Act Two

Scene Two



– Three –

Doctor Dieter Müller returned after dark. He took off his overcoat and gloves and held his hands over the stove. It was freezing outside.

"How has he been?" he asked Hogan.

"Sleeping mostly. He managed to eat some soup."

Müller nodded. "I was able to visit the camp today."

"How is it?" Hogan asked.

"Quiet. Captain Gruber was glad to see me, and there were no unusual reports either there or in town."

"Good."

"I was able to talk with your man Baker. I told him you were all fine and that the rescue had been carried out successfully. He looked relieved."

Hogan managed a smile. "I bet."

"He said that he was still ready to carry out your original orders."

Hogan nodded. "Good. Right now, I'm not sure what we're going to do."

"Would you like my opinion?" Müller asked dryly.

A faint smile. "I think I can probably guess."

"I think you can. Well, it is time I examined my patient."

Müller picked up his bag and walked into the bedroom. Schultz was in there.

"He just woke up, Herr Doktor," Schultz greeted. "I will leave you alone."

Müller put his bag on the chair as Schultz left the room. "Hello, Wilhelm," he said quietly.

Klink cleared his throat. "You should not be here," he said in a low hoarse voice.

A thin smile. "I did not get the message," Müller explained. "I have been traveling."

"Therese?"

Müller sat down on the chair beside the bed and picked up Klink's wrist, checking his pulse.

"She received the message," Müller said quietly. "And crossed the border into Switzerland. I located her with friends." Müller glanced at Klink. "She was frightened but holding up well. I told her you are safe."

A sharp glance from Klink.

Müller smiled. "You are not the only one who can play with codes and secrets, Wilhelm. No one else would have understood the message."

Klink smiled wanly.

"Now you. How are you feeling? The truth, bitte."

"Tired." Klink's hand lifted to his face and he rubbed his eyes. "Very tired."

"Any pain?" was the soft question.

Klink's eyes were on the ceiling. "Some. The muscles, of course."

"Anywhere else?"

"I will admit to a splitting headache," Klink said. "And it feels as if every nerve in my body is alive."

"I see."

Müller stood and removed the blanket. His gentle hands moved surely over Klink's body. He seemed satisfied when he replaced the blanket.

"There is no unusual tenderness or anything else that might indicate internal damage," he told Klink. "They used electrical current?"

His brother-in-law nodded.

Müller had a little trouble controlling his voice. "Colonel Hogan said they had you for over sixty hours."

"I will take his word for it."

"And most of that time they used the current?"

Another nod.

"The pain would appear to be residual effects of the shocks given to your nervous system. It should fade over time." Müller took some tablets out of his bag. "I would prefer giving you only aspirin," he said. "Unless the pain . . . ?"

Klink shook his head.

Müller smiled briefly and poured a glass of water. He handed it to Klink, along with the two tablets. He watched Klink swallow the tablets. "Do you think you can sleep without a sedative?"

Klink nodded. "Yes. But a little later."

"Of course. Now, I imagine it has been a while. Let me help you out."

He helped Klink get out of bed and helped him to the outside toilet. After a few minutes, Müller helped Klink back into the bed.

Klink protested a little. "I am unused to all of this attention."

"Perhaps you should not be," Müller retorted. "I should be very angry with you, Wilhelm. You warned me about the dangers of . . . " He broke off at Klink's gaze. After a moment, Müller cleared his throat. "The subject is still verboten."

Klink nodded soberly.

A sigh. "All right, Wilhelm. I will keep silent. For now," he amended with a small smile that Klink managed to return. "Do you know what you are going to do next?"

Klink shook his head.

Müller nodded and stood. He repacked his bag. "I will be spending the night. If you later wish a sedative or some conversation, I will be in the next room."

"Danke schön, Dieter."

"Gute Nacht, Wilhelm."

"Gute Nacht."

...

Müller came out of the bedroom. A faint smile at Hogan. "He is doing better than I'd hoped. If you do not mind, I would like to spend the night."

Hogan shook his head. "No problem. Make yourself at home."

Müller glanced around the small cabin. His eyes landed on the bookcase. He walked over and put his medical bag on top of it. Then he reached out and picked up a book. A faint smile as he leafed through it. "I have not seen this in a while."

"What is it?" Hogan asked curiously as he walked over.

