What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

The Grantville Gazette originated as a by-product of the ongoing and very active discussions which take place concerning the 1632 universe Eric Flint created in the novels 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Galileo Affair (the latter two books co-authored by David Weber and Andrew Dennis, respectively). More books have been written and co-written in this series, including 1 634: The Baltic War , 1634: The Bavarian Crisis , 1635: The Cannon Law , and 1635: The Dreeson Incident .  1635: The Eastern Front is forthcoming, and the book Time Spike is also set in the Assiti Shards universe. This discussion is centered in three of the conferences in Baen's Bar , the discussion area of Baen Books' web site . The conferences are entitled "1632 Slush," "1632 Slush Comments" and "1632 Tech Manual." They have been in operation for almost seven years now, during which time nearly two hundred thousand posts have been made by hundreds of participants.

Soon enough, the discussion began generating so-called "fanfic," stories written in the setting by fans of the series. A number of those were good enough to be published professionally. And, indeed, a number of them were—as part of the anthology Ring of Fire , which was published by Baen Books in January, 2004. ( Ring of Fire also includes stories written by established authors such as Eric Flint himself, as well as David Weber, Mercedes Lackey, Dave Freer, K.D. Wentworth and S.L. Viehl.)

The decision to publish the Ring of Fire anthology triggered the writing of still more fanfic, even after submissions to the anthology were closed. Ring of Fire has been selling quite well since it came out, and a second anthology similar to it was published late in 2007. Another, Ring of Fire III , is forthcoming.  It will also contain stories written by new writers, as well as professionals. But, in the meantime . . . the fanfic kept getting written, and people kept nudging Eric—well, pestering Eric—to give them feedback on their stories.

Hence . . . the Grantville Gazette. Once he realized how many stories were being written—a number of them of publishable quality—he raised with Jim Baen the idea of producing an online magazine which would pay for fiction and nonfiction articles set in the 1632 universe and would be sold through Baen Books' Webscriptions service. Jim was willing to try it, to see what happened.

As it turned out, the first issue of the electronic magazine sold well enough to make continuing the magazine a financially self-sustaining operation. Since then, even more volumes have been electronically published through the Baen Webscriptions site. As well, Grantville Gazette , Volume One was published in paperback in November of 2004. That has since been followed by hardcover editions of Grantville Gazette , Volumes Two, Three, Four and Five.

Then, two big steps:

First: The magazine had been paying semi-pro rates for the electronic edition, increasing to pro rates upon transition to paper, but one of Eric's goals had long been to increase payments to the authors. Grantville Gazette , Volume Eleven is the first volume to pay the authors professional rates.

Second: This on-line version you're reading. The site here at http://www.grantvillegazette.com is the electronic version of an ARC, an advance readers copy where you can read the issues as we assemble them. There are stories posted here which won't be coming out in the magazine for more than a year.

How will it work out? Will we be able to continue at this rate? Well, we don't know. That's up to the readers. But we'll be here, continuing the saga, the soap opera, the drama and the comedy just as long as people are willing to read them.

— The Grantville Gazette Staff

Introduction to the Universe Annex

Written by Eric Flint

    

As many of you know, I was the editor of Jim Baen’s Universe, a general-interest F&SF electronic magazine. JBU suspended publication in April of 2010, after running for four years.

To the extent possible, I wanted to salvage some features of JBU by transferring them to this magazine, especially the regular columns and the short story slot oriented to new writers.

Hence, the Universe Annex. This will be a regular feature in every issue of the Gazette. Unlike those portions of the Gazette that focus exclusively on the 1632 series, the Annex will be open to the public free of charge.

In addition to the columns, we will try to publish one short story per issue. No guarantees, because it will depend on income, but we should be able to manage it most of the time. We will pay the same rate for stories published in the Annex that we pay for any other stories in the magazine: five cents a word. I should mention that the Gazette is listed by SFWA as a professional publication.

Although we are especially interested in new authors, we will accept submissions by anyone. But whether you are a new writer or a published one, you must follow the same procedure. This is the procedure that we maintained for the four years that JBU was in operation:

All stories must first be posted in a conference in Baen's Bar set aside for the purpose, called "Baens Universe Slush." Do not send them to either me or to the Annex editor, Sam Hidaka, because we won't read them.

There are no exceptions, including for professional authors. Established professional authors have submitted to the Grantville Gazette through Baen's Bar for many years now.

Your story will then be subjected to discussion and commentary by participants in the discussion in the conference titled “Baens Universe Slush Comments.” In essence, it will get chewed on by what amounts to a very large, virtual writers' group.

While this is happening, the Universe Annex Editor, Sam Hidaka and the Grantville Gazette editor, Paula Goodlett, will be keeping an eye on the discussion. Paula will buy stories which seem to her to best suit the magazine.

In writing up your story, please follow the guidelines laid out in the Manuscript Guidelines and 1632 Style Sheet at 1632.org. Here’s the link: http://1632.org/authors_manual/manuscript_guide.html

Nor the Moon By Night

Written by Virginia DeMarce

    

Fulda, March 1635

The sergeant knocked on the door of the Benedictine priory.

Not the door of the big Abbey of Fulda. The door of the little convent of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. A door upon which, he thought, he had knocked altogether too many times recently.

The lay sister who served as the gatekeeper flicked open the peephole.

"Sorry to bother you, Sister," the sergeant said, "but I've got some more people for the prioress. One of our patrols picked them up on the road coming down from Vacha. Refugees, again."

"Thank you for bringing them to us."

"No problem, ma'am. And I'll tell Colonel Utt that you've got another batch."

****

"Of course, you are welcome," the prioress said to the four bedraggled women. "From Hersfeld, you say? If you do not mind rather cramped quarters, I will ask you to share rooms with the six nuns and three novices who came from the Eichsfeld a couple of weeks ago. Whatever we have, we will gladly share."

"At least," the apparent leader of the group said, "you have a place for us to rest our heads and something to share."

Salome von Pflaumern nodded. "Life here has become . . . strange, in some ways. Unaccustomed ways. I never expected, for example, during my twenty calm years in the convent in Kühbach bei Aichach, in the diocese of Augsburg, that I would ever become notorious as one of the subjects of a satirical pamphlet.

"But for the past two and a half years, almost—ever since the up-timers came—we have not been disturbed. Not, at least, plundered. We have a garden, which we can shortly plant, so fresh foods will be coming in. Until then, our rations will be sparse."

"The up-timers have deprived you of your income?"

The prioress shook her head. "We have some money assigned to us by the abbot, which we usually just don't receive. The abbey's provosts neglect to send it, in spite of the fact that a papal decree obliges them to because back before the Reformation, there were Benedictine convents within their regions that have ceased to exist."

"How can they refuse?"

"They can procrastinate." She smiled. "The up-time woman, Frau Hill, once mentioned to me that the problem also existed up-time, where it was known as 'reprogramming of appropriated revenues.' The former abbot assigned the income to the priory before I arrived. He, Johann Bernhard Schenk von Schweinsberg, founded our priory. He laid the cornerstone here in 1626. The papal nuncio agreed to the assignment of our incomes in 1627. Our theoretical incomes, since the convent has no estates of its own with farmers cultivating them on our behalf and the profits coming to us. That was before I was in charge—the founding nuns returned to Zella in 1630, which is when I and three of my fellow-sisters came to replace them.

"I have—repeatedly—written to the nuncio in Cologne that I would have far more authority in negotiating with them if I were an abbess rather than just a prioress—so far to no avail. We do earn some money through needlework to replace church vestments that have been destroyed during the war and the rebinding of liturgical books. The apothecaries in Fulda also pay us to prepare medicines from the herbs in our garden. So we do have money. Not much, but some. Which at least arrives regularly, with no . . . deductions by local officials along the way."

Her guests nodded. Then one of them asked, "Have you heard anything from the nuns in Zella? It is in the Eichsfeld, too, after all."

****

"Damn it, Harlan. I just don't know what to do."

Melvin Springer said that a lot, much to the frustration of his subordinates, who had gotten used to working with Wes Jenkins.

"Why in hell are they all ending up here?" He tapped his forefinger on the conference table.

Harlan Stull leaned forward. "It's gotten worse since Wettin won the election. A lot worse. Especially with Gustavus Adolphus focused on the fallout from March fourth and the upcoming campaign against Brandenburg and Saxony. It's like every little fuss and feud that Mike had been sitting on since he became prime minister is breaking out again. Even before the official transfer of power. I can't imagine what it's going to be like, come June, when Wettin's actually in office."

"So? Answer my question, will you. Why here?"

"Mostly, I think, because Fulda's the closest sort of . . . protected . . . Catholic place to where they're coming from. To the different places that they're coming from. Most of Thuringia's pretty solidly Lutheran. It's either head this way or try to make it all the distance to some of the old Mainz Catholic exclaves around Erfurt. Bamberg and Würzburg are even farther away. If they went west, they'd have the problem of trying to get across the Rhine, since Hesse's in control all the way to the river."

"So we're just a handy pit stop. Damn it, Andrea. That's not what I wanted to hear."

"Send Andrea over to talk to the prioress again, I guess," Derek Utt said. "That might be the best thing to do, Melvin. This time last year, there were fifteen nuns in that building. Now, with the refugees, she must have twice as many crammed into it. She's going to need help feeding them. Cloistered nuns just don't have very many ways to make money. Send somebody over to talk to Hoheneck, too, I guess. He's the abbot now. See if he can squeeze a little more blood out of the turnips who are his provosts. Maybe . . ."

"Maybe what?"

"Send Urban von Boyneburg up to Hersfeld to talk to von Wildenstein. He's been working with us long enough now that he should have a decent idea about what we mean when we say the words 'freedom of religion.' I'd be willing to go with him. Because I'm not absolutely sure . . ."

"Of what?" Harlan Stull asked.

"That the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel and Wettin himself are fully up to speed about some of the things that their local administrators are doing in their name in places like Hersfeld and the Eichsfeld. Because it's not universal. That is, it's not happening across the board. A lot of these religious-based expulsions are pretty spotty. Localized. But I hate to tell you . . ." Derek Utt ran a hand through his rusty red hair, leaving the curls standing on end.

"What now?"

"Just before I came in, Hartke told me that a patrol out under Jeffie Garand and Joel Matowski yesterday collected another batch of nuns on the road. They found them rooms in Vacha so they could get some rest overnight and are going to bring them in today. From a convent at Zella, in the Eichsfeld. Nearly twenty, this time. Hell if I know where Ms. von Pflaumern, the prioress, that is, is going to put them."

"In that building?" Andrea Hill said. "She's not going to put them anywhere unless she stacks them up like cordwood. You'll have to talk to von Hoheneck and see about leasing the convent some extra space. And I think—with your approval, of course, Melvin—that I'll write to the landgravine. Amalie Elisabeth has more sense than this. For one thing, they can't believe that it has the emperor's backing. Back before we came to Fulda, in the winter of 1631, when the queen of Sweden was in Germany with her husband, she stopped here in Fulda, met with Salome von Pflaumern, and gave the convent thirty ducats."

Andrea stood up, sticking a pencil into her hair. "Maybe I could write to Wettin's wife, too, and remind her of that. After all, he's just invited the English Ladies to set up their girls' school in Weimar rather than Grantville. Why would he be inviting nuns into one city—what amounts to his own old home town—and throwing them out of another region that's under his administration? It just doesn't make sense."

Springer nodded. "It can't hurt, I suppose."

****

The liturgy completed and the others dispersed to their daily tasks, Salome von Pflaumern rose, mentally girding herself, like Paul, putting on the armor of God to do battle one more time. With the fishmonger, who was making noises about making no more deliveries until he got paid.

Easter would not be until April eighth. They were on Lenten rations. The garden was producing almost nothing, this early—only what they had planted in the hothouse against the brick wall that got the afternoon sun.

Thus . . . today, the battle of the fish. Not as impressive as a military battle with banners flying, perhaps, but just as necessary.

Hersfeld, April 1635

"Six groups," Boyneburg said. "Within the last three months, six different groups of Catholic refugees have come into Fulda from Hersfeld. Herr Springer, the administrator, is very upset."

Georg Wulf von Wildenstein was not prepared to compromise. "An eye for an eye," he said. "I am not enforcing more than that. The Catholics in Hersfeld are only now reaping what they previously sowed."

Boyneburg looked at Wilhelm of Hesse-Kassel's administrator in Hersfeld. He would be more inclined to believe the man if he didn't know his previous history so well. Before the landgrave gave him this appointment, he'd been field commander of Muffel's Brandenburg-Kulmbach regiment on Gustavus Adolphus' behalf when it went through Franconia as part of Horn's troops. When Horn took Bamberg in February 1632, he'd named Wildenstein to command the garrison holding the city. Whereupon, almost at once, Wildenstein had ordered the stripping of "idols" from the Jesuit church in order to hold Calvinist worship services there.

  Very much, Boyneburg thought, as the Calvinist chaplains of the Winter King had stripped the Catholic churches in Prague in 1618 for the same purpose. A less than popular move in Bohemia. Which led one to suspect that some people never learned.

Wildenstein had pushed the issue in Bamberg hard enough that even Horn's Lutheran chaplains had filed a protest. It took some doing to achieve that result.

Very much as, the refugees said, he had now, once again, ordered the "stripping of papist idols" from the city church in Hersfeld.

"It started with Tilly," the mayor said. "Tilly took Hersfeld in 1623. May, it was. The first Hessian city that the Catholics took. He had his headquarters here during the summer in 1625, but even before that, he ordered that Catholic masses were to be held every day in the old abbey church.

"Ferdinand II decided to reestablish the Imperial abbey. Now remember, this was well before he issued that so-called Edict of Restitution. He just decided on his own authority that during the Reformation, it had come into the possession of the landgraves of Hesse illegally." The man snorted. "Catholic Reformation, hah. Call it by its right name—Counter Reformation. Everything was to go back the way it had been. A commission from Mainz came in 1628 to take possession of the abbey in the name of the archbishop as administrator. The archbishop appointed a regent.

"Until 1629, at least, the Mainz commission recognized the protectorate of the landgrave over the rest of the city and let the Calvinists continue to worship in the city church. Then that year, after the Edict of Restitution, the archbishop named . . ." He paused. "Wambold von Umstadt appointed the up-timers' late friend and colleague, the former Fulda prince-abbot Johann Bernhard Schenk zu Schweinsberg, as vice-administrator. He set out to restore papistry in the whole city. Quite a big deal. Even though it was February, not the best time for public processions, he came into the city with all of his cavalry and a batch of monks. Jesuits. Benedictines—not his own, but borrowed from St. Gall. A batch of Franciscan friars. They arrived with pomp—eight coaches and three large travel wagons. There were Croats stationed here, to keep the city quiet. They received Schweinsberg outside the city and escorted him in. The Catholics rang all the bells in the abbey church. Armed citizens stood at attention in the streets.

"Schweinsburg ordered the mayor—that was me, by the way—all the members of the city council, the Calvinist minister, and the chaplain to come to the city church. He relieved us of our offices, in the polite term for firing us. He expelled the Calvinist congregation from the city church.

"And, then and there, one of the other Fulda officials he'd brought along, the provost of the Petersberg, the up-timers' current friend and colleague, the new abbot of Fulda—back then he was Schweinsberg's subordinate—Johann Adolf von Hoheneck, held a high mass in the city church and thereby took it again into possession as, quote-unquote, 'a Catholic house of God.' Through his chaplain, a guy they called Father Bartholomäus, he installed a Jesuit, a man named Jakob Liebst, as municipal priest."

"So, as you see," Wildenstein said, "we have done nothing to the Catholics that they had not done unto us. It's scarcely appropriate for you, as a Calvinist yourself, to complain."

Boyneburg cleared his throat. "I believe that a more accurate rendition of the words of Christ is not 'as others have already done unto you' but rather, 'as you would have others do unto you.'"

Fulda

"Franconian?" Melvin Springer asked.

"The family lineage was geographically Franconian in origin," Boyneburg answered. "But Georg Wulf von Wildenstein is a subject of the Palatinate. There's a history to it."

"Isn't there always?" Derek Utt grinned rather ruefully. "How many centuries this time?"

Boyneburg reflected a couple of minutes. "Not quite three, I would say. At least, that would cover the issues of most immediate concern."

"Then tell me," Springer said. "The short version, please."

"This branch of the von Wildenstein family has lands in several areas. One of the earliest was the Rothenburg, a castle not too far from Schnaittach. That's near Nürnberg, in the Pegnitz valley. One of them sold it to Emperor Charles IV in 1353; it came to the Palatinate some time after that, and in 1478, a coalition of imperial knights, fifty or so, bought it. Much to Nürnberg's annoyance, I have to say. When the Palatinate fell into Bavarian hands in 1623, in this war, the city council was even unhappier. Then in 1629, Duke Maximilian started the re-Catholicizing process and was well on his way to creating a little Bavarian Catholic exclave completely surrounded by Lutheran lands when Gustavus came through in 1631 and reversed the process. But Wildenstein still carries a grievance. Plus, there used to be more family holdings, Wildenfels and Strahlenfels, near Hilpoltstein, in the Lauf region—they sold those to Charles IV, also, so the Franconian connection's a long time ago. That's along the Pegnitz, too. Then his family also had lands over at Neumarkt in the Upper Palatinate and Maximilian started in on those after 1626."

Melvin sighed. "To think I used to get disgusted because some families still held grudges that went back to the Civil War. I've got to say that West Virginians, even the Hatfields and the McCoys, were pikers in the grudge-and-feud department compared to the folks around here."

Andrea Hill bit her lip. It would scarcely be appropriate for her to say, "If you don't like it here, then why don't you go back home?"

Not that she hadn't thought it at least a dozen times. Along with the rest of the staff, she was sure.

****

"A request for you to meet with a delegation of the imperial knights of Buchenland County, Mr. Springer," Etienne Baril said. "Shall I go ahead and set up the appointment?"

"What do they want to talk about?"

"Reversing the calendar change?"

"What calendar change?"

"The change to the calendar you up-timers use. The Gregorian calendar. As opposed to the Julian calendar, which many of the Protestant territories still use. Not, I would point out, all of them. Even Hesse-Kassel adopted the reform, even if a pope did proclaim it. But England, of course, still uses the old calendar—what could one expect of the English? And the imperial knights of Buchenland resisted very strongly when Fulda introduced the modernization in 1588."

"That's, uh . . . how long ago, did you say?"

"Almost fifty years."

"That's what I thought. And now these guys want?"

"To go back to the old calendar." Baril smiled blandly.

Springer looked up suspiciously. "These are the same creeps who had Wes and the others kidnapped?"

"Some of them, yes."

"Why do they think I'd agree to go back to some calendar that the rest of the SoTF—hell, the rest of the USE—isn't using?"

"I don't know if they think you will agree. That doesn't prevent them from being persistent in their attempts. They have a lot of ties of kinship and friendship down into the Rhön area and through there to the Franconian imperial knights, who never wanted to accept the reform, either."

"Can't you just remind them that the Franconian imperial knights, most of them, anyway, got their asses thoroughly fried by a batch of farmers last summer and are pretty much out of play?"

"For years, they have double-dated their official correspondence with the administration in Fulda, while continuing to use the old dating in their private correspondence."

"What do you think?"

"In 1631, before the emperor assigned Fulda and the whole Buchen area to the administration of what was then the New United States, it was briefly governed by the landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. At that time, the knights voted to abolish the new calendar in their territories. The landgrave, who fully understands that the new calendar is more accurate, even if formulated by the antichrist on earth himself, did not approve the revocation."

"And they?"

"Revoked it anyway. Until the up-timers arrived."

"Well . . ." Springer thought a minute. "Check with Harlan Stull about this, would you? It might be a good idea to get the UMWA point of view."

Harlan didn’t hesitate for an instant. "Tell them that the up-timers are still here, new county government or no new county government, and Buchenland County is damned well sticking with the national calendar."

"It's scarcely the most tactful way to phrase it," Baril answered anxiously. "Particularly since Colonel Utt and the Fulda Barracks Regiment are . . . away, pursuing the latest military information we received.

"You are so damned right that it ain't even funny, Etienne," Harlan answered. "Set them up an appointment with me, if you will. I'll still tell them there's no chance before hell freezes over, but not until after a nice long UMWA-style negotiation has worn them out. Anything else?"

Baril sighed. "I am a Huguenot myself—a Calvinist, but still . . . Another group of refugee nuns has arrived. Seven women, these from all the way north in the former imperial abbey of Corvey. Which is also, if I may say so, now under Hesse-Kassel." He turned his head. "May I ask, Madame Hill, if you have received any response from the landgravine yet?"

