uneasy feeling about it. He watched him as closely as he could while trying to concentrate on his work, but the distractions of the day were getting the better of him too. He felt frustrated, and was practically relieved when the visitors finally arrived.

Two men, wearing well-tailored suits and almost identical mustaches—although one was tall and robust while the other was small and thin—entered the laboratory with their hats in their hands, amiably announced themselves as Strauss and Ostermann, and shook hands all around. Ed demurred, refusing to take notice or shake hands, taking the opportunity to appear as surly as possible to keep them from paying him any attention. He hunched over his diagrams, gripping a pencil in his left hand, only looking up occasionally to take in the repulsive fawning of his colleagues. Only Heiderich hung back, hovering over the worktable, also pretending to work.

However, despite his best efforts, the two men quickly extracted themselves from the graduate students and descended over the worktable where Ed and Alfons were sitting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Elric, Mister Heiderich," said the big one—Ostermann—extending his hand first to Ed. Ed looked up, squinting at the light right behind the man's head. "We've heard a lot about Oberth's project team, and we were particularly interested in meeting the two of you."

Being rude hadn't helped so Ed tried plan B, which usually worked even better, although he hated to pull it out. If they'd heard of his working in this lab, they may have heard other things too. He stood up, trying to demonstrate that this was a difficult maneuver for him, and making a point of showing that his right arm was useless, he looked embarrassed, only partly faking, and dropped his pencil on the floor, exaggerating his handicaps and looked apologetic for wasting the gentlemen's valuable time for being such an inconvenient person.

They seemed undeterred. Ostermann withdrew his hand from Ed and offered it to Alfons instead, who shook it halfheartedly.

"Mister Elric," said Ostermann. He had a smooth voice, deep and confident, the voice of a man who was in charge and used to getting what he wanted. "Our benefactor—the leader of our company—is very interested in your talents. Yours too, Mister Heiderich. You've worked closely with Oberth, who is a visionary and a genius—we believe this!—so we know the two of you understand thinking outside the normal parameters of what is possible. We'd like to have you come work with us."

Not giving up on his chosen deterrence strategy, Ed leaned heavily against the worktable.

"Why haven't you asked Oberth, then?" he asked.

Strauss smiled. His mouth was a thin line, his skin taught and papery. He was much older than Ostermann. "We have invited Oberth. He prefers to work on his own, and he declined. Men like him are not really team players. But you two are less experienced; our company would be an excellent opportunity for you. We're offering a good salary. You could send money to your family, save up for university." Here he looked pointedly at Heiderich.

"What are you working on?" asked Heiderich, appearing excited. "Is it rocketry?"

"Not exactly," said Strauss. "It's even more ambitious, something entirely new that combines physics, engineering, chemistry…just like your project, but on a bigger scale, with bigger ramifications, bigger stakes, bigger funding, bigger everything. We believe in this project, and our benefactor has unlimited resources. We will see it through to success. It will change the world. You could be part of that."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Ed said impatiently.

"No," said Ostermann, and his eyes twinkled like he was trying to lure a couple of kids with promises of candy. "But I can assure you, this project is even more important than the one you're working on—it goes far beyond what you've ever imagined."

"I doubt it," Ed said drily. At that, Ostermann and Strauss exchanged a glance. Suddenly, Strauss was digging in the pocket of his waistcoat, pulled out a small calling card, and held it out to Ed.

"We know who your father is, which is why we came looking for you. We think that you—and he—could add a lot to our work. If you could convince him…"

"So, that's what you're after," said Ed, looking at the card still being held forth by Strauss. "You want me to get my father to work for you."

"We'd contact him ourselves, though we haven't been able to track him down," said Ostermann.

"Well tell me if you find him, because I don't know where he is either," Ed said, more bitterly than he intended to. He had meant to sound cool, but as he said it, his eyes began to burn and he had to look down at the table. He didn't want to look up again, to see what he knew was another meaningful look between Ostermann and Strauss. He had sounded pathetic just then, he knew. Well, he hoped he had made a bad enough impression on the men that they would leave him alone.