"Plato's Republic, a very old edition of it," Müller said. "I gave it to Wilhelm for his fortieth birthday. Have you ever read it, Colonel?"

"Not in a long time," Hogan admitted.

"Nor had I. But at our second meeting, Wilhelm and I began to discuss it."

"An odd topic."

Müller smiled. "He happened to be reading it while I was waiting for Therese to get dressed for our, I believe the word is, date?"

Hogan grinned. "Yeah, date's right."

"Until then I had not thought much of him. I knew he was in the Luftwaffe." A small smile. "By then, I also knew how much Therese adored him. Frankly, I could not see why; he did not impress me at all. Until we started talking about this book. Suddenly, he was a different man. I sometimes wonder if he would have opened up that way if he did not already know I loved Therese. By the time I gave him the book, I was nearly a member of the family. Therese and I were married a few months later."

"And you named your son after him," Hogan said quietly.

A sad nod. "I named him after a man I had grown to love and admire tremendously. And to think," Müller's voice cracked, "that I could accuse him of all those things a few months ago."

"I've called him worse."

"But I knew him," Müller said with anguish. "I knew what was behind that mask that others saw. I should have realized what I was saying before I hurt him like that."

Müller replaced the book and scooping up his coat, hurried out the door.

With a sigh, Hogan watched the door close.

...

Dieter Müller walked down the lane and leaned on a dilapidated fence. He blinked back the tears in his eyes. He was remembering, none too happily, his last visit to the camp. His anger, even shame, at what he'd thought Klink had become. Then his fear when he realized the truth.

It was a somber Dieter Müller who climbed the steps leading to Kommandant Klink's office. He walked into the office and knocked on the inner door.

Colonel Wilhelm Klink opened the door.

After an awkward silence, Müller said, "May I come in?"

Klink stepped back and gestured a welcome. He closed the door and followed Müller inside.

Müller looked uneasy.

Klink broke the silence. "Are you finished with the prisoners' examinations?"

"Ja. Here is the report. I found no serious health problems. Considering the conditions, the prisoners are in excellent shape."

"Good. You are leaving now?"

Müller nodded.

"Then there is nothing more to do. Or say."

Müller faced him. "Yes, there is . . . I wish to apologize."

Klink turned away. "For what?"

"For . . . " Müller cleared his throat. "I think I understand a little of what motivates you, Wilhelm, and others like you. You survive. And," a deep breath, "last night, I realized how important that is."

Klink turned back to him. "In what way?"

"I made contact with a resistance group last night, Wilhelm. More than one. Only the SS knew about the meeting as well. But for the courage of one man, I might have been caught or killed. I realized then what I had risked. And how foolish I was. I am not a soldier, Wilhelm. I am only a doctor in a uniform that has no meaning for me. As such, I am a liability to others." He looked soberly at Klink. "I had a gun in my hand and realized that I could not shoot."

"A doctor should save lives, Dieter," Klink said. "Not take them. And you are an excellent doctor."

A small smile. "Danke, Wilhelm." He stepped closer to Klink. "I haven't changed my mind about the resistance or the way to end this war."

A small smile in return. "I didn't think you had." There was an odd humor in his voice.

"But I realize that I must leave it to others better suited than I. A brave man was injured because of me. I won't risk that again."

"I'm sure that is the wisest thing."

Müller laughed. "I was right, Wilhelm. You are a realist and a survivor . . . " A friendly clap on Klink's right forearm.

And Dieter Müller froze. His doctor's eye could not miss the pain that flashed across the controlled face of the man before him. Or the pain still lingering deep in his eyes. And he realized the awful truth. His mouth opened, but the quick hand on his lips and the warning shake of Klink's head stopped him.

Müller stayed silent, staring in shock at the man before him. He watched his brother-in-law step back, Klink's left hand straying to his forearm, then dropping away. The shoulders then straightened, as if nothing had happened. Nothing? Müller's life had been irreversibly changed in that second.

"I . . . " Müller took a deep breath to still the sudden pounding of his heart and to quiet the fear he now felt for this man. Slowly, he came to a decision, one he had to make to protect his wife. One that might protect this man. "I have decided to take Therese to my grandparents. As you know, they live near Switzerland. It is much safer there."

"An excellent idea." There was no tremor in Klink's voice to betray him.

"There is a hospital where she can work. Perhaps in time there will be another child to show us how beautiful life can be."