****

"We're sick and tired of it," von Ebersberg said. "We're loyal Protestants, every one of us. We suffered too, under Tilly. And under Schweinsberg. Let me tell you that, dead or not, no matter who killed him, most of us don't see him as any kind of a martyr. We were here before you up-timers came, Stull. We had to live through it. In 1623 and 1624, he exiled the Protestant pastors in several territories of the imperial knights and put Catholic priests in their place. Just ask over at Hettenhausen and Neukirchen if you want to get a picture of how he behaved. He put pressure on most of us to convert back to popism. In 1627, he made us promise to make 'voluntary contributions' for the support of the Catholic armies. That was really why we got into contact with the knights in the Franconian Circle, back then."

"Nobody is trying to make you support Ferdinand II or Maximilian of Bavaria now," Harlan said.

"No." Ebersberg eyed him doubtfully. "But how can we be sure that will continue, as long as we are subordinate to this 'Buchenland County' that ordinary commoners were allowed to vote to establish. If you ask me, von Schlitz had a point. How can we be sure of maintaining our rights and freedoms if we are not independent? How is it better for us to be subjects of Buchenland than of the abbot of Fulda?"

He drew a deep breath. "Like this papist calendar you insist that we must use, just as the abbots did."

****

The psalms were an important part of the liturgy. Salome von Pflaumern thought that on this day, it was at least very . . . appropriate . . . that they should be chanting Psalm 121.

The Lord is thy keeper:

the Lord is the shade upon thy right hand;

The sun shall not smite thee by day,

nor the moon by night.

The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil:

he shall preserve thy soul.

The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in

from this time forth, and even for evermore.

  If not . . . ironic . . . that they should be chanting Psalm 121. At least these had come safely to Fulda. She added a private prayer for those of her sisters who might still be, somewhere, on the road, seeking sanctuary, that the Lord might preserve them from harm.

Now that they were past the fast season of Lent, she should be able to provide her sisters with a decent diet. On a normal day, outside of fast times, they could eat moderate amounts of meat, cheese, butter, and eggs. Vegetables from their own garden, properly cooked and well seasoned. Salad, also from the garden. Bread and oatmeal, peas and beans. Fruit—apples, pears, cherries, damsons. Nuts and almonds, even. Milk and wine.

All quite acceptable within the Rule of Saint Benedict.

If, of course, one could pay for them.

****

Melvin Springer felt a little uneasy about being in a convent. Even in the business office of a convent. He was, after all, a Baptist. Southern Baptist.

Since, however, the prioress insisted that the rules of the cloister forbade her from coming over to the Buchenland County administration building . . .

Andrea Hill had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not, absolutely not to say anything along the lines of, "You know, they can't make you stay here if you want out," on the grounds that this lady was really dedicated to her job, very pious, and didn't want to escape in the least. Which struck him as really odd. But Andrea had met her before, and he hadn't.

"If the abbot can't make the provosts pay what is due to the convent," the prioress said firmly, "since according to your doctrine of 'separation of church and state' he is no longer the lord of the lands that used to be Fulda, but merely the spiritual head of the abbey itself, then it is clearly your duty as the lord of the land to make them pay. It is clear that any appeals he may have made to their better nature, their moral obligations, and their consciences have failed altogether. All three of the provosts are now taking the position that since there is no Holy Roman Emperor any more, then any financial obligations they had as his subjects are null and void."

"I'll see what I can do," Melvin Springer answered. "But I'm not the 'lord of the land' either, you know. Buchenland County has self-government, now. An elected county board with a chairman. I'm really just here, any more, as a sort of adviser. Not an administrator with authority."

"Well, the least you can do is look at some of the replies I've been getting." She slapped a batch of letters down on the table between them. "This man, for example, claims that he has already paid what he owes to the convent and I am trying to collect twice. It absolutely is not so. God forbid that I should ever do such a thing!" She reached behind her and pulled down a ledger. "I keep excellent books. With double-entry bookkeeping. Additionally, the lay sister at the gate logs in every delivery and letter separately." She pulled down a different ledger.

Melvin prepared himself for a long meeting. Luckily, he had brought Etienne Baril, who was a lawyer himself.

"You understand, don't you, Mr. Springer, that I am not doing this for my own advantage. I am doing it for the good of the community, of which I am both the elected head and the servant. The community to which I belong and for which I am responsible. If I cannot get satisfaction here, I will be forced to file grievances. With the papal nuncio, of course. With the dowager empress, Eleonora Gonzaga, in Vienna. I am not asking for any special privileges. Only that which we hold as of right."

She rose from her chair.

"I'll see what I can do," Melvin said.

"Perhaps," Salome von Pflaumern said, "I will write to the famous Gretchen Richter. I have heard that she is a Catholic. And I understand that the Committees of Correspondence handle problems like these very effectively."

****

"The prioress is certainly very . . . tenacious," Melvin said. "Stubborn as an old mule, to put it plainly."

Baril smiled. "Her father was a lawyer. With a doctorate. And a bureaucrat for the counts of Hohenzollern at Sigmaringen. Later on, he worked for the Fuggers. Her brother, one of her brothers, is the mayor of Ueberlingen. It's not as if she's a babe in the woods when it comes to making her way through official tangles of various kinds."

Harlan Stull snorted. "It's a pity we can't just send a unit of the Mounted Constabulary up into Hersfeld."

Andrea cleared her throat. "I'm afraid that would be sort of like . . . letting the governor of Kansas use the National Guard to invade Nebraska."

Harlan grunted. "Hell, I know it. But it would simplify my life. A lot. I'm coming to think that it's harder to deal with our so-called friends than with our outright enemies."

"We have to be more patient with them, at least."

He grunted again. "The prioress lady's actually sort of impressive."

Baril nodded.

"A person could almost call her feisty, to use a West Virginia description," Melvin said.

"Fighty?" Baril asked a little doubtfully. "'Fight" I know, but . . ."

"'Feisty.' It sort of means, uh, spunky. Ready to step up to the plate."

Andrea gave Baril the kind of look that communicated, "Don't bother asking Melvin again. I'll explain it to you later."

****

"Look, Hoheneck," Harlan Stull said.

The abbot of Fulda slapped his hand against the door frame. "It doesn't make any difference whether she's taken in forty refugee nuns or four hundred, Stull," Johann Adolf von Hoheneck said tightly. "I still don't have any money to give her."

"How can you possibly not?"

"Everything the abbots held as rulers is now the public property of Buchenland County. The specifically church goods that the abbey still has are either unprofitable—like the priory of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary—or else not mine to control. Neither the State of Thuringia-Franconia nor the United States of Europe has, and for that I do thank God, seen fit to replace canon law with secular law. That means, however, that the abbey's few remaining income-producing properties are either subject to the provosts, rather than directly to me, or tied to the support of the specific canonries in the Stift. Unless the pope should see fit to change that, it will stay that way.

"The Abbey of Fulda doesn't have any 'treasure.' It barely has something that might be described as a 'treasury' if the speaker were feeling generous. In 1631, the Hessians stripped the churches of anything that might have monetary value. Literally, anything that was not nailed down. In the abbey church, they took a lot of things that were fastened to the walls. They took the library and haven't returned it—nor are they likely to. You brought my predecessor back to an abbey with empty coffers and nothing has happened to fill them.

He slapped his hand against the door frame again. "To quote Colonel Utt's favorite phrase, 'Get real.'"

****

"That's not what I was hoping to hear," Melvin Springer said when Harlan got back. "Dear old Buchenland County, SoTF. Why did I ever take this job? Talk about the labors of Sisyphus. A lot of the time, I feel like we're not accomplishing a thing.

****

"It's a letter from the landgravine, finally," Baril said, laying it on Andrea Hill's desk.

She pulled her letter opener out from behind her ear.

"With a bank draft. Not a fabulous amount, but it should see the ladies at Assumption through for a couple of months. And a promise that she will 'look into it,' for whatever that may be worth."

****

Salome von Pflaumen sent the business manager to cash the bank draft and pay the suppliers.

Then she took out her prayer book. Carefully, on the front flap, she wrote,

After we have endured great sorrow in our hearts, God always sends great joy again. During times of misfortune, have the courage of a lion. Always trust in God, because eventually things will get better.

****

The Boat

Written by Kerryn Offord

    

Grantville, Sunday 6 April, 1634

George Watson stubbed out the cigarette he'd just finished and reached for his glass of beer. He sipped his drink while he gazed through the window at the shed where he'd kept his speedboat. He still missed his beauty, his Outlaw.

When he finished his beer George put the glass down and hauled himself out of his chair. He grabbed a coat and headed outside. Even before he arrived at the shed door he was breathing heavily. George was worried. He shouldn't be out of breath after such a short walk, not at only fifty-two.

****

"Well? What's wrong with me, Doc?" George asked.

"I don't have the X-rays that would give me a certain diagnosis, but knowing your work history, I think it's fair to say your shortness of breath is an early warning of coal workers' pneumoconiosis," Doctor John Thompson Sims said.

"Black lung? But there's no cure for that."

"It's not that bad, George, not yet. However, you should stop smoking and you really need to stop working near coal dust."

"Stop working near coal dust? But mining's all I know. What am I going to do for a living?"

"Why don't I make an appointment for you with Kathryn Riddle to talk about your options?"

George wanted a cigarette. He needed a cigarette. Already his fingers were fidgeting uncontrollably—although part of that might be reaction to Dr. Sims' diagnosis. Not that it'd been totally unexpected. He'd certainly seen enough black lung in his time to recognize the symptoms. But now he faced a bleak future with no social security, and maybe no job. "What about compensation, Doc?"

Dr. Sims shook his head. "I'm sorry, George. You don't meet the threshold conditions for compensation. At best the mine is required to find you alternative employment within the company, but it's too dangerous for you to work near coal dust. It'd be different if they were still using up-time mining techniques, but . . ."

"They aren't," George finished for Dr. Sims. He hauled himself to his feet. "No need for you to make that appointment, Doc. I can drop round to the employment office myself."

****

George shuffled out of the employment office. Even the walk from the bus stop to the office had him short of breath, and listening to what Kathryn had to say hadn't improved things. Either he risked making his condition worse by accepting a sideways move at the coal mine, in accordance with the existing union agreement for mining related medical conditions, or he left the mine and starved. Some choice. George lowered his head and started walking toward home.

Ten minutes later his feet stopped in front of a sidewalk sign—"Koudsi’s Legal Services (Since 1634)." He stared at it for maybe thirty seconds before he understood what his subconscious was trying to tell him. He needed to see his lawyer. He had the letter from Dr. Sims outlining his condition, then changed direction and set off to catch the railbus that would take him to the offices of Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck.

The Saalfeld offices of Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck

Martin Finck escorted George Watson to the front door and watched his client slowly walk down the street. He stared at the distant cliffs of the Ring of Fire.. They didn't give him any inspiration, so he closed the front door and walked into the reception area. There his eyes settled on the portrait of Johann Waffler, the late founding "partner," (mentally promoting him from his actual status as a legal clerk and small town notary).  It was Johann's money—he considered avarice to be at most a minor venial sin—that had funded the beginnings of the partnership. Martin stared at the portrait, wondering what Johann would do. Then he smiled. Whenever possible Johann Waffler had looked for someone to sue. But who to sue? And with what justification? Martin headed for the office of his superior in the Saalfeld office. "Meinhard, do you have a moment?"

Meinhard Wiesel lounged back in his well-padded executive chair. "Sure, what can I help you with?"

"I've just had George Watson in again."

"The speedboat case? Has there been a development? Has he found the money to pay us to actively pursue the case?"

"He hasn't found the money, but there has been a development. He's recently been diagnosed with," he paused to read his notes, "non-acute 'coal workers' pneumoconiosis'—something better known as 'black lung disease.'"

Meinhard steepled his fingers and rested his chin on the fingertips. "Non-acute . . . what does that mean?"

"Herr Watson says it means his condition is severe enough that he can't work in the mines, but not bad enough to qualify for government compensation under up-time law."

"So what does he want us to do?"

"He hopes that down-time mining law might have something to offer."

Meinhard shook his head. "Doubtful. I've never heard of such a case."

"Neither have I."

The two lawyers stared at each other for a while. The only sound was the ticking of the clock over the fire.

Meinhard broke the silence. "Would Herr Watson's illness gain the sympathy of the up-timers?"

Sympathy and George Watson didn't usually go together, but a potentially fatal disease? One brought on by coal mining, in a coal mining town . . . "I do believe you have it. Surely this is just what we need to push the claim for compensation for the loss of Herr Watson's precious up-time speedboat," Martin said.

Meinhard stood and paced around his office. "Due to the change in Herr Watson's circumstances we should offer to handle his case on a 'contingency fee' basis." He smiled. "Surely one of our glorious mine workers, selflessly sacrificing his health for the betterment of mankind, deserves the support of the nation in his hour of need . . ."

"You're piling it on a bit thick, but I agree."

"It would be best if we could get the case to go to court. That would justify a higher percentage."

"They'll never allow it to go that far. Herr Watson's claim is just too strong. His boat was one of the few items actually nationalized, and General Jackson was heard to say that Herr Watson would be compensated. It's just a matter of how much."

Meinhard sat down and collected paper and a pen. "How much do you think it was worth?"

"Herr Watson paid about sixty thousand dollars for it up-time, but it was the only one of its kind down-time."

"You'll need to start by pricing how much it would cost to build a similar boat built today."

  "They can't, Meinhard. For a start they don't have the engines that allow the Outlaw to travel so fast," Martin explained. "It is impossible for anybody to build anything like the Outlaw. The materials the boat was made out of don't exist, and most importantly, nobody can build engines of the required power and reliability."

"What if they could recover the original engines?" Meinhard asked.

"Even if they could build a boat exactly like Herr Watson's original Outlaw it wouldn't be a true artifact from the future, and it wouldn't command the same price," Martin said.

"How much is the up-timer premium worth?"

"I have no idea," Martin admitted.

"Then you had better do some research," Meinhard said. "And you might want to make contact with the owners of the other boats. If I recall correctly there were three others taken for military service."

State of Thuringia-Franconia Court System, Grantville

"Andrea, you got a minute?"

Andrea Constantinault, chief of staff of the State of Thuringia-Franconia Court System looked up from the papers she was reading. "Sure, Syl. What's bothering you?"

Sylvester Francisco, the Assistant Attorney General, stepped into the office and grabbed a chair as he approached her desk. "I've got a real doozy," he said. "George Watson is filing for compensation for the nationalization of his speedboat."

Andrea nodded. "The law does say anything taken by eminent domain must be compensated."

"Yeah, sure, especially as a number of people heard Frank Jackson insist that George'd be compensated. That's not the problem." He stopped and glared at the papers in his hand. "The problem is how much he's asking for."

"How much can it be?"

"George's lawyers are asking for six million."

"Six million!"

Sylvester grinned. "I thought that would get your attention. Yep, six million, plus interest backdated to the beginning of October when compensation should have been paid."

"But, but, that's outrageous," Andrea protested.

"That's what I thought." He dumped some papers on Andrea's desk. "But George's lawyer pointed out that the Outlaw was a one of a kind boat and could easily have sold for that kind of money."

Andrea picked randomly at the papers Sylvester had dropped on her desk. "Do you have any idea how much desperately needed indexing equipment we could buy for six million dollars?"

"Probably all you need. The lawyer did say George would settle for having his boat back."

"But it's been blown into a zillion pieces."

Sylvester shrugged. "As Herr Finck would say, that's not his client's problem."

"If Maurice presided over the case he'd have to decide compensation on 'fair value.'" Andrea sighed in resignation. "Are we sure six million is fair?"

"Fair value is kinda hard to determine, Andrea. But George's lawyers do have a point. How much would a replacement Outlaw cost?"

"I've got no idea. Maybe you'd better take it up with Maurice and Internal Affairs."

State of Thuringia-Franconia Department of Internal Affairs, Grantville

George Chehab, Secretary of the Interior, Department of Internal Affairs, his deputy, Jailyn Wyatt, and the State of Thuringia-Franconia court system's chief judge, Maurice Tito, listened as Sylvester outlined the problem. There was a dead silence as they stared at each other. Finally George turned to his deputy. "What do you think?"

Jailyn released a heavy sigh. "I guess if that's 'fair value', that's what we have to pay."

Maurice Tito, the person most likely to preside over the case, nodded his agreement. "That's the important thing. What is fair value? Does six million represent the fair market value of George's Outlaw when Frank Jackson 'nationalized' it?"

"You don't think we could get away with paying something more in line with what Watson paid for it originally?" George asked hopefully.

"No!" Sylvester answered. "If George Watson's lawyers feel that the settlement offer was demonstratively unfair they'll try and get it heard by a jury, and we have to avoid that."

"Why are you so sure they'd want to go before a jury, Syl? I'd have thought that with the level of compensation they're asking they'd want to leave determination of fair value in the hands of the presiding judge," Maurice said.

Sylvester gestured to the case folder. "In there is George Watson's latest medical. Dr. Sims has recently diagnosed him with non-acute 'coal workers' pneumoconiosis.'"

"Ouch! A couple of UMWA members on that jury and any chance of a reasonable 'fair value' goes out the window," George Chehab said.

"That's my opinion as well," Sylvester said. "Which means we either accept George's lawyers' valuation, or make our own."

"How do you suggest we go about determining a market value for the Outlaw?" Maurice asked Sylvester.

"How about getting someone to build a new one?" Jailyn suggested.

Maurice shook his head. "Even if someone could build a new one, its value won't take account of the premium a unique up-time artifact can command."

"Well, how do you price the premium?" Jailyn asked.

"I've no idea," Maurice answered.

"A lot of good you are," Jailyn muttered. "So where does that leave us?"

"I guess we do what we can to determine our own valuation," Maurice said.

"What about the other boats," Jailyn asked.

Three heads turned her way. "What other boats?" George asked.

"Harry Rousseau's, Louie Tillman's, and Jack Clements'," Jailyn answered. "They were also taken up to Wismar, weren't they?"

Sylvester nodded. "Yeah, they were, but I haven't heard of any of them claiming compensation."

"Well you wouldn't," George said. "Not only have their boats not been blown up, but both Jack and Louie were happy to let their boats be used while Harry and his family were left up-time."

"But Donna Rousseau still has family in Grantville," Maurice said. "We'll have to talk to them about selling Harry's boat to the navy or taking it back. And I guess we'd better do the same for Jack and Louie."

"Come on, Maurice. Neither Jack or Louie are the kind of guys who'll try to rip off the government," George protested.

Maurice shook his head. "George Watson isn't trying to rip off the government. He's standing by his legal rights to fair compensation. The fact that he might be dying of black lung and can't work anymore is justification enough for trying to get as much as he can. And if the Outlaw is worth six million, those other three boats won't be cheap. The navy would be advised to see about obtaining an indemnity or giving them back before anything happens to them."

The Saalfeld offices of Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck, May, 1634

George Watson settled into the client's chair and stared expectantly at Martin Finck. "Well?"

Martin shuffled papers on his desk. Selecting one he placed it carefully in front of him and looked across his desk at George. "After strenuous petitioning by Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck the State of Thuringia-Franconia has conceded that fair compensation is due."

"So when do I get some money?" George demanded.

Martin ignored the interruption and continued speaking. "Although they concede that compensation is owed, the State of Thuringia-Franconia wishes to make its own determination as to what fair value is for your lost vessel."

"And what am I supposed to live on while they make their determination?"

Martin held up his hands. "Herr Watson, this trifling delay is not unexpected. The government has a duty not only to pay fair value for your boat, but also to protect the public purse and ensure that fair value is all they pay. However, the state of Thuringia-Franconia is aware of your situation and doesn't wish to see you suffer financial hardship because of the delay. So they have made an offer of a stipend, backdated to the beginning of October last year, of five hundred dollars per week, payable until such time as they do settle." Martin removed his glasses and polished them. "The stipend is, of course, interest on the owed compensation by another name, but it represents a valuation of a mere six hundred thousand dollars. To let that stand would imply we accept that valuation, so I recommend that you allow me to negotiate the stipend."

"Sure, whatever you think is best. You're the lawyer."

"Then I'll get right on to filing our counter-offer and get back to you as soon as I can." Martin rose from his chair and escorted George out of the office.

Köppe's Boatyard, Schönebeck (14 miles south of Magdeburg), May 1634

Ernst Christof Köppe looked up from the pile of drawings, photographs, and hull fragments. "Impossible."

"That is what everyone else has said," Hans Kierstead said. "However, they also said that if anybody can build it, it is Ernst Christof Köppe."

"They did?"

"Yes," Hans confirmed.

"Oh!" Ernst turned back to the drawings and pictures. A thirty-three foot boat capable of over seventy miles per hour that no one else could build. He could see the hull shape was fast, but . . . "What about the engines?" He gestured to the boats being built in his covered boatyard. "The engines I get for those 'Higgins' boats wouldn't be suitable."

"Attempts are currently underway to recover the original engines. For now we just need you to concentrate on the hull. Can you build it?"

"I can try," Ernst suggested.

"We'd like you to do more than just try."

Ernst sighed. He had another look at the material he'd been given. It would certainly be a change from the ten and twelve knot motor barges and lighters he'd been building. "Give me a week. If I can make useful drawings out of all of this I will build you your boat." He looked up. "If I can't make good enough drawings, then you must find someone else."