"Mister Elric," came Ostermann's voice, and when he looked up, the man had an almost pleading expression on his face. "It's not just your father we wanted. We've heard about your genius in chemistry, and we'd like to have you join us. And Mister Heiderich too, for your expertise in physics. Please think about coming to see us. Now take the card."

Ed gave in and reached for the card. It said nothing but "J. Strauss" and a Munich address in the business district.

They withdrew, thanking everyone for their time, and leaving three very disappointed graduate students in their wake.

At their flat, later that evening, Ed took the card out of his pocket and tossed it on the kitchen table, home to piles of discarded papers, books, spilled ink and dirty plates. He wouldn't call them; the fact that they were after Hohenheim sealed the deal. He wanted nothing to do with it.

"But aren't you curious? About their project, I mean," said Alfons, chewing on a slice of burnt toast. Toast and beans again for supper. Ed's stomach growled at the very sight of the subsistence rations. Working for the mystery project could mean plenty of money, they could eat properly…

"Well, sure, yeah, but there's no way I can trust them. Besides, what we're doing is important. Who knows what they're really up to? We don't have time for that."

"No…we don't." Alfons put down his toast and took a swig of cold tea. He started into the gaslamp flickering on the table. He seemed distracted again. And here they had this fascinating, mysterious topic to speculate on, and Alfons was strangely quiet. He cleared his throat and looked at Ed. His eyes appeared unusually large and shiny. In the dim light, their color was indeterminate, and Ed found himself looking at his brother for a moment. He had to blink to make this illusion pass.

"I have to tell you something."

"All right." Ed had already cleared his plate and pushed it forward. "What is it?"

Heiderich looked down at his plate. His voice was shaking as he began to speak. "I went to the hospital today, that's where I was this morning. I went for—you know, my chest, you know how I cough a lot and lose breath, and I've been getting tired…you know, I've had two chest infections in the past year…so I kept on worrying about it…so I went to see a specialist."

Ed just listened. He wasn't sure what he expected to hear. He hadn't really thought much about those frequent illnesses, he'd only assumed Heiderich's constitution wasn't as strong as it could be, he had never imagined anything more, even during the times when he'd nursed him a bit. He remembered thinking that Heiderich seemed pretty damned sick for a few days once, which made him feel instantly guilty that he hadn't given it more thought. He'd just been happy to see him get better. But was there something he'd missed?

"So…what did he say?" Ed prompted hesitantly, because Heiderich had come to a stop, still looking down at his plate.

Heiderich shook his head, then looked up. He had a small smile on his face. "Well, he said I need to look after myself, take it easy...but it's nothing that serious, though, I should be all right. He said maybe I'm getting too much exposure to that rocket fuel and other chemicals, so I should ease off, you know? Be more careful."

Ed nodded, entirely relieved. He didn't realize that he had been holding his breath, and exhaled, heart pounding in his head. "Yeah, of course. We'll make sure you don't get exposure, take it easy. So, that's good news, then, right?" He gave what he hoped was a hopeful smile.

"I suppose," said Heiderich. The small tight-lipped smile he offered in return was not entirely reassuring, but Ed was determined to take this agreement at face value, and tried to enjoy the rest of his supper.

The scientists found themselves at a rambling art gallery one Saturday evening in April, staring at sculptures, collages and paintings that defied all their expectations. Ed acknowledged how utterly simple he was when it came to art: he only knew the "regular" stuff: pictures and sculptures that looked like the things they were supposed to be. He acknowledged that some of these things vaguely approximated the things they purported to be about-a portrait of a woman, for example, with everything sketchy and out of proportion-but some of the more abstract things mystified him, like the bits of wire hanging overhead with twisted, burnt paper suspended from strings spinning around them idly in the mostly-still air.