"I hope and pray so, Dieter."

"And I pray Uncle Wilhelm will visit often." His eyes clung to the man before him.

A smile. "I will probably out stay my welcome."

A sober smile in return.

"A drink before you leave?"

Müller nodded, and watched as Klink poured brandy into two glasses. Left-handed, Müller noted. Klink gave a glass to Müller and lifted his own drink as the two men looked at one another. There was a twinkle deep in the eyes of the Kommandant; he understood Müller's dilemma.

Müller had questions he could not ask, fears he could not voice. It had taken him a long time to learn to like this very private man. In time, he had learned to love him, first for Therese's sake, then for his own, for Müller had seen behind the public face. But all those stories he had heard . . . He had not wanted to believe them; they were so at odds with the man he had come to know. But what he had seen and heard over the past few days had forced him to believe those stories. 

And now he was filled with a greater respect for the man before him. And terrified for him as well.

"To Therese," Klink said quietly, lifting his glass in the toast.

Müller slowly lifted his own glass. "And to the men who love her."

Klink acknowledged the salute silently and drank.

Müller gulped the fiery liquid and placed the glass on the table. Carefully avoiding Klink's right arm, he embraced Klink tightly.

"Take care of yourself, Wilhelm," Müller whispered softly.

There was a smile from Klink and another hug before they broke apart.

"Write, if you can," Müller was saying as they left the office together.

Klink escorted Müller to his car. Müller got in and closed the door. Klink leaned on the open window and glanced around quickly. Müller felt a chill as he watched Klink's face.

"Dieter, I will say this only once," Klink said slowly, quietly. "You and Therese may receive a message. If the message is, 'The play is canceled; the stage is broken', you are to leave Germany that moment with no questions asked." His eyes met Müller's. "Is that understood?"

Müller's fear was reflected in his face, fear for Klink. He wet dry lips. "Ja, I understand." Then "Wilhelm — "

"No," Klink said softly, firmly. "No more words." Then raising his voice. "Give my love to Therese," he said loudly, grasping Müller's hand affectionately.

Müller nodded; behind Klink, he could see Hogan approaching. He started the car. "Auf Wiedersehen, Wilhelm."

Klink stepped away. Müller, raising a hand goodbye, drove slowly away.

Müller had gone home, filled with trepidation. Therese had run out to greet him. As always, his heart beat faster when he saw her. Nine years of marriage and a child had not changed the girlish figure or the way she moved.

Nor did the pain of losing their son diminish the love they shared. They had reached out to each other when little Wilhelm died. And they knew that while the pain wouldn't disappear, in time it would soften.

They didn't go into the house immediately. Arm in arm, they walked down the lane to the back garden and up the small hill overlooking their house. Müller brushed the snow away from a bench, their bench. And they sat.

"Did you see him?" Therese asked eagerly.

Müller nodded. "Ja."

"Is he well? And happy?"

Müller wasn't sure how to answer either question.

"Well?" she demanded.

Müller hesitated. He didn't know where to begin. But he had to give her the warning. He must, for all their sakes.

"Therese." He took her cold hands in his and looked at her.

She grew alarmed. "Wilhelm is well, isn't he? The war . . . He hasn't been hurt?"

"Therese," Müller said soberly, "there is something I must tell you. A story."

"I don't want to hear any stories. I want to know about Wilhelm. Tell me he is well." There were tears in her voice.

Müller took his wife in his arms and held her close. "The story is about a very brave man, Therese," he said softly. "A man we both love deeply."

He felt her tremble as he told the story and she buried her face in his coat. When he finished, he was surprised to hear a faint laugh tinged with tears.

"I knew it was all false," Therese whispered into his coat. "I knew it!"

Müller was astonished. "You heard the stories!"

"Of course I heard. I wasn't supposed to, but I did. And I didn't believe any of it," she said proudly. "I knew better."

"I should have known better as well," Müller said with a sigh.

Therese held him close. "I am certain that he forgave you, as do I."

Müller kissed her. "You are a wonder, my darling." Then soberly, "You understand we must leave here."

The blonde curls nodded. "Ja. It will be hard on Mama."

"She can come as well. And your brothers as well," Muller said.

"That may be more difficult to arrange. As for Mama, we will see."