****

Three days later Ernst had some useful working drawings. Not anything suitable for making a full size Outlaw, but he could make a scale model. One to twelve should be easy to do. That'd give a model thirty-three inches long with a beam of eight and a half inches. The new material for the hull might present a problem. He was used to using sawn boards, or more recently, marine plywood, but the Outlaw, according to the brochures he'd been given, used something called 'glass reinforced plastic.'

"Claus," he called out for his senior journeyman. "Come here a moment."

Claus Wilhelm Delp put down the carpenter's plane he was using and hurried over to Ernst. "How can I help you, Master Köppe?"

"'Glass reinforced plastic.' Where have I heard of that?"

Claus stared blankly up at the roof of the workshop and worried his lower lip with his teeth for a couple of minutes. Suddenly he straightened and snapped his fingers. "Markgraf and Smith Aviation's new aircraft, they are using something they call fiberglass in the construction of its body. I'm sure it's the same thing."

As soon as Claus mentioned the aircraft manufacturers Ernst had remembered what he'd read. "I believe you're correct. I need you to visit Markgraf and Smith and find out all you can about constructing hulls using fiberglass." He pulled on Claus' arm. "Come along, we need to get you on your way as soon as possible."

"But, Master Köppe, I haven't finished . . ."

"Don't worry about it, Claus. I'll make sure your apprentices finish what you were doing. Right now it's more important that you learn how to make a hull out of fiberglass.

Köppe's Boatyard, June 1634

Claus Delp looked around the workshop. He could see Master Köppe had been busy while he'd been away. Along one side of the workshop was the wooden skeleton of a large boat. It could only be a wooden Outlaw. He walked over to the monstrous boat and peeked into the interior.

There were engines in the engine bay. He didn't think they were the right engines. They looked too much like the drawings of the new build engines he'd seen during his recent time at Markgraf and Smith Aviation.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Master Köppe asked from behind him.

Claus stood back and studied the lines of the boat. "Yes." He gestured to the engines. "Are they the proper engines?"

"No. They still haven't produced them. Those are a pair of new aero engines. The power will be well down on what the Outlaw had, but they're the best I could get."

Claus tried to remember the numbers he'd heard at Markgraf and Smith. He thought he remembered something like one hundred and twenty-five horse power per engine, which would mean Master Köppe's boat would have about a third of the power of the real Outlaw. If they worked. "Will they work on a boat?"

Master Köppe shrugged. "They'll work. I just don't know how well. My biggest concern will be how to prevent them overheating. They are air-cooled," he added to clarify his concern.

"With a third of the horse power the boat will be limited to what, thirty miles per hour?"

"The computer model suggests up to about forty-five miles per hour."

"Until the engines overheat," Claus finished.

"Until the engines overheat," Master Köppe agreed. "Never mind the wooden Outlaw. How do we go about building a fiberglass hull?"

Claus opened the satchel of notes he carried. "Well, first we need to . . ."

Köppe's Boatyard, first light, September 1634

Claus watched the boat slide gently into the water. It wasn't the fiberglass boat, but it was an Outlaw, all thirty-three feet of her. Fitting the radial engines into a space designed to hold two V8 engines had been a nightmare. The radial engines were half the length of the V8s, at nineteen inches, but their forty-four inch diameter had caused a lot of heartache as the team struggled to fit them into a cavity designed to hold a pair of modern V8s no more than thirty-two inches wide and twenty-two inches high. It'd taken a major redesign in the gearboxes, but they'd managed to shoehorn two of the new radial engines into the stern of the boat they were calling the Argo, after Jason of the Golden Fleece fame's ship."

Claus wondered how she'd perform. Sure she was made of wood instead of fiberglass, but the radial engines gave a weight saving of nearly eighteen hundred pounds. She had to be lighter than the three and a half ton Outlaw.

Master Köppe joined him on the dock. "I've briefed the chase boat crews. Let's get this trial underway."

Claus snorted. Chase boats indeed. The Higgins boats with their low power "hot bulb" engines were barely capable of ten knots all out. He waited for Master Köppe to take his seat before he stepped aboard the Argo and took his seat at the controls.

He checked the gearbox was in neutral, switched on the power, and hit the big green "start" button. There was a whirring of starter motors and the engines coughed into life. He engaged reverse and gently moved out of the sheltered dock of the boatyard, into the Elbe River.

****

Fifteen minutes of slow motoring later everything was still going well. Not that they'd expected otherwise. They'd tested the engines and the gearbox as best they could before installing it, but now for the crunch test. Claus opened the throttle a little and the boat surged forward, eager to go. Within minutes they had left the two chase boats in their wake.

"How is she responding?" Master Köppe yelled over the sound of the engines.

Claus swung the steering wheel a little to the left, and then to the right. The boat responded with barely a hint of lag. He lifted a hand off the wheel to signal all was okay.

"Are you ready to do a timed run?" Master Köppe yelled.

Claus scanned the river. Up ahead were the posts on either bank of the river that marked the start of their measured half-mile. He nodded his readiness and eased the throttle forward a little more.

****

When they passed the second marker Master Köppe stopped the stopclock. "Just under two minutes," he yelled. "What's that, fifteen miles per hour?"

Claus eased back the throttle. As the boat slowed he could talk without yelling. "Yes, and that wasn't even a third throttle. Shall we try to go faster on the way back?"

"Yes."

Claus took the boat about a quarter of a mile past the mark and turned round. He didn't expect to get up to full speed in that distance, but even this early in the day they couldn't hope to have this stretch of the river to themselves for much longer. When the boat was lined up on the channel markers he thrust the throttle forward. The noise from the twin radial engines increased as they sped up and the stern of the Argo dug in for a moment as the spinning propellers thrashed the water before she started to move. Soon she was accelerating away, leaving a huge roster tail of spray in her wake.

It took a tap on his shoulder from Master Köppe to tell Claus to slow down. Regretfully he eased the speed back to a crawl. He looked at the stopclock. Just over a minute, or an average speed of just under thirty miles per hour, and she'd been accelerating for most of the way. He smiled at Master Köppe. "That was . . . that was . . ." He couldn't continue. He was at a loss for words.

"Imagine what the fiberglass boat will be like."

Claus shook his head. He couldn't imagine what it would be like. The fiberglass hull should save several hundred pounds, and with the same amount of power . . . "We need someone more experienced to pilot her, and open water to test her properly."

"The American?" Master Köppe suggested.

"Herr Watson?" Claus asked.

"Yes. If he could pilot the Outlaw he should have little trouble with the Argo," Master Köppe said. "And we should see about taking her to Luebeck for testing in the Trave estuary."

"Will the Luebeck guild let us continue our work there?" Claus asked.

"It shouldn't be a problem." Master Köppe touched his nose a couple of times with his forefinger and smiled archly at Claus. "I know some people."

Travemünde, on the Baltic coast, Late September 1634

George Watson walked along the north bank of the River Trave near Travemünde. He stopped to stare at the lagoon where he understood the Köppe guy wanted to conduct speed tests of his new speedboat. It looked long enough, and the water calm enough, but was it deep enough? Certainly the river wasn't very deep, being as little as ten feet deep in the main channel along much of its length. Well, they had buoys out, so they must know how deep it is. He turned back and continued his walk. Somewhere around here was supposed to be Mr. Köppe's boatyard.

He froze when he saw the boat tied up along a short jetty. Surely not? From the jetty he stared down on the boat. It wasn't his Outlaw, but it certainly looked like one. Was this the boat he'd been employed to pilot? George certainly hoped so. Moments later he heard footsteps on the timber jetty and turned round.

"You are admiring the Argo?" Ernst Köppe asked.

"She's a pretty boat. Looks a lot like one I used to own."

"Ah, you must be Herr Watson. I have been waiting for you. Would you like to see my boatyard?"

George sent another glance towards the Argo. Actually he'd rather have a look aboard her, but there would be plenty of time later if she was the boat they wanted him to pilot. "Sure, lead the way."

****

George checked everything was secure in the cabin of the Argo before returning to the cockpit. After a week of testing on the lagoon they were finally ready to take her out into the Baltic for a sea run. The final top speed over the measured mile had been determined to be a mere thirty-six miles per hour, about half what his old Outlaw had been capable of, and his Outlaw had been a lot quieter. "Ernst," he called to the master boat builder, "if you're going to sell many of these boats you're going to have to do something about the engine noise."

On deck Ernst smiled. "I already have that in hand. I've been talking to the engine makers about making a water-cooled engine that will fit better."

"At least that'll get rid of the fan noise," George suggested.

"And maybe increase the power we can extract." Ernst looked past George. "Are you ready to take her to sea?"

"Yes. Let's get our life jackets on and get this show on the road."

Ernst pointed ashore. "We're waiting on Claus. He's getting the latest weather reports."

George swore at himself under his breath. How could he have forgotten the weather?

"Here he comes now," Ernst continued.

"The barometer is holding steady and the air force says we will have good weather and calm waters in Luebeck bay," Claus reported.

"Okay," George started the engines and left them idling. "Right, cast off fore and aft, and let's get out of here."

Claus tossed his bag aboard and headed to the bow to undo the forward mooring line while Ernst took care of the aft line. He held the Argo while Ernst stepped aboard. After one last check, Claus pushed the Argo away from the jetty and hopped aboard.

As they drifted clear of the jetty, George selected forward and eased the throttle forward to the first stop. At a mere six miles per hour they followed the River Trave the short distance into open water.

Once clear of the river, and any ships, George opened the throttle a little more. At the third stop—calibrated as being about twenty miles per hour on the calm waters of the lagoon—he glanced over at Ernst and Claus. Both of them were standing with their hands holding the grab rail looking over the windshield. The wind was whipping through their hair. George took a moment to run his hand over his thinning top. It wasn't fair that Ernst, who was surely older than he, should have such a full head of hair.

"Faster," Ernst yelled in his ear.

George smiled and did as he was told, easing the throttle forward another stop—twenty-five miles per hour.

Ten minutes later Ernst shouted, "Faster!" At thirty miles per hour the Argo was bouncing off the wave tops, the hull thumping into the water time after time. George didn't wait for instructions and throttled back to a more comfortable speed.

Ernst tapped George's arm and pointed to starboard. There were three sailing boats, and it looked like they were racing each other. Ernst made a circling gesture and pointed back at the yachts. George realized what Ernst wanted and smiled. He changed course for the yachts.

Aboard the yacht Pride of Neustadt

    Jurgen von Neustadt saw the boat approaching. He'd heard of the up-timer boats, but he'd never actually seen one. His eyes followed it as it sped past the Spirit and looped around past Andreas Maria Anna and Hans Schulte's Pequod before passing the Spirit again. He waved at the three men on board the speeding boat as it sped past a second time. Then, with a spray of water and a mighty roar of its engines, it sped off.

Jurgen watched the boat disappear into the distance toward Luebeck. Against the head wind it would be hours before his yacht could get there. He glanced at the yachts of his friends before studying his own yacht. He'd felt so proud when he'd taken delivery just two months ago. The Spirit of Neustadt was the fastest yacht money could buy—and a speedboat had just run rings around her. Jurgen slammed a fist down on the gunwales—he had to have that boat.

SoTF Department of Internal Affairs, Grantville, November 1634

Sylvester Francisco settled himself at the conference table. Facing him were George Chehab, Jailyn Wyatt, and Judge Maurice Tito. He opened his case folder before looking up. "There has been some good news. The navy has located the engines of the Outlaw and Wilkie Andersen of Mechanical Support seems to think he can get them both running again."

"That's great news," Jailyn said. "What do George's lawyers have to say?"

Sylvester fidgeted with the papers under his hand. "They seem quite happy. In fact, I've got a new proposal from them. If Ernst Köppe can build his replacement Outlaw and if, using the recovered engines, it can achieve an average speed of at least seventy miles per hour on his measured mile near Travemünde, then they will settle for whatever they manage to sell the boat for by public auction, with a top up from the government of a percentage of the sale price to cover the up-timer premium."

"That seems reasonable," George interrupted.

"How big a percentage?" Maurice asked.

"I was coming to that," Sylvester said. "They want a premium of fifty percent of the sale price."

George reared back on his seat. "No way are we paying fifty percent. Heck, I thought it was the engines that made it so valuable."

Sylvester smiled. "I believe Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck will be prepared to negotiate."

"Not a penny over twenty-five percent, Syl. Not one penny," George insisted.

"How much is this going to cost the government," Jailyn asked.

"Well, we have to pay Herr Köppe for making the boat, and the navy has racked up expenses salvaging the Outlaw, although that can probably be offset by whatever they salvaged from the Anthonette, the Johannes Ingvardt and the Christiania . . ."

"The Christiana? Any chance of recovering anything of Hans Richter's Belle?" George asked.

"I don't know, but I'm sure the navy is looking. But back to Jailyn's question, building a new Outlaw with the original engines should cost less than a quarter of a million," Sylvester said.

"I say we try for twenty-five percent for the premium. The boat would have to sell for over twenty-two million before it costs more than settling would have," George suggested.

"I don't even see the boat going for eleven million, George," Sylvester said, thinking of the possible fifty percent premium.

"Okay then, tell them we agree in principle, but haggle over the percentage," George said.

Travemünde, March 1635

Meinhard Wiesel of the Saalfeld office of Waffler, Wiesel, and Finck couldn't conceal his good humor. The new contract with George Watson gave them ten percent of whatever they got for selling the boat and twenty percent of anything the State of Thuringia-Franconia paid out. The potential fee had inspired both him and Martin Finck to new heights. They'd identified the deepest pockets amongst men they believed would compete for the prestige of owning this particular piece of unique up-time magic and done everything they could to get them to the auction. It was an outrageous piece of theater to start the bidding at thirty million for the boat, and there was no chance anybody was going to pay anything like that, but it was good publicity and it did mean the countdown would take longer. The greater the tension between the bidders, the higher the final price was likely to be, and nothing beat time as a way of generating tension.

He surveyed the guild hall. The spectator stands were packed, and arranged in a semicircle around the Outlaw II were a dozen hand picked bidders sitting at small desks. On each desk was a single large button. Hitting any of the twelve buttons automatically stopped the spinning wheels that showed the changing bid price on the display set up behind the rostrum. In addition to showing the final bid value the display would also show whose button had been pressed. In the event of several people pushing their button at "the same time" it would show whoever pushed their button first. The electrical wizards in Grantville who built the system had assured Meinhard that it couldn't fail. As experienced judges of human nature Meinhard and Martin had assigned this assurance the value it deserved and tested the system for over an hour before they paid for it.

Meinhard struck his wooden auctioneer's hammer on the rostrum until the hall fell silent. "Gentlemen, we are gathered here today to sell the high powered speedboat set before you. This fine vessel is a product of respected master boat builder, Ernst Köppe, and uses up-time engines to propel it at speeds exceeding seventy miles per hour." Meinhard paused for breath. "You have all had an opportunity to inspect the vessel and pilot her on the lagoon. You all know what you are bidding for—nothing less than the fastest boat in the world. The only vessel approaching it for speed is Master Köppe's Argo, and we know that the Argo is only capable of a mere thirty-six miles per hour. Barely half the speed the Outlaw II can achieve.

"The Outlaw II is unique. One of a kind. And putting a price on something like that is difficult, which is why this auction is being run as a reverse auction. In front of each bidder is a button. On the display behind me you can see the current bid price as it slowly counts down. Bidders may bid by hitting their button at any time. The first bidder to bid will be the winner of the auction and will, in accordance with the contracts they have signed, be sold the Outlaw II at the currently displayed price." Meinhard looked at the seated approved bidders. They all signified that they were ready. Meinhard gestured for Martin to start the bidding.

****

George Watson nudged Ernst and pointed to the door before getting to his feet and leaving the guild hall. He didn't need to hang around. He knew that no matter what happened he was going to get a bundle of cash, and he knew just what he wanted to do with it.

He waited at the door for Ernst, and they walked along the bank of the River Trave. "Ernst, I have reason to believe that I might have a bundle of cash looking for a home. I'm wondering, how would you like a partner?"

"A master boat builder shouldn't have a partner," Ernst said.

"Of course not, and I'm not a trained boat builder, but I've got a few ideas about some boats we could build, and it looks like I'm going to have a heap of cash. Are you interested?"

"I am interested, but I make the decisions," Ernst said.

"Sure." George offered Ernst his hand and they shook on it.

SoTF Department of Internal Affairs, Grantville, April 1635

Sylvester Francisco slumped into the chair opposite the Secretary of the Interior and casually tossed him a folded sheet of heavy vellum. "They sold the Outlaw," he announced.

George Chehab picked up the paper without examining it. "How much?"

"Eight million, one hundred and fifteen thousand, two hundred and twenty-four dollars and thirty-two cents."

"Over eight million dollars?" George Chehab shook his head in disbelief. "That's more than two hundred thousand guilders. Gustav's Vasa, the one that sank on its maiden voyage a few years back, cost half that."

"I don't think Jurgen von Neustadt paid for it out of petty cash, George." Sylvester smiled. "I'm guessing he's gone seriously into debt to buy it."

George flicked the paper in his hands. "So what's this? George's lawyers asking for the twenty-five percent premium we owe?"

"And the rest," Sylvester said.

"Rest? What rest?" George stared at Sylvester. "We only owe the premium and whatever Köppe says we owe for building the boat. Don't we?"

"We also owe eighteen months interest for the delay in paying fair compensation. They claim that the 'fair value' of the Outlaw was obviously the price the Outlaw II sold for plus the twenty-five percent up-timer artifact premium. It works out to an additional seven hundred and eighty-five grand."

"So we need to dig up something like three million to finally settle," George muttered.

Sylvester gave George a wry smile. "Yeah, just a measly three million. I hope George is happy."

Travemünde

George Watson inhaled the clean fresh sea air coming in off the Baltic. He hadn't realized how dirty the air in Grantville had become with all the new industries cropping up. It felt good to be alive. He turned and walked toward his friend and new partner, Ernst Köppe's Travemünde boat yard. Ernst had recently sold his old yard in Schönebeck to the newly promoted Master Claus Wilhelm Delp, his old senior journeyman, and settled in Travemünde.

Inside the workshop George walked over to the empty shell that was his new boat. It'd be summer before she was ready for sea trials, but he didn't care. Soon enough he'd be at the helm of a boat others would envy. He even had a fitting name for his new beauty, the Fair Value.

Blaise Pascal and the Adders of Apraphul

Written by Tim Roesch

    

Grantville Power Plant, November 11^th, 1634

Bill Porter staggered out of the staff lunchroom in the Grantville Power Plant as if he'd been cast out against his will or was in fear for his life . . . or possibly both. He caught sight of Julie Drahuta walking serenely down the corridor and held up his hands as if surrendering to her.

"Julie," Bill whispered, "Julie, just wait a second, okay? Wait a second. Jesus Christ, don't go in there. It's crazy. I can't believe it and I was there."

"What did the boy do now?" Julie smiled.

"The boy? Blaise? Nothing. Everything. It started with that damn pressure flutter in boiler number two. It was there before the Ring of Fire. Blaise is pumping out solutions to electrical engineering math problems faster than he can read the damn book and, right in the middle of everything, he's figuring out the harmonics of the flutter in boiler two like it was nothing and now he's in the staff cafeteria . . ."

"Hey, Bill." Nissa Pritchard walked up to her boss with a smile as bold as brass on her face. "Is it true? In the cafeteria? Is it really him?"

"Yes, Jesus Christ, yes," Bill gasped. "Don't piss him off."

"No need to get huffy." Nissa shook her head and walked past, entering the door leading to the cafeteria.

"What's wrong?" Julie asked.

"Wrong? Blaise is figuring out how to make a computer. Hell, tell the kid we can't go to the moon and we'll be there a week after Thanksgiving. I am afraid to ask the kid to solve problems because he'll do it. He's got an idea for a hydraulic adder but he really wants it to be pneumatic. He thinks water is too messy. Rod was playing a joke on the boy . . ."

"A joke? You know what happens when people mess with the kid? He doesn't understand it and he ends up hanging from church steeples or trying to electrify cats or trying to make his own hydroelectric plant."

"I talked to Rod about what he did, Julie. Look, it was an April Fool's joke from a Scientific American issue about this analog computer supposedly dug up at a site on a South Pacific Island called Apraphul and used by Pacific Islanders to navigate with. It was all hogwash, I mean look at the name of the island and the month the magazine was printed, April, but the kid tried to make one, well, a dozen, okay, forty-nine and he's all ticked. . . . Right, but that leads him to a hydraulic computer. Jesus, why didn't I think about that? Anyway, he needs more room so I get some old chalkboards rigged up in the cafeteria. Easier to watch him with a pot of fresh coffee, right? Anyway, he's in there creating hydraulic computers amongst the microwave ovens and coffee machines."

"You let Blaise near a microwave! Jesus Christ, Bill! I wouldn't let him near a picture of microwave in a book after what he did!"