"Mobile sculpture," Alfons supplied helpfully.

"How do you know that?" Ed asked, impressed.

"It says, here." Alfons extended a slender finger toward the explanatory miniature rectangle.

"Ah," Edward said, trying to sound serious.

"These are...interesting," said Alfons, stopping to pay homage to a collection of bright paintings depicting women with bare breasts lolling about with sedate tigers.

"There are some who cling to the Fauvists," scoffed the approaching Otto. "This is absolutely retrogressive and incorrect. You two shouldn't even be looking at these abominations. Come, see my work."

"It's gouache, gouache!" he said, waving his hands in excitement. "My new favorite medium. So versatile," he said, and he pointed at some strokes and swirls in the brightly colored form, this is supposed to be a person thought Ed, knowing that he was squinting and looking both doubtful and ignorant.

After Otto moved away Alfons gave him a look-eyebrows raised-and they both doubled over in silent laughter.

"It's gouache, gouache!" said Alfons, waving his arms.

"What the holy hell is gwastsch?" Ed wondered, staring at the picture.

"It sounds like some kind of tropical fruit," Alfons suggested. "Maybe the color is derived from the flesh of the fruit."

"Or even the seeds," Ed speculated, his eye caught particularly by the bright shades of orange in the painting. He pinched his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand as he examined the visual properties of the paint. They both leaned in to examine it more closely. Ed sniffed. "It has a chalky smell, I think there may be magnesium in it."

Alfons leaned even closer to the painting, nearly touching it with the tip of his nose and inhaled. That was stupid: it threatened to make him cough so he had to stop and take a breath, his eyes watered and his throat burned, while Ed stared at him with a concerned expression. Alfons had to wave him away and gasp out, I'm fine I'm fine before he raised his hand and scratched ever so gently at the picture's surface with the tip of his finger, obtaining a sliver of orange paint under his fingernail. He pulled away and presented his fingernail to Ed for examination.

Ed frowned. "It's too small a sample." They both looked back at the picture.

"It's weird because the paint seems so much thicker in those two areas," Ed said, trying to vocalize what was bothering him. "And then there are the lines that seem to be absorbed into that canvas, while those parts just sit there..."

"I know." Alfons studied the picture some more. It was Ed who stepped forward this time, and Alfons watched with the faint hope that they could move on from this piece of art, his interest in the magnesium-like scent waning. Then he saw Edward lean forward, and quickly his little tongue flicked out and he-

"God in Heaven did you just LICK my painting?" screamed Otto, descending upon them. They should have known he would be watching for their reactions to his work. Otto stood, staring at them with his mouth open. People in the immediate vicinity stopped to watch, forming a semi-circle around them. Ed reddened and spluttered, at a loss at how to explain.

"I like the texture," said Alfons brightly.

Otto shook his head slowly, then broke into a wide smile, brown, broken teeth everywhere. "I am honored that you have licked my painting. The highest compliment for an artist." He bowed theatrically, but all Ed could do was blush.

Maria's high pitched laugh hovered over the crowd.

The crowd around them dispersed, and Ed and Alfons stood facing each other, both supressing laughter. After a moment they could take it no longer: simultaneously they burst out in guffaws.

"Fuck this," said Ed. "There's no point in pretending that we're enjoying this shit. Let's get out of here."

Alfons followed as Ed began to weave his way through the gallery. They were waylaid twice by large clusters of people gathered in front of displays, but the crowds were too thick to view the work. Ed's curiosity about the artwork had faded, but Alfons-perhaps because he was tall enough to peer over people's heads-still tried to catch of glimpse of some of the attractions as they passed by.

When they reached the front entrance of the gallery, they were annoyed to find yet another large crowd, this time watching the same performance they had seen at the University a few days before; the two guys tied together by ropes, the bourgeois patron, the untamed artist, blah blah.

Ed rolled his eyes at Alfons. "I'm not watching this again," he said.

