There are a slew of Germans working for the defense ministry, most of them forcibly relocated after the war lest they fall into the hands of the Soviets—to say nothing of the proliferation among the ranks of the Americans. And while it's rare to deal with documentation in the language (being somewhat gauche to advertise the level to which everyone is cheating off the Third Reich's homework), there's a certain cadence to notes in translation that leaps off the page. It's strange to recognize it so readily in Russian turned German as he does in German turned English. The novelty of it almost overrides the annoyance inherent in frustrated urgency.

Almost.

It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.

When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.

"This isn't real."

See. He can sound certain too.