"Easy, Julie. He's being watched and he is following directions. He passed the safety course and he walks around in the main generator room like a priest in the Vatican . . . always under supervision. He's cool. I even punished Rod for jerking the kid's chain by making Rod personally responsible for escorting the kid. Rod is running himself ragged trying to keep up."

"But a microwave? Matheny is still pissed about that one." Julie sighed.

"Hey, he fixed it right? Anyway, Blaise almost has an Adder working!"

"An Adder?"

"Yes, Julie, it's a fundamental unit of a computer. We could have a computer up and running in no time. To hell with Silicon Valley. We could make a working computer out of stuff he got here. We don't need photolithography and silicon disks. Hell, we could get the Europeans to understand this. Sure, it would be bigger and slower but it would work. Then, I go in this morning and . . ."

"Hey Boss!" Rod Shackleton rushed up to them both, holding a box. "I got these pastries. Think he'll like 'em?"

"Who knows what he likes? Take 'em in! And find out what Blaise is doing in there. You left him alone too long." Bill waved at Rod to hurry up. Rod rushed to the open door and hurried inside. There was a loud burst of French, then a more quiet discussion ensued.

"They're writing on the walls now, Julie," Bill shook his head.

"Blaise knows better than that." Julie made to go around Bill but Bill held up his hand.

"Do you know who's in there? He just shows up as if it ain't a thing. Poof! Allan Sebastian is just following along as if he's lost or something."

"You mean he's here already?" Julie frowned. "I thought he'd settle in first. It's a long way from Toulouse. He just got in like what, twenty hours ago?"

"You knew!"

"Of course I did. Someone comes into town asking about Blaise, I get curious." Julie shrugged. "For all we know, Blaise is a secret weapon. All by himself. It could have been Richelieu's secret plan to blow the place up by giving the kid all the electricity he could want."

  "You knew that Pierre damn Fermat was coming and you didn't tell me?" Bill almost shouted. Bill Porter was not a man to shout without reason and this was almost a reason.

"He's Pierre Fermat, not the pope," Julie smiled. "Besides, Allan knew. Allan is a math teacher."

"Blaise Pascal and Pierre de Fermat are in my staff lunchroom," Bill gasped.

"I think you can drop the 'de' thing. My guess is Richelieu isn't going to let him keep it after this little escapade gets out. I've been reading up . . ."

"Pierre. Fermat."

"I. Know. Bill. I am going to put them up at my place for now until they get settled. She's pregnant. They have this incredibly incompetent maidservant with them. God, my son Joseph could do better."

"She?"

"Mrs. Fermat. You know he was, well, is married. Finally, some famous person who isn't eleven and hanging by his neck from the church steeple. Thankfully, the 'False Messiah' thing worked out. Shabbethai Zebi is in there with Blaise, right? You realize how hard this is? I got a False Messiah in the power plant and Mary Timm in a basement cutting glass. And Blaise Pascal in a room with a microwave. God, who's gonna die first?"

"Shabbethai is in the corner reading a scroll." Bill shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Julie, it's like an episode of Laugh In! Who the hell is going to show up next? Descartes?"

"He's too old to move out of Amsterdam.  Besides, I don't think . . ."

"Excuse," Jacqueline Pascal said politely as she led Logan Sebastian by the hand past them both. "In here?"

"Yes, Jackie, Blaise is in there and busy. I'll be in in a minute." Julie waved. "Don't start without me. And keep your brother away from the microwave!"

"Start?" Bill shook his head, almost whimpering. "What's Blaise going to start?"

"Logan didn't want to wait any longer for Blaise to ask her to the Thanksgiving Dance so Jacqueline decided to act in loco mommy and bring the two together," Julie said. "Jacqueline treats her brother like he's a lost puppy."

"I hope Allan knows, because he's in there." Bill pointed and, as if on cue, Allan Sebastian, Blaise Pascal's second mathematics teacher, poked his head out of the crowded staff cafeteria.

"Hey, Bill, you're needed." Allan waved then hurried back inside.

"Jesus, Julie," Bill whispered, "I'm needed in a room with Blaise Pascal and Pierre de Fermat."

"Pierre was very adamant about the 'de' thing. I think he's interested in teaching in Grantville," Julie told Bill.

"We don't have a college here yet." Bill shook his head.

"I think he wants to teach middle school," Julie said.

"Middle school!" Bill shouted. "Pierre de Fermat teaching middle school? Are you out of your cotton picking . . ."

"That would be grand, just grand," a voice from behind them stated joyously. "Pierre Fermat teaching. What could be better? Is the man within, my good man?" John Pell bustled past Julie and Bill. "What could be better for the children of Grantville than Pierre Fermat teaching mathematics? Have you read his history? Is the man here? Ahh, I hear French!"

Bill snatched the radio from his belt. "Whoever is watching the front gate, would you warn me when civilians come traipsing onto the power plant grounds? Who is on guard duty?"

"Calm down, Bill." Julie watched John Pell enter the staff lunch room. "I brought them."

"You . . ."

"Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur Porter." A well-dressed man walked out of the staff cafeteria, glanced once up at the overhead lights then held a book open under the light. Jacqueline Pascal was right behind him.

"I don't know all those big math words and Blaise is under the sink trying to take apart the drain," Jacqueline grumped, her small arms crossed over her chest.

"Jackie! You promised!" Logan shouted from the door.

"In a minute! My brother is not going anywhere. That is his lucky wrench. Just take it away from him if he tries to leave," Jacqueline shouted back then smiled up at Pierre Fermat. There was an exchange of very polite and fluid French at the end of which Jacqueline, looking very polite and very put upon, looked up at Bill. "He wants to know what these 'S' things are and why there are three of them."

Bill peered at the open textbook as if it were one of the original, extant copies of the Bible and he was a bishop asked to explain an obscure passage to Jesus.

"Tell him it is a triple integral. You integrate three times," Bill began softly. Julie waited politely as Bill Porter made a few more comments which Jacqueline translated as if under firm but polite duress.

"Be nice, Jackie," Julie told the girl.

"I am, but mathematics is not my 'thing.'" Jackie sighed. "I am under a lot of stress right now."

There was another polite exchange and Pierre Fermat bowed slightly and thanked Bill, in French.

"He said thank you," Jacqueline told Bill then turned to follow Pierre Fermat into the staff cafeteria.

"Julie," Bill whispered, "I just taught Pierre Fermat integral calculus."

"Now I think you're full of it. Hell, Blaise needed at least a week to teach himself calculus and he's a genius. I don't think even you could teach Pierre Fermat this integral calculus stuff in a few sentences, even with Jackie's help."

"You don't understand," Bill shook his head sadly. "A whole new computer is being created in there. We're going to have functioning computers, not some kludge or the last laptop. We can make a fax machine, for Christ's sake. Low speed internet . . . It's like being in the garage with Steve Jobs, Steve Wozniak and the other guy when they invented the Apple."

"Bill!" Allan stuck his head out into the hallway. "We need you." Allan Sebastian was distracted by something happening in the lunch room. "Blaise! Put the wrench down! You're making a mess! And answer Mr. Pell's question. Bill! It's been a little while since I did triple integrals. I could use some help. Pierre is a little insistent and he's being distracted by Shabbethai who's translating the Torah. In Greek. Out loud. We need to keep everything on track, Bill. This is going to be big!"

"That other guy wasn't Bill Porter, was he?" Julie smiled.

  "Logan!" Allan went back inside the staff lunchroom. "Stop kicking Blaise! Why? Because I'm your father and I said so, that's why!"

With that there was a huge, shattering crash.

"My Adder!" a very recognizable voice screeched in the midst of the sounds of disaster.

"You splashed muck on my best Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt!" came the girlish reply followed by a flurry of loud, angry French.

"I better get in there," Julie muttered. "God alone knows what will happen next."

Bill stood in the corridor, outside the staff cafeteria in the Grantville Power Station and wondered, himself, if God knew what would happen next.

The Sebastian House, November, 24^th, 1634

"I should kill you right now, Blaise Pascal! Right here!" Logan Sebastian could be quite loud but not nearly as loud as the boy standing in the doorway. The green silk pants he wore fairly screamed their wavelength into the room. The red lace that flowed at his throat was lost in the garish incredibility of the waistcoat. "God! He looks like someone ate a whole paint store and threw up!"

"Logan Sebastian! You apologize right now!" Mrs. Sebastian shouted back at her daughter. Mr. Sebastian had to leave the room for the perceived safety of the kitchen. He just couldn't look at his former student and maintain an appropriate, fatherly bearing.

"I brought you my first Adder." Blaise Pascal held out a large box-like object with as motley a collection of tubes dangling from it as could be imagined.

"Why don't you get some water for his bouquet, Mom! I am certainly not wearing that on my dress!" Logan shouted back at her mother.

"No water." Blaise looked sadly down at the device. "It still leaks but less now. Monsieur Porter was right. I should use air instead. It changes the parameters . . . not even up-time Americans solved equations of the turbulence. It is that many times cursed 'chaos' again. Fah!"

"Ahhh!" Logan screamed as she ran for the safety of her room. "All he cares about is math! I'll kill him!"

"Logan tells me she would murder me if I didn't come with her to the dance and now she wants to murder me because I am taking her. Solving the synch parameters of a gang of generators is easier than figuring out girls. I would rather try to integrate a chaotic equation, triple integrate even, than this."

There was a burst of laughter from the kitchen. It ended quickly.

"Boys!" Jacqueline pushed in past her brother with a small bouquet of flowers. "I told you she would want flowers. Your Adder looks like something flattened in the road then thrown away."

Blaise watched his sister head for Logan's room with the flowers, his Adder still clutched in his hand. Compared to the peach-colored lace at his cuffs, the Adder appeared conservative.

"Blaise," Mrs. Sebastian began carefully, "where did you get those clothes?"

"Father sent me here with some formal clothes, but I outgrew them. I had some extra funds so I ordered a new outfit. Do you like it? I liked all the new colors so I had my clothing made with one of each of my favorite colors."

"It is . . ." Mitzi wondered if Madame Delfault had to be locked into a closet. Mitzi couldn't imagine how the boy's governess allowed him out of the apartment dressed like this. "Well, do young men dress like this in France?"

"Most normal people have one favorite color, Blaise!" Jacqueline shouted from the hallway leading to Logan's room. "They don't like the whole spectrum! They would throw you into the Seine if you showed your face at a ball dressed like that. And they would do it from a closed window!"

"I wish I had a camera," came the comment from the kitchen.

"Allan? Shush! While your sister gives Logan your flowers, tell me about Adders," Mrs. Sebastian inquired politely of Blaise Pascal, the boy who was taking her daughter to the Thanksgiving Dance; assuming Logan didn't kill her erstwhile "date" first.

"Mom! We'll be here all night talking about math!" Logan charged out of the hallway, holding the bouquet Jacqueline had brought to her. "We are ready to go, Dad! Blaise, can you wear a cloak or something? Halloween is long past. Dad? Where are you?"

"Allan? Are you up to this?" Mitzi called toward her husband, who was still hiding in the kitchen.

There was no answer from the kitchen other than odd, strangling noises.

Allan Sebastian, to his credit, could accept that his daughter was going to a dance with the Blaise Pascal and that Blaise had taken precious time from his dreams of working in the power plant and building a working computer to go with her; regardless of the threats. Blaise would have seen no hardship in hiding in the power plant.

What Allan was having trouble accepting was the clash of pre-teen, West Virginia couture with a seventeenth-century French genius who believed in an utter and total desegregation of colors. His outfit would have had Liberace running for the safety of a plain brown monk's robe and a life of religious contemplation in an undecorated stone cell.

All Allan could think of, standing in the kitchen, was the term "File Type Mismatch."

****

A Tale of Two Alberts

Written by Terry Howard

    

The Hand of the Lord . . . is all in the timing.

Prologue

Grantville, 1997

As they crossed the state line into West Virginia, Claudette said, "Albert Green, I did not marry you to be stuck in some backwoods little brown church in the dell. If I'd wanted to live in the hills I could have married Tom Anders right out of high school and raised pigs."

"Why, Claudette Hawley, I thought you married me for my body."

She laughed. "Seriously Albert, you've got too good a mind to let it go to waste. You should be teaching, preferably back at Louisville."

"We both know why that isn't likely to happen. The way things are going, a liberal Southern Baptist school is not going hire a teacher with my credentials, especially with my published credits. Not that a conservative school is going to overlook my published credits either."

"Yes," Claudette replied quite seriously, "you do seem to have a way of writing papers that upset both sides at the same time."

"About my only hope of getting a teaching job is going to be a secular school or at least somewhere outside of the denomination and you know what kind of problems come with that." He didn't have to mention how close the latter part of that statement was to being true for pulpits also. The deacon board at the church he pastored in Dallas while taking his doctorate at Southwestern Theological Seminary grew increasingly uneasy with each paper he published. It was understood that he would move on as soon as his education was completed. Fortunately, they were gracious about things when it became clear that he was having trouble finding somewhere to go.

Grantville had never had a pastor with more than a B.S. They were willing to overlook his degrees just to get someone to come. So it did not matter if the degree was from a liberal or a conservative school. His published credits never came up at all. That his family lived just a few miles away in Shinnston did come up. That was how he heard of Grantville's vacancy and Grantville of his willingness to come. It was assumed he wanted to be close to home and his aged and ailing mother. This often cited, and officially unmentioned, factor provided an acceptable, face-saving reason for his willingness to accept a smaller and less lucrative pulpit than the one he was leaving.

Grantville's reputation for being rough on pastors was well deserved and things did not wait to get started.

On the day they arrived old Deacon Albert Underwood met them with the keys to the parsonage. He lost no time in letting them know just how things were in his church.

"Reverend Green, I thought I should tell you up front, I opposed calling you. Grantville is an old congregation with old ways. I was a deacon in this church before you were a gleam in your daddy's eye. Preachers come and preachers go but the deacons remain. My daddy was a deacon here, as was his daddy. Both of them are still here, right out there in the graveyard. We ain't never had a preacher with so many high-falootin' certificates hanging on his wall. We don't need one now. Shoot, all a fellow needs is an ordination certificate, saying he was called of the Lord and acknowledging that he has been with Christ.

"I've seen a lot of preachers try and make a lot of changes. Just leave things as they are and you will have a much easier time of it while you're here."

"If you didn't want a seminary trained man, why did you call me?"

"It was the Lord's will," the old deacon said. By which Pastor Green assumed he meant they couldn't get anybody else to come. "Here are the keys."

When he was gone, Albert said to Claudette, "It was the Lord's will. We're a perfect match. They couldn't get anyone else to come. We couldn't get anyone else to take us." They laughed when he said it. The laughter eased the pain at least a bit for a short time.

A warm crock-pot with a first-rate homemade chicken pot pie waited for them in the kitchen with a pitcher of tea in the refrigerator and complete picnic supplies including fresh homemade bread. A note said, "Just leave the crock-pot in the church kitchen."

"Well, it looks like we won't be going out for lunch," Claudette said. The picnic table in the backyard hosted their first meal in the parsonage.

The moving van came promptly at one o'clock. Some volunteers showed up to help. By sundown half of Grantville knew most of what they had was too nice and the rest was shabby. Anything that wasn't custom made or an antique came from a second hand shop. For once the gossip mongers got it, mostly, right. Claudette shopped the second hand stores of Dallas. A member of the congregation refurbished antiques and custom-built furniture as a hobby. Over the years they were there, with the help of a part-time upholsterer who worked on the pastor's projects for cost of materials, the Greens ended up with a lot of very nice furniture.

Mrs. Myers stopped by while the furniture and boxes were being unloaded and looked up Claudette. "Claudette, I'm Amy. I don't know if you remember me from when you and your husband came as candidates. Anyway, we had a big fight over who got to have you for dinner tonight and I won." She handed Claudette a file card with a map and an address and a note: Dinner 6:00. "See you then." She left before Claudette could say yes, no, or can we make it at 6:15?

Claudette was standing there with the note in her hand watching the whirlwind depart when Albert came up. "What's that?"

"Dinner," she replied.

"Looks rather small and dry," Albert joked.

"An invitation to dinner," Claudette replied just as dryly.

"Oh, that's different."

Over a substantial meal, through which Mrs. Myers talked nonstop, Mr. Myers said nothing beyond "Pass the potatoes, please." When his wife went to get the cream-filled cake out of the refrigerator, her husband took that opportunity to get two cents in. "If I know Deacon Underwood, he's already given you his, 'deacons are here forever' speech. I wish I could tell you not to worry about him. We've had five pastors and a lot of interims over the last twenty years. The longest anyone stayed was four years. He had a daughter in high school. They moved a week after she graduated. Underwood complained constantly about him not doing anything. If you try to change things, the old man is going to complain about it. If you don't, then he'll complain about that. So you can count on him complaining.

"I've been told that years ago, when he was a young man, he did some preaching. They tell me he was pretty good. But he wouldn't admit to having a calling. They tell me he's been miserable ever since. It seems like he's always trying to prove that he could be doing a better job of being a pastor than whoever has the job. I'd tell you to ignore him, but he won't let you. Underwood's family goes way back. They were charter members of the church. That means a lot. People listen to the old fool."

"Hale, you shouldn't say things like that," their hostess said when she returned to the table.

"It's the truth," he replied.

"Well, you'll be old yourself one day if you live long enough."

"What's that got to do with this? Albert Underwood is an old ass; before that he was a young ass."

"Dear . . ." Mrs. Myers voice, dripping with honey, failed to hide the sharp taste of acrimony. "Albert Underwood is a fine man and I'm sure he has the best interest of the church at heart!"

****

Not long after the Greens arrived, Joe Jenkins' wife said to her husband, "Joseph, you ought to come hear the new preacher. You'd like him."

"So? If I like him that means he'll be gone in two years instead of three. You can't hardly get to know a fellow in that amount of time."

She sighed. She knew Joe was bitter and she knew why.

****

Shortly after arriving in Grantville, Claudette started looking for a job. None of the elementary schools within driving distance need a teacher as late in the year as she started looking, so she asked to be put on the substitute list. The hardware store had a help wanted sign in the window and Claudette stopped in and filled out an application. That night Nina Underwood, the office manager at the hardware store, told her husband Albert, one of the deacons at the church, that the store was thinking about hiring her.

"Nina," Albert said, "it isn't right. A man's wife shouldn't be working outside of the home."

"Yours does."

"That's different. She still has children in school and she should be there for them. It's a bad example. A mother with kids still at home shouldn't be working outside of the home. Raising kids is a full time job.

"When the women went to work in World War Two and the kids were left to raise themselves the nation went to hell and it ain't ever come back."

"Albert, maybe they need the money."

"Nonsense! We're paying them enough to live on. I wouldn't let you get a job until the kids were all out of the house. It was hard, but we got by. He's supposed to be setting an example. Besides, if she's working full time then he's likely doing the house work and he ain't got time to be doing that."

"Things are different now than they were back then. When our kids were growing up we kept a big garden and I canned a lot of what we ate. They don't have room for a garden."

"Nina, you know good and well that there are plenty of people who will invite her into the pea patch. She's got two boys to help her. It will do them good to have to work some. Builds character. He's just going to have to tell his wife to stop and that is all there is to that. You can still live on one income if you don't go getting fancy. She don't need to be buying more antiques. She's got enough of them already.

"We went through all of this with the pastor before last and I'm sure the deacon board will see it my way."

"They still had preschool kids and he was bringing them to the office and even on hospital calls once or twice. Her boys are in school. It's different."

"We didn't let the last pastor's wife work either and she didn't have preschool kids."

"And they left after one year. Don't you want this one to stay awhile?"

"Nope! Not if he can't lead by example and rule his household well like Paul told Timothy. We've got that deacon's resolution that the pastor's wife should not have a job if they've got kids and we can make it stick."

Hale Myers stopped by and chatted with Pastor Green about it. "Look, I know it's old-fashioned. But we're an old-fashioned community and let's face it, if you look at the make-up of the church it's just a plain old church and a lot of them are living in the past. You're going to have to tell her to quit looking for a job or it's going to come up in a business meeting. She can substitute as a teacher a day or two every week or two. That's seen as a service to the community. But that's about it.

    "I know that is going to leave you in between a rock and a hard place. Look, Rev. Jones and the Catholic priest put a 1964 Ford Town and Country station wagon back together. It's a gas guzzler with a three ninety and a four barrel. It's down at the body shop now. When they're finished it will look brand new. It's being converted to run on natural gas. Some of us have chipped in on it, when you leave we can sell it and get our money back out of it easy. You can go out to the Jenkins farm and fill up from there gas well anytime you need to. So your fuel is free. That way you can park your van and save it for when you're going out of town farther than you can go round trip on a tank of natural gas. That will save you the money you would have spent on gas. And someone will be by with a pressure cooker and a mess of canning jars.

"But, if Claudette has to have a real job, it will have to go to the floor in a business meeting to overrule the deacon board."