As it turned out, the elderly woman didn't go with them to the Bodensee. She would not leave her home of so many years, nor her sons and their families. As for Therese's brothers, neither they nor their families could leave. Their occupations didn't give them the same leeway Müller had in these troubled times. Though the Müllers didn't give up easily, in the end it was only Therese and Müller who traveled south. There, both Müller and Therese, a nurse, began working in one of the hospitals, tending the wounded who returned in droves from the battlefronts.

Shortly after their arrival, a man approached them. It happened to be on a rare day when both of them were home. At first, Therese thought it was a peddler selling odds and ends. There were many in Germany who were selling off their goods in order to survive. Therese, whose kind heart always tried to help those less fortunate, welcomed the man into the garden where she had been working. Then the man expressed a desire to see Doctor Müller as well. Therese, thinking the poor man needed medical help, fetched her husband. To their surprise, the man said he needed to talk to both of them. They sat in the gazebo overlooking the lake, surrounded by newly fallen snow.

The man took out an envelope and handed it to Müller. "I do not know what is in there or who it is from. Nor do I need to know. But I was told you would recognize the handwriting."

With trepidation, Müller opened the envelope and read the note. Soberly, he passed it to Therese. Therese gasped as she recognized her brother's writing. It was a simple message, unsigned, instructing them to follow the bearer's instructions.

Müller asked quietly, "What is it that you must say to us?"

"I must pass along some instructions for you," the man replied. "You may receive certain messages on the telephone. They are similar but mean different things. Please listen very carefully."

The couple sitting before him nodded soberly.

"One message may be, 'The play is over'. It requires no further action from you. It simply means that a certain individual, who will remain nameless, has ceased operating. God willing, it also means that the war is ended.

"The second may be, 'The play is terminated'. This message means that a certain individual is dead."

Therese paled; Müller took her cold hand in his.

The man continued, "If a time is mentioned, that time would be the approximate time of his death. Your orders would then come from whatever unit you are assigned to.

"The third message, and the most important, is, 'The play is canceled; the stage is broken'. There should be a time mentioned." The man hesitated as Therese grew even paler. "If that message ever comes, you must disappear immediately."

Müller asked the question, though he had already guessed the answer, "What does it really mean?"

"It means," the man said soberly, "that the individual has been taken by the authorities."

"And you expect him to . . . break?" Müller asked in a tight voice.

"Ja, which is why you must leave." The man couldn't look at the ashen-faced woman across from him. "Now, Herr Doktor, I must have every telephone number at which you and Frau Müller may be found, day or night. A person will be assigned to notify you as soon as a message is received."

Müller cleared his voice. "If we were to disappear, what consequences would there be to our families?"

A thin smile. "There would be units assigned who have no direct link to the individual to keep watch over those who may possibly be taken as well. But it is believed that the risk to those persons would not be too great. It is also suggested that the reasons you prepare for leaving be as realistic as possible. There is always the possibility that the message was sent prematurely or in error."

"And how likely is that?" Müller asked bitterly.

"Very remote," the man admitted.

Müller, after a glance at his wife's stricken face, wrote down the telephone numbers on a scrap of paper.

The man took the paper from him and looked at it for a moment or two. Then he handed the paper back to a surprised Müller. The man tapped his forehead and smiled briefly. "Like a camera." And he stood.

Müller stood as well. "Can you pass a message to your superiors?" he asked hesitantly.

"Perhaps."

"I am no soldier as I discovered recently, so I would be of no use in that capacity. But if ever a doctor is needed . . . " Müller's voice faded.

The man smiled. "That, Herr Doktor, was already known. Guten Tag, mein Herr. Frau Müller."

Therese barely noticed his departure.

Müller sat down next to his wife. "Therese?" he said softly, putting his arm around her shoulder, drawing her close.

"I didn't think before . . . Dieter . . . Wilhelm, if they catch him . . . If they catch him, they will torture him," she whispered desperately. "They will torture . . . " She broke down, sobbing loudly.

He had no words of comfort; he could only hold her close.

That night, in the stillness of their room, they talked, their arms tightly wound around each other as they lay in bed. Müller had never felt so proud of Therese as he did in that moment. Once the shock had worn off and the tears dried, Therese put her mind to the problem of leaving. Müller wasn't surprised that her suggestions made excellent sense. They decided on a number of courses of action, depending on where they were if the message arrived. Unless they were together, each would slip away quietly and without suspicion; their occupations made unexpected telephone summonses reasonable.