"We can't walk right through it!" Alfons protested, still clinging to his sense of propriety.

Maria suddenly grabbed each of their shoulders.

"You can't leave yet!" she said. "The party hasn't even started!"

Ed stopped and scoped the large room. The windows and any other doors were shielded from view by the many interior walls put up for displaying the art. The place was like a maze.

"Trapped," Alfons conceded. Edward crossed his arms and slammed his back into a wall, leaned into it and impatiently blew a lock of hair out of his eyes.

"Dammit," said Ed.

They loitered there for a while, making each other laugh by recounting the scene by the picture Ed had licked; there was enough mileage there for a few rounds of repetition, and they were enjoying having a joke between themselves while completely locked out of the rest of the culture of the place. They were an island of sanity in a sea of art freaks.

They hadn't been expecting to hear music, but suddenly a piano, an accordion, a violin, a clarinet began to play. Curious, they left their corner and followed the sound: people were dancing in the atrium. The sun had just gone down and a chandelier replete with dripping candles lit the space.

Someone ran up to them. Maria again.

"Dance with me!" she said, holding out her hands. They both stood there, embarrassed, both staring at the outstretched hands. "Come on, Heiderich, you must!" she insisted. She was wearing black, lacey fingerless gloves, tattered and full of holes. They matched her worn black shawl, which she had tucked into the belt of her grey skirt. Though her clothes looked shabby and her hair was cut short and unevenly, she still looked bright and young and pretty--and hopeful. Alfons finally caved to her invitation. He tossed Edward an aplogetic glance, eyebrows raised, amused helplessness. Ed rolled his eyes and moved to the edge of the room, making way for the increasing number of couples drawn to the makeshift dancefloor.

Dancing, thought Edward, was one of those things that he would never do. But there was Heiderich, swanning around with Maria, tall and graceful, and Ed was a bit jealous. It would be nice, wouldn't it, to be tall and slender and have four limbs, wouldn't it? And it might be nice to dance with a girl now and then, just for the hell of it. Wouldn't it.

From what he could tell, Alfons Heiderich just might have danced with a girl or two before. He wasn't brilliant or anything, but he wasn't making an ass of himself either, Ed noticed, not entirely approvingly. Maria had her head thrown back and she was smiling and seemed to be enjoying herself. Alfons gave Ed another raised-eyebrow look when their eyes met again, but this time Ed didn't acknowledge it.

The song went on a long time, and the dancefloor became more crowded, as Ed found himself feeling increasingly irritated. When the musicians finally stopped, everyone applauded and Ed readied himself to receive Heiderich from the crowd. Here he came, wending through the couples gathered, readying to start up as the next song began. Maria was behind him, and Ed realized that they were holding hands.

He was not quite prepared for the feeling that this elicited. His entire head became hot in an instant and his stomach felt as if held inside a tight fist. Jealousy? He hated himself for even thinking it. And yet, as Heiderich approached his first thought was that he was going to deck him one. Maria was laughing and saying something as they drew close.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, and looking suspiciously radiant she leaned toward Edward and spoke in his ear as the music swelled around them. "But I'm going to steal him for a bit longer. He's a marvelous dancer!"

Ed's mouth was dry. He croaked out something that tried to be "all right" but he realized that all that came out was just some sort of distorted sound. Ed looked at Alfons then, and Alfons reddened.

"We should be going, though," Alfons said. "It's getting late."

"Late for what?" demanded Maria. "Do you have someplace else to be?" She turned toward the dancefloor and pulled at his arm. "Come on, one more song." Then she turned back to Ed. "And you-don't be such a wallflower! Find someone to dance with, there are girls standing around all over the place!"

Alfons shrugged as if helpless and allowed himself to be pulled away, giving Ed an imploring look that Ed wasn't buying for a second. Feeling helpless himself he continued to stand where he was, but looking around he began to notice that yes, there were young women, and some men, standing all around the edges of the rotunda, watching the dancefloor, talking to each other in small groups, or even standing alone as if waiting to be asked to dance. He noticed that some of the girls were looking at him; a group of three caught his eyes, then immediately smashed together in a huddle, to discuss him, he thought in his paranoia.