Later that evening Albert bit his lip and then after saying a short, heartfelt prayer, he said, "Honey, some of the deacons have chipped in and are going to provide us a car that runs on natural gas that we can get for free."

Claudette looked at Albert. "There's a 'but' attached to that. What is it?"

"They don't want you getting a job."

"What? Why the hell not?" Claudette's hand went to her mouth.

"Because over half of the deacons are stupid, stubborn, opinionated, ignorant, old, asinine idiots who are living in the past and still think a wife is a chattel slave who shouldn't work outside the home."

The next day someone dropped off the cast off pressure cooker and canning jars. Claudette thanked them politely. When Albert came home for dinner the plaster clung to the ceiling for dear life.

"Yes, dear. You're right. You could work for four hours and buy more vegetables than you can can in four days."

"Yes, dear. It's stupid."

"Yes, dear. It's a lot of hard, hot, nearly pointless work."

"Yes, dear. The deacons are everything you say they are."

"Look. I can tender my resignation. We can go move in with my mother while we look for another job."

So Claudette dusted off the canning and baking skills her grandmother taught her. It was absolutely unreasonable. But unreasonable is simply part of a pastor's life and his family pays for his folly whether they like it or not.

The parsonage's large freezer was half full of beef when they arrived. One family slaughtered a beef every year and anything left when the next one was dressed ended up as a gift to the pastor. Since the parsonage did not have room for more than a tiny garden, the boys shuddered whenever certain ladies talked with their mother after church. The conversation was likely to include an invitation to come pick peas or beans or whatever was on the vine at the time.

****

The first year came and went without any real fuss or bother. After all, it looked bad to kick a man out the first year. Underwood asked that a pastoral vote of confidence be put on the August business meeting the second year, out of principle. That is: the principle of stirring up a fuss. He didn't expect to win, but there was a good chance that it would result in the pastor volunteering to leave. There were only a handful of naysayers. After all, Green was a polished speaker, with a personable demeanor. Besides, it wasn't like there were other candidates clamoring at the door."

Grantville, Summer 1631

Deacon Underwood insisted that a pastoral vote of confidence be once again put on the agenda for the August business meeting in the year 2000 which fell in 1631.

Hale Myers asked Deacon Underwood about it. "Albert, if you did get him voted out, where are you going to find another pastor?"

"We can ordain someone. He don't have to have a seminary education. None of the apostles did."

"Are you fishing for the job, Albert?" another old deacon asked.

"I ain't been called. I thought we would elect one of the young deacons to the job," Underwood replied.

"None of them would be crazy enough to want it."

"Wantin' the job's got nothin' to do with it," Underwood answered. "If you're called, then you serve. My momma always said anybody who was crazy enough to want to be a preacher was too crazy to have the job, but anyone who was called and didn't serve was crazier still. Wantin' has nothin' to do with it."

Hale spoke up. "Well, no one has to because we've got Green."

"That's fine." Underwood said, "As long as he's still called of God to be here and I ain't sure he is."

This time there were a few abstentions and one vote of no confidence. There wasn't another ordained Southern Baptist Pastor for over a hundred years in any direction.

****

In the weeks after the Ring of Fire Claudette blossomed, doing volunteer work with refugee relief in the broader community outside of the church.

Grantville, January 1632

Old Joe Jenkins walked through the service door of the grocery store carrying a covered bushel basket. By chance the produce manager was coming out of the office.

Lutz sighed. There always seemed to be someone who didn't get the word. The grocery stores in town had their winter vegetable supply tucked away in cold storage. Even in the summer, when fresh produce was available, the stores only bought at the bulk market at the fair grounds or the retail market next to the swimming pool in town. So everyone knew there was no point in bringing their produce to the store.

Before Lutz could politely tell the old man to get out, Joe set the basket down and lifted the old quilt off of the top. The basket was full of ripe red tomatoes. Lutz's face brightened and his lips turned up at the corners. His mouth actually started to salivate. For months the produce isle had been limited to things that kept well in storage like onions and cabbages, apples and pears, winter squash and root crops. Yes, the hippie commune would sell some fresh herbs out of their green house but, that was small change. Imported citrus would find its way onto the shelves, but, that was maybe once a month at best. Dried, pickled, and preserved fruits and vegetables were mostly sold at the bulk counter.

"Got a basket of cucumbers out in the truck," Joe said.

"How much?" Lutz asked.

"Every penny I can get. Twice what they're worth. Half of what people will pay. Ninety percent of retail. I figure you're looking at your loss leader for the week."

Lutz nodded. If the store advertised ripe tomatoes people who normally shopped elsewhere would come in for the fresh fruit and leave with a cart full of everything else. He named a price while picturing the ad and the presentation.

"You can do better than that." the old man said.

Lutz upped it ten percent.

"Okay, but if that isn't at least ninety percent of retail these are the last fresh vegetables you're going to see before spring."

"You've got more?"

"I figure I can bring a bushel a week into town till they play out, if it's worth the bother."

Lutz took the hint and raised the price another ten percent. The profit would come from the increase in other sales.

Grantville, August 1633

Several older men gathered on the old couch and comfortable chairs around the coffee table on the parsonage's screened-in porch. Reverend Johannes Cloppenburch, pastor of the Reformed Church in Brielle, was in Grantville to use the library. While in Grantville he sought out the company of Reverend Albert Green and attended the Southern Baptist church services. The size of Green's library left him light headed and disappointed. So much of it was in English; theological works should be in Latin.

A long evening of discussion and debate went through two pots of coffee, three plates of honey snap cookies, and topics from everywhere under the sun. It settled, as it so often did, on end-time prophecy.

Deacon Underwood looked sour and shook his head emphatically. "I don't see how you can say that. No man knows the day nor the hour. Just because the second coming did not happen before the year two thousand in our old time line is no reason to assume it will not happen sooner in this time line. It could happen any day now."

Lincoln Reynolds shook his head right back. "Nonsense! The prerequisites for a pre-millennial time line have not changed. Certain things have to happen before the rapture. That is why I can . . ."

Underwood interrupted him. "But there is no reason they can't happen sooner in this timeline." He glared a challenge at his pastor. "The generation that sees the budding of the fig tree will see the beginning of the end. Now most scholars agreed that in Matthew, chapter twenty-four, the fig tree is Israel." He knew that Reverend Green held to a post-millennial theology and did not agree with him. Green's published papers on eschatology were a large part of the reason he was in Grantville. Post-millennialism was pretty much out of fashion. Underwood looked back at Lincoln. "You agree the fig tree budded when Israel became a nation. Who is to say that it will take the Jews 'til 1948 in this time-line?"

Harley Thomas spoke up emphatically. "Israel happened under the British mandate, which only happened when they carved up the last of the Ottoman Empire at the end of World War One. Without World War One there will be no mandate. There will be no Prussia to unite Germany; it's not even in the CPE so there will be no war. There is no way the Turks are going to let the Jews have a country of their own in Palestine. So there's no way there's going to be an Israel any earlier this time."

Underwood smiled gleefully. He had a point that would let him squash Harley like a bug. "No way?" he asked. "I can think of three without trying. What if the Turks push through the Balkans toward Vienna? Austria would be so desperate for help they'd sue for peace and Sweden with our help could take the Middle East. In return for bankrolling the war, the Jews would get Jerusalem. That's one. Yemen just tossed the Turks out. Egypt could try it, especially if they had help. You could end up with a free Jerusalem in the turmoil, with just a little outside assistance."

Johannes Cloppenburch was in Grantville, in part, to size up Doctor Albert Green on behalf of several men in the theological department at the University of Harderwijk who were thinking of offering Doctor Green an invitation as a guest lecturer with an eye toward a full professorship. He had spent the evening posing questions and quietly listening to Pastor Green and the deacons debate. He spoke up to prompt Underhill to complete his thought. "You said three. That was two."

Underwood scrambled for a third scenario and smiled when he had his answer. "Divine intervention."

Johannes Cloppenburch sat back and nodded. "Well, I can't argue with that one."

The discussion continued, with Deacon Underwood going at it hammer and tongs with anyone who did not agree with his very narrow viewpoints. Cloppenburch watched them all, particularly Dr. Green. By the end of the evening, he'd made his decision. The next morning, taking pen in hand he wrote a letter to his fellows at the university.

. . . tarry a while longer to farther plumb the depths of the library.

As for this man Green, the fellow fully deserves the title Doctor of Theology for he is very learned. His Hebrew is good, his Greek is better, his Latin is acceptable. His knowledge of the classical thinkers is barely passable. He gives them little thought and less weight. But, he has an understanding of, and access to, the early church fathers the likes of which I have never encountered. He has works on his shelves purportedly from the second and third centuries that I was taught were lost for all time. He has others which we had no idea ever existed at all.

He is well able to defend his views in open debate. Alas, his beliefs are such that the resultant disharmony which would ensue if he were to join your staff would bring the whole educational process to an abrupt halt and leave time for nothing but debate on those topics his presence would introduce. We discussed adult only baptism, for example, and I thought, surely, he might waiver. He will not. Furthermore, this is not the only doctrine he holds to which we would find offensive in the extreme.

I cannot speak more strongly against having this man at the university than this: I would forbid it if it were in my power to do so.

Grantville, January 1634

There was a knock on the kitchen door, Claudette waved her guest in and held up one finger to ask him to wait. Then she told the phone, "Yes. That will do fine."

There was a pause and she said, "No, I haven't heard. But someone just came in. You'll have to call me back."

Joe Jenkins sat a half full paper bag on the counter, "I didn't mean to intrude," he said.

"She was about to tell me all about her latest round of feuding with her sister-in-law, along with a recount of the whole long story all over again starting at the wedding. With any luck she will find another victim and she'll forget to call back."

Claudette looked in the sack. Her voice was almost a squeal of delight. "Ripe tomatoes!"

"The winter crop in the green house is starting to come on. This is the early ones beyond what I can eat. There ain't enough to bother taking to the grocery store and they won't keep till next week when I've got a peck full." The last was not quite the truth but Claudette wasn't about to call him on it.

"Thanks, Joe. We'll really enjoy these. You shouldn't have made a trip into town on our account. It is good of you to do so, especially after the church voted to throw you out like that." The church didn't actually vote to throw him out. After all he had never been a member, but the statement, while technically incorrect, was still true.

****

Someone pointed out to Deacon Underwood that some of the Germans who were attending the separate German language service weren't Baptist. Some of them were asking after training in military medical practices, wanting to serve but unwilling to fight. Underwood did some digging, asked some questions, did some more reading and threw a fit. Pacifism might squeak by; but some of the Germans were, in Underwood's opinion anyway, Arminians. On that point, the shit hit the fan.

    The pastor was called before the deacon board. "Green," Underwood snapped as soon as the pastor arrived, "are you aware that some of the Germans taking communion at the two o'clock service aren't Baptists at all?"

Green sighed. "On that point, Brother Underwood, you are absolutely mistaken. I am quite sure they are all Baptist."

"No. they are not! Some of them do not believe in once saved, always saved."

"You don't have to believe that to be a Baptist."

"Yes, you do," Underwood almost roared.

"Albert," young Deacon Myers said, calling Underwood by his first name rather than the formal Brother Underwood. The tone of voice alone would distinguish whether it was an insult or an endearment, and the tone was unclear. "Calm down. There is such a thing as General Baptist, and Particular Baptist. You are the latter. But they are both Baptist."

"And these General Baptists don't believe in once saved, always saved?" Underwood asked.

"No, but that doesn't mean they aren't Baptist," Myers said.

"Here it does," Underwood replied. "Which are you?" he demanded of the pastor.

"Brother Underwood, the argument between the pro-Calvinist and the anti-Calvinist Baptist theologians was still going on when we ended up here. The denomination was changing. When you were a boy the idea that everything was predetermined and unchangeable according to the will of God was a lot more common than it is now."

"Which are you, Green?" Underwood demanded. "Are you a real Baptist who believes once saved, always saved or a General Baptist?"

In the course of the meeting, which started at seven o'clock and was over somewhere around midnight, Underwood proposed that all General Baptists be expelled. Additionally, the German language service should be shut down. He also proposed a by-law making English the only language for worship. All three proposals were on their way to a vote by the full body of the church at the next business meeting.

Immediately after the deacon's meeting, Albert Underwood was a busy man. The deacons meeting fell on Monday. Wednesday morning, Claudette had three calls by ten o'clock.

****

"Claudette? This is Ruth Ann. Is it true? Are the Germans taking communion at the two o'clock service Arminians?"

"I wouldn't call them Arminians, just like I wouldn't call us Calvinists."

"Well, it's all the ladies down here have been talking about. I don't think most of them had ever heard of an Arminian before yesterday. But now they're sure the Germans are and that it's something horrible and that they're going to take over the church so they've got to be voted out. When I asked any of the Baptist residents why Arminians are so wrong, all they really seem to know is that they don't believe once saved, always saved and that they're horrible people who are going to take over the church and change everything. Shoot, you know as well as I do that there is no sin in the world to these ladies as bad as change."

"Let me guess. Albert Underwood was through there yesterday flirting with them?"

"Well, he was here, and he usually does flirt. At their age, what difference does it make?"

"He's got a burr under his saddle and . . ."

"Doesn't he always?"

"This time he's mad about the Germans and wants them kicked out."

"Well? What would happen if they did become the majority?"

"Not a thing, Ruth Ann. They're good Christian people, and on the average they're putting more than their share in the offering plate but there's no way they could pay the bills and I'm sure they know it."

"But is Underwood right? Do some of them not believe in eternal security?"

"Ruth Ann, I'm sure they all believe in eternal security. What Underwood means is they don't believe in unconditional eternal security."

"Well, that's the doctrine of the church isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then Albert's right. They need to be kicked out."

****

"Claudette, this is Mary Ellen. What is going on?" The Methodist co-pastor asked the Baptist preacher's wife. "I was visiting my old ladies at Prichard's this morning and they're all riled up. Seems your Baptist ladies are all up in arms about Arminianism. They want the Germans kicked out of the Baptist Church."

"I got the same news from Bowers. Albert Underwood has been down there campaigning."

"Well, considering the voting block in the nursing homes, and the way they like to use the phones, he sure knew where to start."

****

"Claudette, this is Lorena, is the two o'clock German service really so big that it's going to take over the church and throw us out?"

"No, Lorena. Why would they want to do that anyway? They need us to pay the bills."

****

The expulsion of the errant Germans passed. The motion to shut down the German language service failed. The English-only motion died for lack of a second. After all, if shutting down the two o'clock service didn't pass, why bother even discussing the other. Still it was a squeaky thing and would likely be seen on the floor again in the near future.

It turned out that Joseph Jenkins, whose wife had been a long time member of the local church before she died, was a General Baptist. Furthermore he had once, back in the fifties, been a preacher up in Michigan. He left with about a third of the Germans and started holding services elsewhere.

****

"I was comin' into town to a doctor's appointment anyway," Joe said. "So I thought I'd drop these off."

Claudette shook her head. "I still think it was wrong! Albert should have stood up to them."

"No. It wouldn't have changed things in the long run. He would have lost his job over it on the spot. He will lose it eventually, anyway. There's no reason to hurry it up. The General Baptists will do better out on their own. Sooner or later, they'll split again over the question of non-violence. They've got two different preachers in the group, so there'll be no making peace and keeping them together for much longer.

"I need to get to the doctor's office. Enjoy the tomatoes."

"Is it any thing serious, Joe?" Claudette asked.

"Naw. Just getting' old is all."

****

The doctor listened to his heart and lungs, asked some questions and said, "Mr. Jenkins, you had a mild heart attack. You said you take an aspirin or two almost every morning for an allergy headache?"

"Yes."

"Don't stop. I'll write you a prescription for nitroglycerin pills. That will help with the chest pains."

"How long have I got?"

The doctor shrugged. "The way you work? Two weeks, two years, ten; who knows? When you have a massive heart attack, one that feels like an elephant sitting on your chest instead of like a strong case of heartburn, if you live through it, figure on counting your time in months. When you start getting pains shooting down your arm, figure it in days or hours."

Grantville, May 1635

Albert Green looked up from the letter of introduction. It said Reverend Fleming was in Grantville to spend some time in Grantville's libraries on behalf of the University of Edinburgh. It also said they had heard Reverend Green was a religious scholar with an extensive personal library and they were requesting access.

"Fleming? Would you be related to the Fleming that married a daughter of John Knox?"

"No. My first wife was John Knox's granddaughter, Elspet Fairlie. But that is as close of as any Fleming ever got to being connected to the Knox family."

"Oh. I must have misremembered. I have a photo copy off of a micro-fiche of a work on eschatology written by a man named Fleming that I thought the introduction said was the son of Martha Knox."

Albert's guest shook his head. "A grandson, maybe. My mother-in-law was never married to a Fleming." Fleming was intrigued by the idea that he might have a son who would one day be a published authority. "A work on eschatology, you say?"

"It wouldn't have been written for decades yet. In it he correctly predicted the year of the fall of the Church of Rome, if you interpret Rome's lose of power over the Papal States as the fall of the church. But, then, history will be completely different now. Of course you may use my library while you are in town.

Albert couldn't help it. He had to ask. "So, you were married to John Knox's granddaughter?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any insights on John Knox?"

"I had the privilege of seeing some of his papers that have never been published. It was fascinating to see how his mind worked."

"Would you consider giving a lecture, or even a series, on John Knox, while you're in town?"

"I would be more than happy to share my insights on my first wife's esteemed grandfather."

****

On Saturday before the first lecture on Monday, Deacon Underwood stopped into the church office.

"Green, you can't have that lecturer in our church!"

"Brother Underwood, I checked with you and the other deacons. Knox is a venerated figure in our church history. You agreed it would be all right."

"That was before I found out that Fleming is an alcoholic."

"An alcoholic?"

"Yes. He's staying at the Higgins Hotel and taking some of his meals there. He has either beer or wine with his meals. We cannot have a drunkard in our pulpit."

"Brother Underwood, having beer or wine with a meal does not make him a drunkard. They have a different attitude about drinking these days than we did back in 2000. But I will move the lecture series to the fellowship hall."

"You might have a different attitude about it. I don't and the church don't. If it was a sin then, it's a sin now. The word of the Lord is the same yesterday, today, and forever. You will not be moving the drunkard to the fellowship hall. He will not be speaking here."

"Brother Underwood, the Bible does not forbid drinking in moderation."

"Drinking is wrong. It is a sin, other than for medicinal purposes. The Bible says so."

"No, it doesn't," an exasperated Albert Green rather unwisely snapped.

"'Touch not, taste not nor handle not any unclean thing,'" Underwood quoted.

"Chapter and verse?"

"What?" Underwood replied.

"Give me the chapter and verse for that quote. You can't, because it isn't in there. The Bible forbids drinking to excess. It does not forbid drinking in moderation."

"Are you a secret drinker, Green?"

"No, Brother Underwood. I am not. The custom of total abstention from alcohol, especially in a sub-culture where the point of drinking is to get drunk, is a wise custom. I abide by it. Both of my grandfathers had a drinking problem. It got them into other troubles.

"But the point of drinking in the here and now is not to get drunk. Drunks are frowned on in the community. The water isn't safe to drink. You know that. Most of what they drink is small beer, anyway. It doesn't have hardly any alcohol in it, just enough to make it safe. It's a different culture.

"The bottom line is, you cannot take the Bible and forbid all drinking."

"You're wrong. I ain't got the chapters and verses memorized but I can look them up. I am going to call a deacon's meeting for tomorrow night and then you can apologize. Besides, we're here now, so now they know the water's safe if they boil it first. Sin is sin and the word of God is unchanging!" Underwood stormed out.

Albert sucked a long breath into his lungs and it hissed between his clenched teeth going in and coming out. "Oh, my goodness; what have I done?"

****

Underwood went home and took down his Bible and concordance and went looking for what he knew was there. His knowing it was there did not make any difference. He wasn't able to find the verse he quoted in the pastor's office. Instead of calling a deacon's meeting, he had the deacons out to his house. Since it was not in the church conference room, it was not an official meeting. Claudette heard about it, as did Albert, of course. She and Albert knew what it meant.

That Sunday the tension in the air at the eleven o'clock service was so thick it almost stopped the words of the songs in their tracks. When the pastor announced that the lecture on John Knox would be moved to the fellowship hall, Underwood and another deacon got up and walked out. On Monday night there was another meeting of the deacons in one of their homes. After that Underwood was absent from the mid-week service and on Sunday he arrived at the stroke of the opening hymn and slipped out a side door at the close of the services to avoid the receiving line.

As Albert and Claudette walked home after the morning services, Claudette said, "Looks like they sat on the old man pretty hard."

"Yeah. That's it for now. But, you know, he'll find something. It's only a matter of time."

Grantville, June 1635

"Mister Fisher? How about some twelve year old whiskey?"

Benjamin Tipton "Tip" Fisher, the owner of Tip's bar, looked sour. "I ain't got any," he said.

"I wasn't asking to buy. I was asking to sell."