Once the course of action had been decided, Müller was not surprised to find Therese in tears again. Müller felt like crying as well. From the moment he realized who his brother-in-law was, the realization of what would happen to Klink if he were captured terrified Müller as well.

Müller tried reassuring Therese that her brother had been playing his dangerous game for over ten years. But the question still haunted them, how much longer could Klink continue to defy the odds? When would the Gestapo or the SS finally catch up with him? All they could do was pray they would never receive the message. That was all. Just pray.

...

The message had been sent. And it had been sent while Müller was away on an inspection trip. Therese was working at the hospital as usual. They usually took very little time off when Müller was home. And when he was gone, Therese would spend all of her days and a good part of her nights at the hospital. She needed the work when she was alone; her imagination carried her off into terrifying worlds.

"Therese!" Helga called. "Telephone!"

Therese had no reason to fear the telephone. She was frequently called, by friends, patients, Müller's grandparents.

"Hallo."

"Frau Müller?"

Still no fear. "Ja."

"I have a message regarding the play you inquired about," the voice said tonelessly.

Therese stood still, the color draining from her face, her heart pounding in her breast. "Ja," she mumbled.

"I regret to inform you — "

Dear God, please, no. Then . . . Let him be dead. Bitte, if it is, let him be dead.

"That the play was canceled approximately twenty-five hours ago. The stage is broken — " Her eyes closed to hide the pain. "Do you understand? The stage is broken."

Her voice was lifeless. "Ja. Ich verstehe. Danke schön." Slowly, numbly, she replaced the receiver.

"Therese?"

She turned to the worried looking woman beside her.

"Are you all right, Therese?"

The rehearsed words came out calmly and naturally. "A very dear friend has taken ill; she is not expected to live. I must see her now."

"Of course, you must," Helga said consolingly. "You put in so many hours here, I can spare you for a little time."

"Danke schön."

Therese walked down the stairs to the room she shared with the other nurses. Quite calmly, she took off her uniform and dressed quickly in her warm street clothes. Then, smiling mechanically at those she knew, Therese walked out of the hospital to her car.

She drove quickly, but without undue hurry.

The border. Müller and she had friends, close friends, across the border. And those friends had arranged a special pass for them. The words slipped mechanically off her lips at the border crossing. The gate lifted; it was not her first trip across and the guards knew her.

Then she was in Switzerland, safe. Therese continued to drive without really seeing the snowy countryside.

The estate was just ahead. The gatekeeper welcomed her, but seeing her pale face, he telephoned ahead.

A picturesque castle loomed in the woods. The car stopped. Therese got out and walked to the front door. An elderly and very correct butler opened the door. A much older woman, leaning on an elaborate cane, came over to greet her.

"Therese, my dear." The woman's voice was sympathetic, guessing at the cause of her visit.

"They have him," she said in a slurred voice. Then Therese did something she had never done before in her life — she fainted.

When Therese recovered, she found herself in a large bed in a beautifully furnished room, Baroness Mathilde Dietrich sitting by her side. The story was told dispassionately; then Therese fell sobbing into the older woman's arms. In time, Therese cried herself to sleep.

Hours later, Therese, the Baroness at her side, waited in the drawing room, praying for word from Müller. Therese had contacted Müller's grandparents, telling her story about the sick friend. The old couple had promised to pass on her message to Müller if he called home. As the hours slowly passed, Therese's fear for her husband grew. She had heard nothing from him. For all she knew, he may not have gotten the message. As for her brother, Therese tried not to think about him at all. Every time she did, tears would form in her eyes.

Another day passed without any word. Therese bore up well, though the Baroness watched her worriedly. Therese seemed too calm.

It was mid-afternoon of the second day when the telephone rang. The old butler answered it. Then he held out the telephone to Therese. Shaking, she timidly took the instrument from his hand.

"Therese."

Relief swept over her. "Dieter, I was so frightened. Are you — ?"

"My darling, I have little time. I just wanted to tell you about that old patient of mine, the one we were both worried about. He is past the danger point and is expected to live."

Therese paled and then flushed as she listened.

"I should be home within a few days. In the meantime, stay with the Baroness. I am certain that she will require your care for a few more days."

"Jawohl, Dieter," she whispered. "Hurry back. Ich liebe dich."