He felt himself weird and out of place but this was nothing new. He was a foreigner, more foreign than they could possibly know.

Feeling almost panicked, he sought to escape from the rotunda. There were several archways, most of them, he knew, leading to the galleries. He took the nearest one, which led, predictably, right back to the galleries that held the students' work. He saw familiar faces loitering around the artworks, and wanted more than anything to avoid being pinned down by Otto or any of his friends.

At the end of the gallery there was a quiet corner that turned into a narrow hallway that was obviously not for public use. Dusty, dark and quiet, doors with peeling paint and an unpolished floor. There wouldn't be anyone here. Ed leaned against a wall and slid down, happy to be off his feet. He pulled his knee up to his chin. He wouldn't cry, he didn't think, but his cheeks and eyes burned for the first time in ages. He smashed a fist against his shin.

Dammit, dammit.

Maria was wearing him out, damn hard. She held his hands tightly, kept one of his held close to her chest, hard, she was strong for such a slender girl. The music was upbeat, requiring quite a lot of moving around, and Alfons could feel himself becoming fatigued. The dancing crowd, mostly students, were full of energy and some kind of liquor that was being passed around the edges of the dancefloor. Maria pulled him toward the edges more than once or twice to grab a bottle and take a swig, offering it to him afterwards, but he always demurred.

How unsanitary, he thought, in his mother's voice.

When he looked down at Maria he could see her fringe beginning to get damp and stick to her face; she was getting sweaty but seeming to enjoy it. He on the other hand was getting increasingly agitated, although of course he kept smiling at her whenever she caught his eyes. As they moved around the dancefloor he kept searching for Edward, but he had long since lost sight of him.

Not that he was in any way required to chaperon Edward all evening. After all, they had come to a party and now he was dancing, with a girl. And that was something that he was supposed to be doing, wasn't it? Still, it didn't feel quite right. He liked Maria all right, and she seemed to be liking him, for whatever reason, and he was flattered. For a moment he condescended to pity Edward; too short and clumsy to dance with a girl, and Alfons knew he wouldn't want anyone to hold his hand. Then he felt guilty for that, too.

But there was more. Even in his inexperience he was aware of the fact that Maria was getting drunk, that she was furthermore dizzy with dancing, and that he could easily take her off somewhere and kiss her in some corner, maybe feel her breasts, if he wanted. But the fact was, as nice as Maria was, it was Edward he wanted to be groping in a corner.

Yet something in him was saying stay stay, keep dancing with this girl. Remember what happened yesterday? Remember that there may not be many more-any more-chances for you to dance with inebriated pretty art students on an April evening...

A song must have ended, because they were suddenly standing still, and Maria was looking up at him, her eyes half-open and her mouth quirked to the side.

"I think I must have worn you out," she said, her speech already a little slurred. "You look like you've had enough. Care to take a break?"

He nodded gratefully, noticing that his throat was so dry that he could hardly swallow. She was still holding his wrist as she dragged him to the edge of the rotunda. He could see her looking around for one of those passing bottles of liquor.

"Excuse me," Alfons finally managed to get out. "But I think I need the washroom."

At that moment Maria's eyes must have locked onto her target because she began to list eastward, arm outstretched.

"All right then, meet you back here?" she said, moving away.

He didn't bother to say anything, just took the nearest archway and found himself in a gallery now nearly clear of patrons. Everyone else seemed to have gravitated toward the party in the rotunda at this point. He glanced back at the milling crowd and despaired of finding Edward any time soon.