This caught Tip's attention. It was embarrassing that you could get something in the way of liquor elsewhere in town and he couldn't offer anything to compete with it.

Joe noted Tip's complete lack of expression and raised his asking price. "I've got five gallons, twelve years in the keg, just tapped, out in the truck. Bring a glass on out and I'll give you a taste."

There were three five-gallon oaken barrels sitting on the tailgate. "Where'd you get the barrels?" Tip asked.

"Made 'em. Granddad said not to reuse 'em for whiskey so we always made a new barrel." One of them had a hand-carved wooden tap. Joe turned the spigot and caught a half of a cup in Tip's glass.

Tip held it up to the light. It was a soft amber color, not the clear liquid of white lightning. He sipped a taste. Then he chugged about half of his glass and felt the warm glow working its way down. If it wasn't ten year old whiskey he couldn't tell the difference. "What about those two?" Tip asked, nodding at the untapped kegs.

"That one is six and this one is two years old. Do you want one, two, or three of them?"

"Is that all you've got?"

"All I can sell."

"I'll take all three, as long as you're reasonable about it."

"The retail price in town is set, so I figure half that for wholesale. But I want that price across the board for all three."

Tip nodded.

Grantville, July 1635

Ken Beasley stepped in from the back room and noticed Joe Jenkins sitting at the bar drinking a beer. Normally he would have overlooked the fact that he had once told the old man to get out and never come back. That was more than a year ago and in a bar like his, a year was forever. But the fellow recently sold Tip's a stock of aged whiskey and now McAdam's Gold was no longer the only aged whiskey for sale in town. Having the only aged whiskey had been the salvation of Ken's business. He was feeling the competition and didn't like it one bit. He walked up to the old man. "I told you once, you ain't welcome in here."

Joe Jenkins responded by lighting up a cigarette. Ken blinked. It was a real cigarette, not a small hand-rolled cigar, not a hand-made smoke in whatever paper was available, but, a real cigarette. The old man saw him looking and set an aluminum box, the kind designed to hold a pack of cigarettes, along with a lighter, on the bar and said, "Have one."

Ken opened the half full box. He looked one over as he was lighting it. It looked right, it felt real. He pulled the smoke into his mouth and his brain spit out happiness at the mild tobacco taste, then Ken pulled it down into his lungs and his mind went wild with joy. He'd taken up smoking a pipe when he started stocking cheap clay pipes and loose tobacco for his customers, and he'd made do with the harsh, imported tobacco because it was all that was available. But this was what his mind remembered when he thought "cigarette."

"Where'd you get them?" Ken asked.

"Made 'em," Joe replied.

"I know people who'd kill for one of these," Ken said.

"Can you keep a gross fresh long enough to sell them?"

"Mister Jenkins, I can sell a gross of them in a week at two or three dollars apiece."

"Then I guess I'd better be getting a dollar and a half apiece for them."

"Where'd you get the makings?"

"I've had a pot of tobacco in the greenhouse back of the barn for years. The wife bought me a cigarette roller and a crate of paper for Christmas one year."

"And you've been sitting on them for all this time?" Ken asked.

Joe shrugged. "When they're gone, they're gone. 'What is it that the vintner buys that is half so precious as what he sells?'"

Ken missed the quote but understood the question. "So why now?"

"Now I know how many I need to see me out. I had a heart attack last month. Felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. I got something to get done before I start getting those shooting pains down my arm. So, I need some cash.

"Tell you what, Ken, why don't you buy the papers from me at a dollar apiece? I'll throw in the rolling machine and set it up so you get the ongoing tobacco production from the farm at a fair price even after I'm gone and the papers have run out."

"How many have you got?"

Joe named a number.

Ken whistled. "Let me talk to the bank. I took a pretty deep bite out of my line of credit buying up McAdam's stash. It's paying off, like I knew it would, but that's a lot of money. I'll find some way to come up with it.

"By the way, where'd you get that fifty-gallon drum of twenty year old bourbon you sold to Tip?

"It was fifteen gallons in three kegs, one of them was twelve years old. They were all corn mash like my grandpa taught me, but if it ain't from Kentucky is it bourbon or just corn mash?"

Grantville, August 1635

It took Albert Underwood three months before he thought he had the support lined up to try it again. On Monday, the deacons met. On Tuesday, the Baptist grapevine was so busy it was on the verge of a meltdown. Bernice reported that the church phone was ringing off of the hook. Albert Underwood's main supporters, the little old ladies in the nursing homes, were calling anyone and everyone in an utter and complete panic. Once again their church was about to be stolen and this time by a pack of drunks. Sides were forming and reforming as views and tempers shifted. The voices calling for calm and reason were being overpowered by a well-orchestrated campaign of high-octane emotions, old favors and older feuds. This time, Underwood was sure he had things wrapped up. He certainly had things stirred up.

Tuesday evening, the deacons met at the Myers' home. Wednesday evening saw five of the eight deacons gathered at Underwood's. Having threatened to resign and leave the church if things went any further, Myers and two other deacons refused to attend. At ten o'clock that night, Underwood and another deacon came by the parsonage. Instead of ringing the door bell, they passed on by. The light was on in the pastor's study at church. They knew that meant it was there they would find Albert Green.

Pastor Green looked up from the book he was pretending to read. The glee on Underwood's face was painful to look at and probably wasn't any good for the old man's heart either.

The other deacon spoke, "Pastor Green, it has come to the attention of the deacons that some of our new members are not in compliance with our church policy of total abstention from alcohol. The deacon board would like you to preach on that this Sunday, making it clear that it is a test of fellowship for us and that anyone who will not abide by it should withdraw from the membership."

"If you do this, you realize you will have cut yourself off from any outreach to the community?" Green pointed out.

"That's the way we see things. If they don't like it let them go elsewhere," Underwood smugly chipped in.

"It isn't biblical, it's cultural and the entire German culture disagrees with you. You are turning your back on any chance of evangelistic outreach."

"That don't matter. Next business meeting there will be a motion on the floor that if there is ever again a worship service in this building in anything other than English the deacons will be required to close the doors of the church and disperse the assets. And this time, it will pass," Underwood said with a certainty which was far from being as rock solid as he thought it was.

"So when your great-grandchildren are speaking a new language that is part English and part German, you will retain West Virginian English as a liturgical language?"

"What's wrong with that? My great-grandchildren ought to be speaking English anyway. If they have to learn English to worship that's okay by me. Are you going to preach a sermon telling the new members that drinking is a sin and that they got to stop or ain't you?"

Hoping he could squeeze by Albert answered, "I can preach a sermon telling people that total abstention from alcohol is the custom of this congregation and a requirement of membership."

Underwood pressed. "I didn't hear you say anything about drinking being a sin."

"I can't. In and of itself, it isn't," Albert replied.

Underwood's smile actually got even bigger.

The other deacon spoke. "Reverend Green, the deacon board does not feel that way about it. I have been instructed to determine if it is a fact that you approve of drinking. "

"I do not approve of drinking."

"Then you can preach that it is a sin!" Underwood demanded.

"I can preach that drunkenness is a sin," Green replied.

"Drunkenness, but not drinking?" the second deacon asked.

Green remained silent.

"Pastor, in your opinion does the Bible teach that drinking a sin?" Underwood demanded.

"The Bible teaches that . . ."

Underwood cut him off. "I think that can and should be answered yes or no."

The silence lingered. It was clear they would not let it be. At last Albert answered. "No."

"Under these circumstances, since you do not agree with the teachings of this church, I have been instructed to tell you that we request and require your letter of resignation effective immediately."

The instruction was by a majority vote of the deacon board. Three were absent, one abstained and one voted in the negative. But, five is a quorum and three is a majority, so the board had the authority.

"We would like you to be out of the parsonage within thirty days. If we are not in receipt of your letter before the next business meeting, which will be a called meeting and will happen as quickly as we can manage according to the by-laws, a vote of confidence will be called for. Either way, you are barred from the pulpit until such time as a vote by the body confirms or overturns the ruling of the deacon board. That has never happened in the history of this congregation, so I wouldn't count on it happening now."

Without another word the deacons walked out.

****

The shingle over the door read "Solomon's Twentieth-Century Curios." Somebody asked him once what defined a curio. He said a curio was a piece of junk some fool was willing to pay too much for. If it was from up-time, he'd buy it.

"Mister Solomon, I've got a truck load of stuff out back that I need a price on."

"Let's see what you have."

Out behind the store, Joe nodded at the truck and said, "There's ten boxes of up-time canning jars with metal rings and lids. They've been used." The truth was they'd been used and re-used, but no matter how carefully you take a lid off when you open the jar, eventually they were not safe to use again, if they ever were. "But you sell them as curiosities, so that doesn't matter.

"The rest of the truck is mostly my wife's things; purses, shoes, hats . . . she loved her hats . . . wardrobe, stuff like that. All of it's from up-time."

From the tailgate, Solomon couldn't see the cab. He glanced at Joe. "This is going to take a while."

"Let's get it unloaded and I'll stop back in a week, if that's long enough."

A week later, Joe stopped into the curio shop. Herr Solomon looked pained. "Mister Jenkins. I can't afford to pay you what you left with me is worth." The German's English was very good but still a bit awkward at times, "I'm going to have to float a loan. But I haven't managed yet."

"How much for all of it?"

Solomon named a price.

"How much can you come up with?"

Solomon named a sum.

"How much interest do you think you will have to pay on a loan?"

Solomon named a figure.

Joe nodded. "I'll take a five year note at that interest, but I want you to price out another truck load before you write up the note."

This time the truck was only half as full. There were some men's clothes and kid's clothes in just about every size under the sun, and a mixed bag of other odds and ends. Joe had cleaned out his closet and the attic.

****

Claudette knocked on the door to the home office. "Albert, Joe Jenkins is here to see you." She stepped aside. The old man walked into the room. Claudette told her husband, "I'll bring coffee when it's ready."

Al looked at his unexpected caller and wondered what to say. I guess you heard? came to mind. But there was no doubt that the old man knew all about it. He wasn't part of the gossip mill but he seemed to know what was going on anyway. Can I borrow a gun so I can shoot some of my deacons? came to mind. But Joe might not think he was kidding. Besides, Albert really wasn't sure he would be either.

I have absolutely no idea what to do, came to mind. Albert found he didn't want to admit that to the self-sufficient individual who stood before him.

His guest spoke first and saved him from having to think of what to say. "Life's a bitch sometimes, ain't it?"

Al nodded. Joe was . . . well, the polite word would be earthy. Foul-mouthed, from time to time, would be a whole lot more accurate.

"Al, do you know what keeps Christianity from being the perfect religion?" Without a pause to let Albert get in a guess, Joe answered his own question. "Christians; sweet, loving, born again, self-righteous followers of Christ. It's enough to make a man want to take up Zen Buddhism."

"Is that what you did?" Green asked. "We never talked about it, you and I. Claudette talked to your wife. That's how I knew you were ordained as a General Baptist when you were in Michigan. Your wife hinted that things got ugly for you just before you came back to the hills to look after your parents and take over the farm. That's when you quit going to church anywhere until your wife had a stroke and needed help getting around. So when the deacons threw out the general atonement Anabaptists, I figured you would lead them. But you turned it over to one of them the first chance you got."

Joe shrugged. "Well, I guess you might call me a Zen Baptist. I think it's all about being one with the Almighty and as long as God calls me home when the time comes, I don't much care what I'm called down here. Labels are more trouble than they're worth. Back in Michigan, I said the Bible had to be right and if it said man had free will and that he was also predestined, then somehow he had to be both. People kept insisting I had to choose one or the other because they didn't have a label for someone who believed in both at the same time.

"Do you know what you're going to do next?" Joe asked.

"That's going to depend on the vote of confidence. It might not go like Underwood thinks it will."

Joe snorted. "If not this time, then next time, or the time after that. Too many of your people are moving out and Underwood's people are stayin' put. Word about the proposed crackdown on the beer ban is out, so I doubt very many of the Germans who have actually joined will still be on the rolls when the vote of confidence is called. Underwood is sure to bring up the drinking issue first thing and then exclude anyone who won't take the pledge."

"You're probably right. He's sure he can get the ban enforced. But he might be in for a surprise. It will be a lot closer than he thinks. I've talked to three of the deacons who weren't at the deacon's meeting and a handful of other leaders and they just might be able to get the ban lifted. If that doesn't go Underwood's way, then the rest of his package is dead in the water, at least for now. Even if he does get the ban enforced, I don't think he can get an English-only rule passed. He's wanted a ban on any Bible but the King James for years and hasn't managed it yet either. It's back on the agenda this time, too."

"We both know you'd have been long gone by now if we were still up-time. So like I asked, what are you going to do next?" Joe asked again.

"Worse comes to worse, Claudette can get a paying job. She has a standing offer in administration at the hospital. We'll get by until I find something. We can put our furniture in storage . . . come to that we can sell it if we need to. We've been offered the use of a guest room if we haven't found something by the end of the month. But Underwood hasn't won yet. And like I said, he might be in for a surprise."

"You grew up on a farm didn't you?"

"Yes, Dad ran a business in town. But he was always a farmer at heart. So he kept his hand in. More precisely, he kept my hand in."

Joe nodded. "I've cleaned out enough space in the storage barn for your stuff. You can use the hay wagon to move it. But what I need to know is: what would you want to do if you were free to do it?"

"You know, when we first ended up here and now, I thought I saw the hand of the Lord in what had happened. I thought I was going to be the next Billy Graham." Al snorted. "That sure didn't work out. The church doesn't want to grow. They say they do, but they don't. Well, that's not completely right. Some do and some don't. Some want more members, as long as they're just like themselves. If I could get their friends and families to come to church that would be fine, but it just isn't in them to open up and make room for outsiders. Billy Graham had a backer; Billy Sunday did too. You can't go on the sawdust trail without a backer, an organization and a lot of help in the community when you get there. So I don't see it happening."

Joe nodded. "So what do you want to do?"

"Joe, I've always wanted to teach. Being a pastor was never my first choice. Did you know I've been scouted and rejected by at least three universities, here and now? But they're Lutheran, or Calvinist, or Presbyterian. There isn't a Baptist university in the world, and if there was I probably couldn't get a job teaching in it either."

"Well, we're getting, or we just got, a university or a college of some sort or other here in Grantville. Then, too, Jena's just short train ride away. Don't you think you could do something about a Baptist seminary? You could send the students to the university for everything except religion classes."

"Joe." Albert shook his head. "It's a nice thought, but that would take a lot of money. Every school I can think of started out with an endowment or a land grant. And even if one of these peckerwoods I've got coming to church was willing to even think about it, I'm not sure they would hire me."

The door opened and Claudette came in with a coffee pot and cookies. She sat it down and started to leave.

"Claudette, would you join us please. You need to hear what I've got to say, and I need to watch your face while I say it," Joe said.

A very puzzled Claudette did as he asked.

"Al, Claudette, I'm dying."

Reverend and Mrs. Green looked at each other, in shock. Yes, they knew Joe was old, but he was old like the root of a post oak, hard and gnarly, and seemingly eternal. You expected it to be there forever.

Joe let what he said sink in before he continued. "None of the family is interested in the farm. I don't mean that there aren't plenty of relatives who wouldn't mind having the money when it's sold, but to hell with that.

"Half of the fields and most of the woods were outside the ring. None of the fields were more than just three or four acres apiece anyway, so I didn't lose much. There's enough loft space for hay over the stock barn to winter over a couple of oxen or horses. I don't but I could. The farm has a gas well, so I don't need a team. So there's room for half a dozen milk cows and three or four sows. The only limit on chickens is how many you want to fuss with. The place can keep a dozen people fed year round with some lookin' after. The second story on the storage barn could be turned into a dorm for students."

Joe watched as Claudette and Al began to figure out where he was going. "Look ," he said, " I don't know if you'll survive this round or not. I don't much care. If you don't then you've got somewhere to go. Eventually, you'll come around, because it's a job that needs doing and you are the man for the job. I've got three young Anabaptists who will make preachers by and by. One of them can look after the place for now. He's already working on living quarters over the storage barn for himself and his wife. So the house will just be sitting there empty.

"If you don't move up to the farm, then I guess he and the others will have to come into town to study. Either way, when I'm gone you're going to have to look after teaching them or leave them to study on their own. That's between you and God."

"But, Joe," Claudette objected, "that's your home. We can't just move in. What are you going to do? I can't see you in a nursing home."

Joe laughed. "That's for sure. I'd drive the nurses plain batty wouldn't I?

"No, there are places I want to see and things I want to do. After a long and boring life I can go see them or I can set here and die like I lived. So I asked myself, why not. I don't see why I should just go quietly into the long night. Whatever you do, I'll be gone by the end of the month."

Joe watched the faces of the Greens as he spoke so he knew the answer and never did ask the question. "I've been to see the lawyer and it's all set up. The Mountain Top Baptist Bible Institute has its founding endowment. Turning it into a seminary . . . well, that is your problem."

****

A Study in Redheads

Written by Bradley H. Sinor and Tracy S. Morris

    

"Paul, we need to talk!" Paul Kindred, managing editor of the Grantville Times, stifled a groan when he heard that voice. Betsy Springer came toward him at a dead run, her red ponytail bouncing like an excited rooster's tail, and would have collided with him had he not stepped aside at the last minute.

"Hello, Betsy," he sighed. Paul had been hoping for a quiet day. The political hijinks that fed both the front page and the dull ache just behind his eyes had been running at high tide lately, getting hotter as summer approached.

"Hello, Paul! Look, this is important: Rosebud and Watergate all wrapped up in one! We need to talk, but not in the street."

Paul couldn't count the number of times he had heard that phrase. Like the common cold germ, it would get under his skin, make his pulse race and leave him in a cold sweat, and before long he would have a major headache.

He gave Betsy a pleading look, hoping she would at least wait until he got into his office to pitch another hare-brained conspiracy theory story idea. But as Betsy hopped from one foot to another in excitement, he knew that there was little chance for peace.

"Indeed." Paul consoled himself with the thought that if this story turned out to be too wild for the Grantville Times, at least Betsy wasn't opposed to letting him "re-direct" it into the pages of The Inquisitor.

Paul also knew it would only be a matter of time before Betsy would start in on the movie quotes that were her trademark. It seemed like she could remember every detail of every movie she had ever seen.

    One of these days he really needed to convince his father, the publisher of the Times, to send Betsy on a "Nellie Bly" style tour of the USE and surrounding areas, just to get her out of his hair. If sending her around the world were practical, he might have considered that.

As they neared the paper's offices, Paul could see Denis Sesma's gangly frame leaned against the front door. Denis was one of the artists he kept on staff to do woodcuts, one of the few who turned his work in on time, if not early. He should have expected that Denis would not be far when Betsy was around. They were a couple, though neither would admit it.

"Good morning, Mr. Kindred," said Denis, doffing his cap the moment he spotted his employer.

"Hi, Denis. Come on inside," Paul unlocked the door and gestured for the two of them to follow him. Betsy whispered something to Denis, who nodded and sprinted away. A few moments later he returned, followed by a skinny boy dressed in a typesetter's apron and a square paper hat.

"If you want to stop the presses, you need to hijack more backshop people than that, Betsy," Paul said. "So what's the story?"

In response, Betsy snaked her arm around the kid and pulled him forward. The boy seemed reluctant, like he would have preferred to hide behind Denis.

"This is Alessandrio . . . Alessandrio?" Betsy looked to the boy with a quizzical expression. "Alexandrio." She said firmly. The boy made a noise of protest but Betsy waved it away with a dismissive gesture. "I like that better. It's more American. Paul this is Alexandria, actually." Betsy began again. "She's from Venice" Hearing Betsy's words, Paul looked at the young typesetter again and realized this wasn't a scrawny young boy, but a girl.

She wore her red-blonde hair in a close-cropped, masculine style, but her overly large, blue eyes made her seem more like one of those Precious Moments figurines of a street urchin rather than an actual person.

"Alex here found something important," Denis said. The younger girl nodded and began to speak quietly in a string of broken English mixed with German, Venetian and Italian. Paul thought he heard the words reading and murder, and the name of a town not that far from Grantville: Hildburghausen.

"Okay, you've got my attention," Paul said. "Let's go in the office."

If it were possible for Alexandria's eyes to get bigger, they did at the prospect of going into Paul's office. Most of the time when an employee went in there it was to be fired.

"Come on, he won't bite," said Betsy, and then turned to Paul. "You better not!"

"Yes, ma'am." He led them into his office and slid into the high-backed chair that had been a gift from his father when he took over as managing editor. "Now, what the hell are you three talking about?"

"I read." Alexandria blurted out.

"Alexandria's father was a printer in Venice. His chief apprentice, Vito, turned out to be a lazy lout; unfortunately he couldn't get rid of him, because of the boy's family's political connections, so Alex had to help in the shop to take up the slack," said Betsy.

"Small fingers." Alex held her ink-smeared hands out so that they could see that she had the nimble fingers that were perfect for setting type. "Typesetting for Papa, that's how I learned to read English and German, besides Italian."