"Ich liebe dich, Therese."

Therese slowly hung up the telephone. Now that it all seemed to be over, she couldn't stop shaking. Therese turned to the Baroness.

"I . . . " Her voice sounded like someone else's. "Dieter is safe. And Wilhelm," her voice broke. "He is free. He is free!"

The Baroness walked over to her and held her shaking body close. Therese burst into tears.

"It is all right, Therese. Cry it out, my child. Cry it out."

...

Dieter Müller sighed, pushed himself away from the fence, and looked around. The cabin was barely visible. He glanced at the sky; it had started to snow again. It was so quiet, so peaceful. Such a difference from the war-torn world. Here, it was as if the war didn't even exist.

The war. Müller was lucky. His profession and his family's prestige had kept him away from combat. He did his duty in the operating room and the wards of the hospital. Doctors were spread thin throughout Germany and his services were badly needed. He had even been able to help some of the resistance groups battling the madmen who kept on running this insane war.

Would it never end? How many more had to die? How much more of his country had to be destroyed?

Another glance at the cabin. Wilhelm. He had been extremely fortunate to escape from those monsters. And escape with such little damage. Hochstetter had wanted to keep him alive as long as possible. It was ironic that Hochstetter's sadism was what had saved Klink from injuries from which he might never have recovered. The question now was, what would Klink do?

Klink had to leave. Except for a very few who may have not received the message or who may have chosen to stay anyway, his organization was gone.

But there were other resistance groups still fighting. Groups that would welcome his skills. Groups like Colonel Hogan's.

Would Klink leave? Müller found himself praying he would.

...

Robert Hogan went into the darkened bedroom and stopped as he saw the empty bed. A glance at the window. Wilhelm Klink, in a dark robe, sat by the unshuttered window, looking out at the falling snow. Klink glanced at Hogan for a moment before turning his gaze back to the view.

Hogan walked over to Klink and stood awkwardly, not really certain what to say to him.

"Please, sit down, Colonel Hogan," Klink invited after a moment, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Hogan sat on the side of the bed. Klink continued to look outside; Hogan waited patiently.

"I had forgotten how beautiful snow is," Klink said quietly after a long silence. "I never expected to see it again." A pause. "Thank you for allowing me to see it again."

Hogan stared at his hands, and then cupping them together, looked up at Klink. "Colonel, there are some things we need to talk about."

Klink nodded. "You have questions."

"Yes," Hogan admitted. "But they can wait."

Klink looked at him with faint puzzlement.

"Sir," Hogan's voice was filled with a respect it had never before held, "you have a decision to make."

Klink waited.

"Sir, Kinch and Schultz examined the records in that place. 

You were not identified by name. No record exists of anyone being told that you were there. And as far as we know, Hochstetter," he nearly spat the name, "told no one in Hammelburg or Berlin that you had been arrested." He paused.

"Go on," said the quiet voice.

"As far as we can tell, your secret is still safe." His unusually somber eyes met Klink's. "Sir, the decision you need to make is, do we go back to Stalag 13, or do we continue on to Switzerland or London?"

Klink's gaze stayed on him for a moment and then returned to the outside. "Colonel Hogan, my organization is gone."

"Yes, sir, it is," Hogan admitted. "But — "

"But Papa Bear would like to continue."

"Sir, I'm not going to say one way or another," Hogan said. "I'm only presenting alternatives. There is still work to be done here, work you could do. But the decision must be yours. We have no idea if Hochstetter told anyone. If he did — "

"Then they will arrest me the minute we return to camp," Klink finished quietly.

How can he be so calm about it? "Yes, sir. And what Hochstetter started," Hogan had to restrain a shudder, "they will finish."

"You might be arrested as well," Klink pointed out in that quiet voice.

"Yes, sir. But they'll just shoot us."

"Not necessarily. You could be facing the same risk as I," Klink continued calmly. "They could be very unpleasant to all of you as well."

"More so to you."

"Yes." A pause. "Are you all willing to take the risk?"

A deep breath. "Yes, sir. We are."

"Perhaps because you don't fully understand it," Klink said. "I had always thought the greatest fear was facing the unknown. Perhaps it is harder to face the fear that is known."

Hogan didn't know what to say.

"I will think about it, Colonel Hogan," Klink said in that same quiet voice.

Hogan stood. He had been dismissed.