He didn't really need the toilet. He needed...Edward. Alfons began to walk quickly through the gallery, while his legs began to turn to jelly from all that dancing. His heart beat quickly and he pressed a hand to his chest in a futile effort to still it. Was that fatigue, or nerves? Where the fuck was Edward? Was he angry with him? Did he leave entirely, abandon him here? Had he been wrong to dance so long with Maria? He was confused as to why that made him feel so bad. Outside their flat, it was as if they didn't, and couldn't exist, and that made him feel worse.

"Sorry!" He heard the voice before he even felt his body collide with another. Shocked and slightly winded from the impact, he stepped back, now with both hands over his chest. "Ah, it's you, scientist," said Otto, peering at him over the tops of the lenses of his tiny spectacles. "I hope you and your accomplice haven't eaten up all the artwork while everyone's been at the dancing?"

Was he joking? Alfons tried to smile, feeling nervous, he put his hand behind his neck and squeezed himself into focus. "Oh, ha, no...sorry about that, before...we were just-"

Otto clamped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It was shocking but everyone's talking about it, it was really very funny, ha ha a bit of performance art, we can say. No harm done." Otto removed his hand, crossed his arms and assumed a concerned expression. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Alfons said quickly. "I'm just...looking for Edward. Have you seen him?"

"Sorry, I haven't," said Otto. "Good luck finding him," he added, before hurrying off toward the rotunda.

Alfons stood a moment longer before deciding to continue down this particular gallery.

Twice in the past twenty minutes or so-Ed now sat with his battered second-hand pocket watch, a gift from Hohenheim, open in his right hand, which lay slack-fingered on the floor beside him as he sat, knee still to his chest, other leg outstretched, watching the minutes tick by-twice in the past twenty, no, twenty-one minutes did someone poke their head down this murky corridor, looking for someone. Some woman ran past, gave him a disapproving look, and took off. Then some drunk guy had turned up and said, "Johannes?" about seventeen times, squinting at Ed through narrowed eyes, trying to make sense of the dim light, refusing for some reason to come any closer. "Johannes? Johannes? Johannes?"

Oh for fuck's sake, Ed thought. He finally barked, "I'm not fucking Johannes. Get out of here." The guy blinked again and left.

Leaving Ed to wonder, when was Heiderich going to come down here, bleating Edward Edward Edward?

He closed the watch with a snap and pushed it into the pocket of his waistcoat. His skin prickled: footsteps again. Long stride, a little tentative, like he didn't want to make too much noise wherever he went. It pleased him, in a funny little way, that Alfons was a bit of a gentleman like that. It pleased him too to note that there was only one set of footsteps.

From here, the music from the rotunda could still be heard, although it was muted and sounded far away. The piano, violin, accordion, and the sweetish sound of a clarinet, like a woman's voice, floated above it all.

Then he heard his favorite voice speak: "There you are." Heiderich turned the corner. He came over, looked down, offered his hand to pull Edward up.

"What are you doing all the way over here?" Alfons asked. "I thought I'd never find you. I don't know what made me look over here...I thought you might have left."

"I should have," Edward said, without thinking. He narrowed his eyes, embarrassed. "Never mind. I hope you had a good time dancing with Maria."

"It was all right," Alfons said. It was his turn to be embarrassed. The yellow gaslight shooting down the dim corridor lit one side of Edward's face while the other was in almost darkness. In this non-light, Edward's lips parted slightly as he looked up at him.

They smashed together so quickly, Ed didn't even know what was happening. He had just felt a rush, an urgency to push himself into Alfons, and had him up against the wall in the moment it took for Alfons to press his mouth onto his. Heiderich kissed his mouth then urgently kissed his cheek, then his neck, and lingered there to suck the skin beneath Ed's collar. Immediately Ed felt a rush of adrenaline that almost panicked him.

"We're in public!" Ed managed to rasp into Heiderich's ear. "We're in public..." he repeated. "What if-"

"I don't give a damn. Do you?" Alfons said into his ear, breath hot and sending immense shivers through Ed's body, he didn't care to respond. No, he didn't really give a damn. No he did not.