"Unfortunately, her father was killed in an accident a year or so ago and the family business was seized by creditors," said Denis.

Paul could almost finish the story himself. Even though she was trained as a printer and typesetter, there was no way any other printer would take on a girl, no matter how good she might be.

"Alexandria had two choices," said Betsy, waving away the girls protest about the Americanizing of her name "Become a prostitute or hope she could find a convent that would accept her, neither idea was to her liking; so she found a third choice. She sort of reminds me of me in that way."

"I heard about USE and how women have rights to work here," she said slowly, picking her English words carefully. "Only way I could travel was disguised as boy. Took me four months, walking mostly. I had gotten used to having my hair like this, wearing pants and even answering to the name Alexandro, so when you hire me I didn't bother tell you I was girl."

"I only found it out by accident," said Denis. "We were taking a wagon of supplies and the wheel broke. It threw Alex off and knocked him, er . . . her out. When I tried to see if he . . . she, was all right I opened his shirt and . . ."

"I get the picture," Paul said. "But how does this lead to murder?" Paul could feel his right eye start to tic. Betsy often had that effect on him.

"I read!" Alexandria cut in. "Always I read, books, pamphlets, even the type that I set. In library I find books about—what you call them?" She snapped her fingers as she searched for the correct words. Then her eyes lit up and she pointed at Paul. "Serial killers!" She said triumphantly.

"Wait!" Paul sat up straight. "Back up! Serial killers?"

"Yes, I see it in the type! I'm sorry my English not as good as I would like. I read it in the stories I set. I even read the other newspapers we get in here."

Betsy nodded and gave Paul an apologetic smile. "I guess she was reading about criminal profiling at the library, how she got on that I still haven't figured out. But she's been setting stories about a series of strange deaths in Hildburghausen, and began to notice things that look like deliberate arsenic poisoning to her."

As Betsy said this, Denis pulled out tear sheets of the stories and pointed to the pertinent passages. "The victims seem healthy. They eat enough to get fat—there's a clue right there. How many people do you see who are actually overweight anymore? And the poison stays locked up in the body fat. When the poison stops, they lose their appetite and as they get skinny—the poison works its way back into their body and kills them. By the time they die, the poisoner has gotten away."

"And she knows about poisons how?" Paul asked, a number of possibilities running through his head.

"Her uncle was an alchemist," Denis said. "But he was murdered by a client so that he couldn't give testimony before the tribunal."

Alexandria sniffed. "Typesetting is better. Nobody gets pissed at you, at least not that much."

"I saw this in a movie once," Betsy said. "I think it was about the Borgias and how they used poison."

Alexandria pointed to the article on top of the stack that Paul held. "Sickness in Hildburghausen." And here." She pulled a third article out of the stack. "Again and again."

Paul looked from the articles to the two reporters and the typesetter. "You think it was murder?"

"Yes," proclaimed Betsy. "The three of us spent a good while at the library. The symptomology matches."

"Some of them could have been accidental," Paul pointed out, though as he glanced over the articles there was something in the back of his mind that said there might actually be a story. "How do you intend to prove your theory?"

"We read up on a couple of tests, and scrounged what equipment we could. Alexandria thinks she can perform what's called a Marsh test if we can find tissue samples and bring them here to her."

"What tissue samples?" Paul asked pointedly.

Betsy gave him a blank look. "Swabs from dishes, or maybe leftover meals?"

Paul rubbed the bridge of his nose as he realized that the young redhead hadn't thought this through. "To prove anything, you need tissue samples from the actual victims. You do realize that the authorities, not to mention the families, would not be pleased to have you digging up their relatives?"

"That is just gross," said Betsy, "And I wouldn't even think about it unless it were absolutely necessary."

"You may be on to something here." Paul said slowly, "But I think that you three are going to have to be very careful, very circumspect in what you do and what you say. Do you hear me, Betsy?"

"Right!" Betsy grinned. "We won't let you down, Paul!"

"Excuse me, sir," said Alexandria. "You say 'you three'?"

"Yep, you're going with them," he said.

"B-b-but I'm supposed to work," she stuttered. "Mr. Kelly will fire me if I not there!" Kinkelly ran the newspaper's back shop and ruled it with an iron hand, though Paul knew that the man actually had a very soft heart.

"Don't worry about Kelly; his bark is worse than his bite. You're on full salary for as long as it takes to get this matter settled. No matter what happens, you will definitely have a job to come back to. On that you have my promise."

"Oh," she said in a little girl's voice and looked uncertainly at Betsy and Denis.

****

"You may have to be both a boy and a girl," said Betsy.

Alexandria looked up at Betsy with a start. "Pardon me?"

They had arrived in Hilburghausen that morning and gotten rooms at a small inn on the south side of town. It was the sort of place where strangers were the norm, so no one looked at them twice when Betsy, Denis and their "younger sister" checked in.

"It's just a matter of letting people see one thing while something else is going on," said Betsy. "It's a kind of magic."

Alexandria jerked back at the mention of magic, crossing herself and muttering something in Italian as she looked back and forth between Denis and Betsy.

Denis laughed and tore the corner off a piece of paper from the edge of the copy of The Inquisitor that lay on the table. He rolled it up in a ball, showed it to her, then holding it between two fingers, he passed his hand in front of it and the ball was gone. Alexandria's eyes grew even wider than they normally were. Denis smiled then reached across the table, touched her ear with one hand and seemingly produced the paper ball from her ear.

"How?" she stuttered.

Denis didn't say anything, he repeated the move, making the ball disappear, but then held his hand up and turned it around to where Alexandria could see the piece of paper hidden between two of his fingers.

"I let you see one thing, when something else was going on. That's what Betsy's talking about. It's just a little misdirection; you're expecting one thing while I'm doing another. Like they do it in the movies." Denis looked over at Betsy, smiled and ran his finger down the side of his nose; hoping that was the gesture she had talked about in that movie The Sting.

Alexandria laughed and picked up the paper ball rolling it over and over in her hands.

"The fact is that everyone saw us check in with a young girl, so. I doubt anyone else will be paying attention if a young boy is seen wandering around town, listening and maybe asking the occasional question," said Betsy.

"I see," Alexandria said with a mischievous smile as she waved the crumpled paper around. "I sneak around, quiet as mouse, and listen in dark alleys and back corners." She folded her hand over the paper ball, hiding it from sight.

"Exactly," Betsy said. "Do you think you could sneak into one of the victim's homes and get a look at the dishes?"

"It's probably been too long to even try," Denis said. "The first case was three months ago, and the second was a month later. Whatever possessions were left would have been distributed to their heirs."

"You don't suppose that's the connection, do you?" Betsy tapped her upper lip with her forefinger. "The people in the second case. The Fuchs, yes?" she looked to Alexandria for confirmation. "Maybe they bought something that had been in the first home."

"The home of Zedler," Denis said. "That may be the case, but we won't be able to find the connection that way."

"I'm just afraid that the trail, as they say in detective movies, has gone cold."

"They always made this look so easy on the detective shows," Betsy muttered. "Paul may be right. We may have to dig up the bodies, no matter what he said or how gross it might be. We could find out for certain that way."

"And even if this is the USE, our German hosts take a dim view on grave desecration," Denis shuddered. "I have no desire to face a hangman for the sake of a story."

"All right," Betsy said reluctantly.

****

"I hope Alexandria had better luck than we did," Betsy said moodily as she dug into her bratwurst. There were hardly any other people in the common room of the tavern. It was still relatively early; even the tavern girl had disappeared into the kitchen after dropping their plates in front of them. "Do you believe that those guys actually thought that breathing onions would stop the spread of illness? The thing is, in a couple of hundred years this area will be one of the first places to regulate food. They already regulate beer."

"Not everyone believes the CoC when they talk about germs," Denis said. "Knowing what may be going on makes me reluctant to eat anything in this town."

"Don't be silly," Betsy said around a forkful of food. "Dad always told me that if I go anywhere, I should try and eat like a local. That way I learn more about the culture." She smiled a little in recollection; it was a sad smile none-the-less. "We always did stuff like that on family vacations. Sometimes I wasn't sure just exactly what cultural experience I was supposed to get, but I suppose it didn't matter as long as it was an experience and it was cultural and it was with my dad."

Denis nodded; he reached over and patted her hand. Betsy didn't often let herself slip into melancholy, but thoughts of her dad always caused her eyes to water. "What would he want us to do?"

"Go get the bad guys, pilgrim," she said.

"Pilgrim?" Denis shook his head. He was used to most of her movie references, but not all of them.

"Time to watch some John Wayne movies, then." She squeezed his hand.

    Just then, Alexandria slid into the seat across from them. Her wide, dark eyes looked serious. "Others have fallen sick." She folded her hands and rested her chin on them. "So far, no one has died. But many are ill." She looked at Betsy's plate. "I spoke with both Herr Zedler's neighbors and those of Herr Fuchs, along with a number of their servants; it's always the servants who know more about what is going on in a house than the family that lives there. Herr Zedler bought a cow for slaughter days before he died. Frau Fuchs was known for her cooking, especially beef sausages. The cook here at this inn is her cousin."

Betsy's eyes bulged. She looked down at her plate, her stomach rolling. "I . . ." She set the sausage down. "Suddenly I don't feel so good."

****

Denis held Betsy's hair back as she threw the contents of her stomach up into the chamber pot.

"I think I just threw up my toenails." She wiped at her mouth, and then flopped onto her side on the floor. "Wurst food I ever ate. Pun intended."

Denis patted her shoulder in sympathy. "You're fortunate," he said to her. "You're only suffering from your own overactive imagination. But you must be feeling better if you're making bad puns like that."

Betsy lifted her head from the floor and looked at him weakly. "Are you telling me that there wasn't any arsenic in my dinner?"

"Alexandria checked your sausage." He smoothed her hair back. "It was poison free. Now that you're okay, she'll start testing samples of meat from the families who are ill. I think we may have found the connection there."

"She's getting the samples how?" asked Betsy.

"She said 'Don't ask', so I didn't. There probably are things that it is better for us not to know."

"So I guess this means the butcher did it. Although, that doesn't quite have the ring of saying the butler did it." Betsy grimaced as she sat up, a little pale, but the color rapidly coming back into her face. She gave Denis a sheepish smile. "Now I feel silly."

Denis extended his hand to help her to her feet. "You say that like it's a new feeling? There is someone I know here in town that I think we should talk to."

Betsy looked surprised at that. "Who?"

"His name is Calvin Norcross," Denis said. "We were apprenticed to Master Ribalta at the same time. If anyone knows things that are going on in this town, it will be him."

"You ought to take up investigative journalism yourself," Betsy said. "Everywhere we go you seem to have connections from the old days."

"I can't write with your flair," Denis said, noncommittally. "Besides, don't you always say a picture is worth a thousand words?"

****

"I figured that you would either be dead or in the army by now," laughed Calvin Norcross.

The air in the studio was heavy with the smell of turpentine and paint. Half finished paintings and sketches filled every nook and cranny. Norcross stood just an inch shorter than Betsy and was thin enough that it looked like a good stiff wind would blow him away. The studio was bigger than Denis had expected, but still little more than a closet. The accumulated work showed him that Calvin was doing well and that fanned a tiny bit of jealousy in Denis. Calvin had obviously found another painter to take him on after Master Ribalta died.

"I figured you would have been beaten to death by some jealous husband or boyfriend," returned Denis, taking his old friend's outstretched hand.

"It helps to always know where the exit is and to be able to get your pants on while you are running," laughed Calvin. His laugh cut off abruptly as Betsy stepped through the doorway around Denis. "And who is this stunning beauty?"

"This is Betsy Springer." Denis took her hand protectively. "She's a reporter for the Grantville Times."

Calvin looked at Denis and Betsy's clasped hands, and then smiled at his old friend. "And what does the Times want in Hildburghausen? Obviously something that is very important to send someone as lovely and talented as you. If you have the time, I hope you would consider modeling for me; with that beautiful face and red hair I would call it A Study in Red."

"Well, now aren't you just the one? Perhaps I might consider posing for you once our business here is completed," said Betsy. Denis heard a familiar tone in her voice and knew that she didn't buy into Calvin's flattery. "We're here investigating some mysterious deaths. There's a chance they may have been from deliberate arsenic poisoning."

Calvin looked from Denis to Betsy and back. Then let out a low whistle. "That's a very serious matter," he said. "If someone has been doing so, they would very quickly be hanged."

"We hoped that you might be able to tell us if you had heard anything suspicious? As I recall, when we were studying with Master Ribalta you were always aware of what was going on around town," Denis said.

"It never hurts to listen to what people are saying, Denis. I suppose you could say that it is only common courtesy. As for suspicious, I'm not sure what you're looking for. I did lose a commission awhile back. Herr Fleischer wanted me to do a portrait of his daughter, but then canceled it at the last minute."

"That would cost a lot of money, yes?" Betsy looked to Denis, who nodded in confirmation.

Calvin walked across the studio and pointed to a half finished canvas where a figure had been sketched out. "I haven't had a chance to reuse the canvas; there's always a chance he'll change his mind. Although the man actually had the audacity to ask for deposit back."

"Shameful," said Denis.

"Sounds to me like Herr Fleischer ran into money problems," said Betsy. "We need to follow the money, just like Woodward and Bernstein in All The President's Men."

"Woodward and Bernstein?" Calvin whispered to Denis.

"Don't ask so loudly," warned Denis.

"Strange." Calvin said, staring at his old friend.

"Tell me about it," shrugged Denis.

****

Their room looked like something out of a mad scientist's lab when Denis and Betsy returned to the tavern. Alex stood over a burner with an odd array of glass flasks, copper tubing and bent beakers. A copy of the Grantville library's Fun with Chemistry! book was propped before her like a cookbook. A number of tissue samples arrayed in bowls across the table reminded Betsy of the time in Charleston that she'd tried sushi on a dare.

Alex looked up from the burner and waved them over to her. "If I no make mistake, then it's arsenic in all samples."

Denis and Betsy looked at one another in trepidation.

"Ordinarily, I would say that we should go to the authorities, but . . ." Denis rolled his hand in the direction of the table. "What evidence do we show them? I barely understand this and I have my doubts the Burghers in this town will."

"We could try," said Betsy. "Combined with what we know from your friend, Calvin, we can at least set the authorities on Herr Fleischer."

"I'm not sure just how much I trust Calvin. He was always out for himself. Something doesn't feel right about him; I just can't put my finger on it. We've got to force Fleischer into a corner, but under circumstances that we control, not him. There is no one quite as dangerous as a man in that position. Besides, we still don't know why he's killing these people."

"Maybe we should just ask him? Sometimes you have to just march right up to Jabba the Hutt's palace and knock on the front door," said Betsy.

****

"Hello?" Betsy called out as she looked around the stables behind Herr Fleischer's home and shop. "Herr Fleischer?"

"He doesn't appear to be here," Denis said as he stepped around Betsy and into the stable.

"And he looks like he left in a hurry," Betsy replied as she pointed to the floor. Tack and slightly-tarnished coins lay scattered across the ground. "I wonder if his daughter knows that he's gone on the lam?"

"The dropping here is still warm," Denis said as he held his hands over the steaming animal leavings in the stall. "Maybe we can catch him if we hurry." He grasped Betsy's hand and the two of them ran out of the stables and toward the river, in the opposite direction from whence they came.

"What did your sources at the Committee of Correspondence have to say about Herr Fleischer?" Betsy asked.

"They said to be careful," Denis replied. "Dieter Fleischer used to be a Feldwebel in the army. He curses like a soldier and kicks like an angry mule."

Betsy stopped abruptly, just over a mile beyond the city limits, pointing toward a shape lying just off the path ahead of them. "I don't think we have to worry about that anymore."

Denis followed her outstretched hand to see a man lying there in a rapidly spreading pool of blood. Half his head had been blown away. Judging by the mule grazing at the roadside with saddle bags filled to bursting, not to mention the physical description, the dead man was Dieter Fleischer.

"Definitely, gross," said Betsy. Even so, she knelt close to the body and began examining it. "He's still warm, so this has happened recently."

"So much for getting a confession out of him," said Denis.

Denis touched the side of Fleischer's head and rubbed a drop of blood between his fingers. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air, but there was something else, something familiar that Denis couldn't place. He began to pace back and forth along the bank, looking down at the ground, wishing he could do something like that fellow in the movies and books that Betsy talked about, Sherlock Holmes. The idea that he was starting to think in terms of movie characters scared Denis just a little.

"I'm thinking that we don't have a lot of options now. This was murder and we should report it to the authorities," said Denis as he passed close to some low bushes and trees. He had taken a few steps beyond them when he thought he heard the rustling of an animal within. Denis was about to investigate when Calvin Norcross charged out toward him, swinging a stout, jagged branch. The blow from his attackers cudgel was enough to put Denis on the ground.

"What the hell?" Betsy stepped backward in shock. Before she could charge to Denis's rescue, Calvin dropped his club and produced a flintlock pistol.

"Old friend, I would not advise you, nor your rather well-endowed companion, to move. I won't hesitate to shoot either of you," he said.

Betsy scoffed. "It figures; even in the seventeenth century, men only notice one thing."

"Why, Calvin?" asked Denis as he raised himself up to a sitting position.

"Money," said the little painter. "That idiot cheated me out of my earnings! He was trying to get away with a fortune. I simply intercepted him as he left town. If you hadn't interrupted me, everyone would have assumed that bandits took his ill-gotten gains." He looked regretful, as if trying to convince himself that he had no other choice in what was about to happen. "Now I'm going to have to eliminate you, old friend, and your rather attractive traveling companion, to avoid a hangman's noose myself. I would much prefer to have had her posing for me."

"I think not." Alex came from behind a nearby tree, her two small hands around the grip of a rather large and outrageous looking pistol.

Denis gaped at the device. It looked futuristic and frightening: wrapped with pieces of bent copper tubing and bits of glass on it. If he hadn't seen the component parts in Alex's lab, he would have believed it to be yet another frightening and wondrous uptime device.

Alex pulled a lever as if underscoring that she meant business. "You will drop your pistol or I use this and it will make what happened to Herr Fleischer seem like a nice thing. Do it now! You will drop your weapon and get down on your knees."

Calvin looked at her and then the weapon. He seemed to be weighing his options.

"I wouldn't," Betsy said. "That's a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. It would blow your head clean off. So you've got to ask yourself one question: Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?"

Calvin swallowed, and dropped his own weapon. Then he slowly dropped to his knees.

Denis scrambled over and picked up the gun while Betsy pulled rope off the mule's saddle and tied Calvin's hands behind his back.

"He would have gotten away with it if it hadn't been for us meddling kids. But this still doesn't explain the tainted meat." Betsy threw her hands in the air. "If I can't explain that, then I don't have much of a story. I'll have to invent something for The Inquisitor and I would prefer to avoid that."

"There is an old horse trader's trick," Denis said. "You give a little bit of arsenic to a nag to fatten it up. The poison makes the coat glossy and soon the nag looks like a respectable mount. It's possible that Herr Fleischer purchased some very poor cattle at a very good price. Herr Zedlar purchased a cow and took it to Herr Fleischer. Herr Fleischer may have substituted his own poor quality meat for Herr Zedlar's good meat, without realizing that it was tainted."

"And Frau Fuchs purchased sausages from Herr Fleischer. Who pays attention to the quality of meat in sausages?" Betsy concluded with a grin. "This is going to make an incredible story. But what do we do with him?" she waved a hand at Calvin.

"I think we had better take this man to the authorities," Denis said slowly. "With the three of us as witnesses I think that should be enough."

"How did you know he was in the bushes?" asked Betsy as they walked.

"The blood was still tacky, so I knew it hadn't been that long since Fleischer was killed, plus I caught a whiff of turpentine. It's hard as hell to get out of your clothes and most painters get to the point they don't even notice it," he said. "I almost didn't."

He pointed up the path to indicate that Calvin should lead the way. Alex backed up his motion by gesturing with her improvised weapon.

As the four of them walked down the street in a bizarre parade, Betsy leaned over to speak to Alex. "I meant to ask you earlier, were did you get the idea for the ray gun?"

In response, Alex reached inside her jacket and pulled out a rolled up comic book that she passed to Betsy. On the cover, Ming the Merciless threatened Flash Gordon with a ray gun that looked remarkably similar to Alex's creation.

"I read," she said.

****

Hair of the Dog Or The Continuing Adventures of Harry Lefferts

Written by David Carrico

    

Late December 1633

Near the border between France and Spanish Netherlands

Sieur Chretien de la Roche awoke in misery. The bolster under his throbbing head seemed particularly hard this morning, and for some reason it was damp. A timeless interval passed, and it came to his attention that the entire bed was hard, much harder than he remembered it being. More eternity passed and, against great resistance, he managed to force open his eyes. It slowly dawned on him that he was not in his bed in the family hôtel. In fact, he was not in bed at all. He appeared to be sprawled on a floor—and a not particularly clean one at that—with his cheek resting in what seemed to be a puddle of drool.