Ed's left hand fumbled to get itself close to Heiderich's skin, pushing up beneath his shirt and onto his chest, resting his palm on Heiderich's nipple he pressed and rubbed until Heiderich gasped, throwing his head back so hard it made an audible bump on the wall behind him. Ed pushed up Heiderich's shirt and-thinking even as he did it, that he had nearly done the same to Otto's painting a couple of hours before-pressed his mouth to his nipple and sucked. Alfons made a sound that approximated a chirp, so that Ed had to stop for a moment, catch his breath and laugh. Alfons's hands came behind Ed's head and clutched at his hair, his fingertips digging into his scalp.

"If you stop now," he breathed, "I'll kill you."

Their mouths found eachother's again and Ed found himself nearly lost in the moment. In moments like these he forgot everything: where he was, who he was, Al, the Gate, everything, everything telescoped into this, being with Alfons.

The music played on behind them. Maybe footsteps approached and scampered away. It didn't matter, when Alfons Heiderich began to unbutton his waistcoat and then his shirt, and to kiss the bottom of his throat. Edward found himself making those silly chirping sounds too, and gasping, and otherwise making a fool of himself, and he did not care. He didn't care if anyone found them there, with their hands on each other and their shirts open, and he cared even less when he finally plucked up the nerve to unbutton Heiderich's flies, and even less than that when Heiderich did the same, when that slender, long-fingered hand made its way down and grabbed him there, fumblingly, but gently, as Alfons Heiderich tended to do things.

They kissed, a lot. Ed liked the kissing. They kissed drunkenly, tentatively, aggressively, gently, sometimes like experimenting schoolboys, sometimes like they'd been doing it all their lives and not just a few weeks...on their sofa, on the bed, in the kitchen, in the washroom, but never, ever before in a public place. But they had never gone from zero to a hundred this quickly either: this was something else, like energy that had finally been set free. Ed likened it to alchemic energy, pent up and undisclosed, waiting to be released on the right array. This here, this was the right array.

The best night he had had since he had come to this forsaken world. Ed was ecstastic when they had both come together, their hands on each other, Ed's head on Heiderich's shoulder, Heiderich against the wall, holding the both of them up. Ed held up his left hand, laced the fingers through Heiderich's right, pressed their hands against the wall behind Heiderich's shoulder.

Another kiss.

"Let's get out of here," Ed said.

They straightened themselves up as best they could, tucking in their shirts and straightening their collars, Ed fumbling to smooth his hair. Making their way back through the galleries, they tried to avoid catching the eye of anyone else who might try to make them stay. Ed had firmly established that they had had enough. What was more, he could see that Alfons was tired, even if he wouldn't say so. Pushing through the knot of people in the rotunda, they had the twenty-foot high doors to the outside within their sights when Ed felt a hand on his shoulder. For a fleeting moment he considering ignoring it and running, but the hand pressed down and forced him to stop.

He turned to see Hermann Oberth, his erstwhile mentor and the former head of the rocketry project.

"I've been looking everywhere for you two. Your landlady said you'd be here." It was unlike him to seem so excitable. Oberth was panting as if he had run there. The fact that he had been frantically looking for them was surprising-and serious.

"I heard that Ostermann and Strauss have been trying to recruit you, and I'm telling you, you have to stay away from those two, and their organization-"

Ed held up his hand. "Don't worry. We're not interested. We already told them no."

Oberth glanced at Alfons, who nodded in assent.

"We wouldn't leave your team," Alfons said earnestly.

Oberth rolled his eyes. "That's not what I'm worried about. Just promise me, whatever you do, don't go to them."

Now Ed's interest was piqued. True to his nature, tell him not to do something, and suddenly it becomes mighty appealing.

"Why?" he asked.

Oberth stepped between Ed and Alfons, and grabbed each of their elbows with his hands, pulling them forward.

"Let's go have a drink. I'll tell you what I know."

Continued in next chapter