The sieur contemplated moving for an age, and finally mustered the energy to drag his hands up level with his shoulders and place the palms on the floor. At long last, he exerted himself to arise from his hard bed, but no sooner had he raised himself from the floor than a white-hot spike of pain shot through his head, and he collapsed back to the floor, on his back now.

"Mon Dieu," he gasped hoarsely, "if I must be crucified, could it not have been done through my hands and feet, like normal?"

More moments passed, and suddenly de la Roche became aware of pressure, of waves, of mounting rebellion in his body. Head forgotten, he rolled back to his hands and knees and scrabbled for the chamber pot. Reeling, he noted that apparently he had used it for its normal purpose sometime during the night, then his mouth locked rigidly open and it seemed like everything that had ever passed through his mouth during his entire life now spewed forth. Finished—at least for the moment—he huddled on the floor, misery compounded; head feeling like that of Sisera when Jael pounded the tent stake through it, cold, sweating, shivering, mouth tasting of hot sulfur.

Finally, he managed to sit up, back on his heels. He wiped the splatter drops off of his face with a sleeve that, in keeping with his surroundings, was also noticeably less than clean. The agony in his head had dwindled to a dull throbbing, although it still felt as if his eyeballs were being pushed out of their sockets. Looking around at the unfamiliar room, de la Roche deduced that he was in an inn, and a remarkably unprepossessing inn at that. For an instant, he was puzzled as to why he was here, but then the memories came cascading back: gambling with his friends and a couple of strangers; one of the strangers accusing him of cheating with dice (he didn't think of it as cheating, simply as an unusual skill); his perforce challenging the stranger to a duel, only to discover that the stranger was the son of the comte de Rochefort, one of the deadliest swordsmen in Paris, nay, all of France.

The remaining memories were a jumble—fleeing to the family hôtel in a panic, gathering together what clothes and funds he could find, telling one of the stable boys to saddle two horses and fleeing Paris as fast as he could with Luc, the stable boy, riding right behind him as a servant. In his mind he thought to go to Antwerp. Surely he could persuade (or bribe) the Spaniards to let him pass through their lines. He didn't remember how long they had ridden before they found this small insignificant inn in a small insignificant village. He did have a vague recollection of drinking a great quantity of appallingly bad brandy last night, however.

Looking down at the chamber pot which sat in front of his knees, he determined that its current contents was even more noisome in composition than it had been before he deposited what remained of his dinner and the brandy. His stomach lurched again, and he looked away hurriedly.

Luc—why wasn't Luc here, tending to him? Angry, de la Roche tried to call out, but all that issued from his throat was a sound reminiscent of the caw of a crow. Crawling over to the bed, he laboriously climbed up it and managed to gain his feet. Leaning heavily on the walls, he lurched around the room until he found the door and almost fell through it.

****

Harry Lefferts and the members of what everyone in Grantville now called "The Wrecking Crew" looked up from their mugs to see an apparition stumble down the stairs from the second floor of the small inn. They had paused in their trip to the Channel long enough to grab a meal and make sure they were still on the right road. If I didn't know better, Harry mused, I'd swear that one of the actors from those awful Grade B zombie movies me and Darryl used to watch when we were in high school just materialized. He snickered. In fact, this guy looks more like the real thing than any of the movie characters ever did.

The haggard figure stood wavering at the foot of the stairs, until one of the serving wenches approached him. His thin, bony face creased in a snarl, and he took a swing at her and shouted in French that he wanted to see Luc, before his knees gave way and he dropped into a chair at a nearby table. Harry frowned. He didn't much like folks that abused women, but when the wretch remained seated he turned back to his mug.

"Mein Gott," Paul Maczka muttered, "I've seen three day corpses that looked better than him. Mind you, I've been hung over enough before that I felt like he looks."

A thought fluttered at the edge of Harry's mind, but it wouldn't settle yet. He looked up as the zombie began to shout again.

****

De la Roche was still concentrating on keeping his stomach in place when Luc appeared from the rear door of the common room and hurried over to stand before him. "I am here, master." The zombie started to berate the boy for not addressing him properly, but just at that moment his aching head gave up the fogged memory wherein he had told the stable boy to not call him sieur or lord. So instead he began to rant at the boy for abandoning him in the room.

". . . and you left me lying on the floor!" he ended with a final snarl, nose to nose with the lad and watching the boy wince away from the breath he knew all too well was foul.

"But master, I could not move you. First you hit me, then you grabbed me and called me Madeline." Luc was cringing now. De la Roche's temper flared, and he slapped the boy across the face.

****

Harry broke off his conversation with Paul in mid-word as the boy sprawled on the floor. His muscles tensed as he started to rise, only to stop as the boy scurried upstairs and the zombie collapsed back at the table with a moan audible across the room. He waved the serving girl over as she came by.

"What's with the walking corpse?" He nodded in the zombie's direction.

"Him?" she sniffed. "No one knows. He arrived from the south late last night, complained about everything, wanted the best room for the price of sleeping on the floor in the common room, and insisted on brandy. Our wine . . ." She spread her hands in a balance scales movement. "Eh, not so bad. Our brandy . . ." The moue of distaste on her face was expressive. "He drank enough to kill a Spaniard."

"Is he anyone important?" Harry fingered the lapel of his coat, where the other man had a bit of lace showing.

"Him? Non, only in his own mind. We see nobles on this road from time to time. He is at best a court hanger-on, or someone's second cousin who drifts around the fringes of the court hoping to receive a plum."

Harry waved the woman away with an order for another ale. As he observed the Frenchman, the fluttering thought settled and a slow smile crossed his face. The wrecking crew ostentatiously moved away from him slightly, as that particular evil smile usually didn't bode well for someone within arm's reach.

"What are you planning, Harry?" Gerd asked. "Need a boom toy?"

"Not this time," Harry said. "I'm just thinking that poor soul over there needs a helping hand."

"Low profile, Harry," Paul interjected amidst the laughter of the rest of the crew. "We're supposed to be low profile."

"I can do low profile," Harry replied as he pulled a couple of items out of his saddlebags. He showed one of them to his friends. "But I do think he needs a bit of the hair of the dog that bit him." Grins blossomed all around. Harry handed his bags to Paul. "Go get the horses ready. I'll be out in a minute or two." Still grinning, they finished their ale and followed the orders.

Walking across the room, Harry could hear the Frenchman muttering curses to himself, most of them invoking doom on some son of a whore, but more than a few of them dragging up every French obscenity Harry knew, and a few words that he didn't know but from their context must have been very vulgar. Harry made careful note of those. He dropped into the chair opposite the man, jarring the table as he did so. This caused the monologue to be interrupted by a heartfelt moan.

"Sorry," Harry said. "You look like you've seen better days." The Frenchman's head rolled up from staring down at the table top. Harry got a glimpse of eyes that were more red than white, and a whiff of breath that was truly foul.

"Who are you?" the zombie creaked out. "You are not French, or even Spanish. Where are you from?"

Harry grinned cheerfully back at the baleful gaze. "I'm from way east of here. A little town you've never heard of."

The zombie's head lowered back down. "Go away," he said in a tone that would have been a snarl if it hadn't been so pained.

"Looks to me like you need some of die alte Katerheilung," Harry said. "Guaranteed to fix you up. After you drink it, you won't even remember how you feel right now."

Harry was now the focus of the bleary-eyed Frenchman's attention. It took several tries for the word to come out, but eventually he said, "Truly? You can produce this . . . ancient hangover cure?"

"Oh, sure." Harry patted his pockets. "I've got the ingredients right here."

"And it works?"

Harry looked affronted. "I use it myself all the time. Great stuff."

The Frenchman took in Harry's size and obvious good health, eyes widening just a little. "How much?"

"Today, nothing," As the Frenchman's face began to cloud with suspicion, Harry leaned over and said softly, in the manner of one imparting a confidence, "The old Hungarian wit . . . wise woman I got it from said that as long as I gave it away I would have good fortune, but if I tried to make coin from it the fortune would turn evil." The Frenchman's expression cleared, and Harry smiled to himself—got him. That little bit of superstition just absolutely hooked him.

"As you will. I confess that I feel as if I have already died and missed Purgatory. I would willingly bargain with the Devil to be free of this."

Harry had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from laughing, but after a moment he could speak with a straight face. "Bear with me a moment, I just need a little wine to mix this with." He went to the bar, and collected a cup with an inch or so of wine in it, tossing a silver piece to the innkeeper ". . . For your troubles."

****

De la Roche watched as the very jovial stranger returned to the table. After he sat down, he took a silver flask from one of his coat pockets and poured a clear liquid from it into the cup. "First, we add some special water." The now-empty flask was returned to the pocket from whence it came. Then a small glass vial was produced from inside his coat. "Next, the herbal mixture." The stranger very carefully removed the cap from it and just as carefully poured the contents into the cup. Restoring the cap to the vial, he picked up the cup and swirled it around. "Now we blend the wine, the water and the herbs."

"There are no words to speak, no incantations to utter?" De la Roche was getting a little queasy as he watched the cup go around and around.

"None." The cup was set before him. "Just drink it all, and drink it quickly."

He reached out his shaking hands, managed to grasp the cup, brought it to his lips, and swiftly drank the contents. As the cup fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers and a red haze covered his vision, he remembered his rash statement earlier, and it somehow didn't surprise him that the stranger was gone.

****

  The screaming began as Harry closed the door. Chuckling, he made sure his empty flask was back in place—last of the moonshine, he'd have to make do with brandy from here on out—and jogged across to his horse. He gathered the reins and mounted up. Time to get out of here. He started to slip the glass bottle back into a pocket, when Gerd asked, "Well?"

Harry grinned that same evil grin. "Like I said, just a little hair of the dog." He showed them the now-empty bottle. They began laughing uproariously, as they had all either been had with the same trick or had seen it done before. Harry slipped the empty bottle of his beloved habanero sauce into a pocket and put his horse in motion. "'Course, it was a junkyard dog."

****

Historically Well Preserved

Written by Virginia DeMarce

    

Grantville, July 1635

"I arrived in February," Robert Herrick said politely.

Mistress Sophie Thomas, her eyes fixed on the refreshment table, walked between him and Mistress Alannie Clark, bearing a tray of sandwiches and coffee.

He sent a mental prayer of thanks in the general direction of the deity for this timely interruption of the conversation and looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand. He loathed coffee. He loathed the custom of congregating over coffee and pastries for an hour of what amounted to ecclesiastical baby-kissing after the services. He hated baby-kissing, literal or metaphorical, political or ecclesiastical. A bachelor, almost forty-five years old, he was quite content with that status. The fragments of poems that constantly fluttered around in his mind were often addressed to mistresses, but his Julia and Anthea, his Amaryllis and Corinna, even when he was acquainted with their models, were purely imaginary creatures who, clad in diaphanous draperies, danced barefoot through the sparkling diamonds of May's dew-studded grass.

It was very satisfactory of them to remain imaginary. Real women—the "fellowship room" on the ground floor of the church, under the sanctuary was, at the moment, occupied by too many of them—weren't sufficiently . . . ethereal. His glance swept the room at floor level. They were more likely to wear sturdy shoes and trudge through slush in January or mud in July.

If he had been able to hibernate in the libraries, as he had originally planned when he began this journey. . . . Still, he had learned some things of use. He would eventually become a published author—in another fifteen years or so. That was some consolation for not being a published author as of the present Anno Domini. But Grantville was an expensive place to live, even if one lived simply.

He glanced around and then shoved the cup of coffee behind one of the curtains on the windows. Services were held above, accessed by a rather attractive flight of double, curving, stairs that were almost modern in their design.

Modern by the standards of Europe in 1635, that was.

The city historian had explained the design to him. The founder of the parish had been all too aware of the proclivity of the creek that ran through Grantville to flood more or less regularly, so he had insisted that all the more expensive aspects of the building be placed as high as possible, well out of the reach of muddy waters.

Mistress Thomas said something to Mistress Clark.

As soon as her attention turned away from him, he ducked quickly behind a portable flagpole on which the USE flag was mounted before another overly-zealous member of the Daughters of the King Ladies' Society could thrust a replacement cup of coffee into his hand.

    This time, he remembered to avoid the huge hole in the floor (there had been an unfortunate incident one Sunday when he forgot about it. The vestry had determined to install a temporary railing, but so far hadn't located a carpenter who was willing to work for what they were willing to pay). The historian told him that it had been excavated during a period of time when the building had been rented by a heterodox body called the Church of Christ that practiced the baptism of adults by total immersion. When there had been a proper carved white marble font still in place upstairs! Anabaptists! Generally speaking, heretics had no common sense at all, even aside from their theological idiosyncrasies.

Babies! Kissing babies! He winced. One had only to look at Mistress Riddle's granddaughter to realize that she would shortly be inflicting a quite unavoidable christening party upon him.

Surely, in a world absent the effects of original sin, it would have been possible for a poet to earn a living without becoming a clergyman.

Eve had a lot to answer for.

At least, the up-timers were so focused on time and time schedules that after weekday Morning Prayer, they had the good grace to depart at once—if they came at all, which most of them did not. Weekday Vespers services usually consisted of himself and Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Price Riddle, with their granddaughter assisting the old man. On Sunday, however, a person couldn't get St. Alfred's parishioners out through the doors with a shovel, as Mistress Thomas remarked with appalling good cheer every time he brought the topic up. They stayed and they ate.

Mistress Clark, undeterred by the reprovisioning of the refreshment table and the flagpole, zeroed in on him again. "So, you came in February. So what?"

Herrick raised an eyebrow. "I agreed to provide this church with regular services and sermons for a space of six months in return for my board and room while using the libraries."

"And?"

"I still plan to leave next month." Mentally, he inserted a thankful, Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation. The content of the up-time hymnals was one of the few ameliorating aspects of his stay in the up-time city. He had dropped suggestions here and there among the members of the parish that one of the hymnals would be a welcome, much-appreciated, farewell present. He should also mention to the bishop, when he got home, that a praise service dedicated to the memory, if that was the right word under the circumstances, of one Miss Catherine Winkworth, now-never-to-exist, once-upon-a-time-nineteenth-century, zealous-and-indefatigable, translator of German religious lyrics into English, might not come amiss.

He shook his head to collect his wandering thoughts.

Mistress Clark, although she had only been acquired into the parish "by marriage" as the up-timers put it, bade fair to become a most formidable organizer. "Has anyone done anything to get a replacement for you?"

"I've written to Archbishop Laud," Mistress Veleda Riddle said, manifesting from the other side of the flagpole. "Again, as I've said plenty of times before, I really want a bishop, but a person would think that now he's in exile, living off the charity of Fernando and Maria Anna in the Netherlands, he'd have at least one impoverished chaplain around who would be happy enough to come to Grantville for a while. He's very slow at answering his correspondence."

Herrick smiled politely.

If he were an archbishop, he would delay replying to letters from Mistress Riddle, too.

****

"I'm to the point that I don't care if someone is a Durchlaucht or an Erlaucht or just a plain, ordinary, everyday lout." The pen flew out of Mallory Parker's fingers and across the room.

Mary Kat Riddle caught it. "Hey, be careful. These calligraphy pens are expensive."

"You don't even have the excuse that we went to high school together for drafting me into this. I'm five whole years older. I was out before you were in."

Mary Kat laid the pen gently on the desk, next to a stack of best-quality cream-colored paper with matching envelopes. "The only excuse that I needed was that I saw you were in town for a week to visit your sisters." She grinned. "I did at least overlap in high school with Nina and Chelsea, if that counts."

Mallory leaned back. "Not to mention that I'm Methodist. We're Methodist. All of us Parker girls are Methodist. Why me, O Lord? Why not Nina and Chelsea?" She picked up the compilation of titles and appropriate forms of address that Mary Kat had borrowed from the chancery in Rudolstadt and slammed it shut. "Nor am I into diplomatic protocol."

"You'd better learn to be, since Anton wants to get promoted."

Mallory sighed and shifted uncomfortably in the swivel chair. Before she married the Rudolstadt city council's clerk, he had omitted to mention that he had ambitions to rise higher. Much higher. He had an application in with Ed Piazza's office in Bamberg. And one with the office of the secretary of state in Magdeburg.

If he got either job, she would have to quit her job teaching English in Jena.

But since she was pregnant anyway . . .

"Open the book, Mal," Mary Kat said. "Chelsea and Nina aren't on vacation. You are. Grandma's on the warpath about raising funds to renovate Grantville's dilapidated little Episcopalian church. Every envelope gets a letter; every recipient gets the proper form of address. Most illustrious, just plain illustrious, or not illustrious at all. Or a plain, ordinary, everyday lout, if he also happens to be a rich lout. They're addressed as Herr."

"I can't see that there's a desperate deadline. Seems to me that it would be easier if you all just gave up and joined the Methodists. They call us 'Methodist Episcopal' after all—or, at least, they used to, before we turned into 'United Methodist.' Will you even be having services once the temp she found goes back wherever he came from?"

"Who knows? We may be back to lay readers and prayer services. That's what we did before he came." Mary Kat, considerably more pregnant than Mallory, stood up and rubbed her lower back. "To work, minion. There are roofs to be re-shingled, cracked stained glass windows to be repaired, fresh leading for the windows to be obtained, water-damaged woodwork to be replaced, floors to be refinished, organs to be built, and therefore money to be found." She grimaced. "Not to mention grimy old asphalt siding to be removed and replaced with something more attractive, I hope."

"And your grandmother to appease."

"That, too. Be sure to hold out the letter you address to Archbishop Laud in Brussels. Grandma wants to put a personal cover letter in the envelope with it."

****

"Where's a squire when ye need one?" Thomas Welford paused on the bridge at the three-way intersection, looking along the street to where Grantville's St. Alfred the Great Episcopal Church perched at the very end, four blocks away, as far from the creek as a building could be sited without running into a shale hillside.

Richard Tomkins nodded solemnly. "Yep. Where's a squire when ye need one?"

Ordinarily, Welford and Tomkins would not have taken it upon themselves to call upon the wife of a respected barrister.

Of course, back home in Herefordshire, they would just have been very insignificant members of the parish. The squire would have worried about things like this. Or the local gentry who served as trustees of the parish endowment. Or the vicar, who was likely the squire's younger brother. Or the rural dean, who was probably the nearest baron's younger brother. Or the bishop, who might well be the nearest earl's ex-tutor.

If they had never become soldiers, they could have spent their Sunday mornings until the day they died figuring out ways to skip services in the village church without being disciplined for it by their betters.

In Grantville . . . Well, there weren't very many adherents of the Church of England.

They could have taken this as a license to skip church for the indefinite, nearly infinite, future, without the risk of incurring any discipline at all, since Grantville's authorities didn't care in the least whether or not they conformed to the established communion.

Instead, somehow, they had ended up feeling . . . sort of fond of the town's tottering little parish. Responsible for the well-being of this remote outpost of the Anglican Communion, as the up-timers called it. While it wasn't home, it was as close to home as a lad from Herefordshire was likely to find in Grantville. One of Thomas' passionate defenses of the establishment had recently gotten him into a brawl with a Scots Presbyterian at the Thuringen Gardens. It hadn't been the first time and probably wouldn't be the last time.

He shook his head, which still had a lump from the fight. "There's a downside to this up-time idea that all men are created equal. It appears to require the created to do a lot of work that they could otherwise have left to their betters."

Tomkins nodded. "That's us, now, me lad. Equal and stuck with it."

"Mr. Martin Riddle could have been more cooperative. Even if he is now of a different religious persuasion, he's still the lady's grandson. It would have been more appropriate for him to approach her. What did we get for our pains?"

"He laughed until he choked and said, 'Time to belly up to the bar, boys.'"

****

Veleda Riddle pursed her lips.

Tompkins sort of liked it when the old lady did that. When she pushed her mouth out, it made her look even more like the sheep named Ewegenia on the Brillo pamphlets. Helped a man forget that she was the wife of a highly respected barrister.

"It came to me this morning while I was shaving, Missus," Welford said. "It just came down and landed on top of my head, like the tongues of fire at Pentecost, or something. I really like that front window in the church, by the way, now that the carpenters have pulled off those old sheets of plywood that were hiding it."

"Are you sure it wasn't caused by that blow to your head?" Herrick asked.

He found a vestry board that included two common ex-mercenaries to be a very distressing phenomenon. Of course, they were doing well—far better than two sons of common farm laborers ought to be doing, if anybody in Grantville had requested his opinion on the matter, which nobody had. The parish had held a celebration—small and discreet in a time of public mourning—when Tomkins, after the anti-vaccination riot of the previous March, had been appointed "Head of Security" at the firm manufacturing the vaccine. The man had not only learned his letters but also obtained the famous "GED." During the process, he had developed an annoying mannerism of pulling his spectacles from the pocket in his doublet, carefully placing the hooked ends of the frames behind his ears, picking up the agenda of the vestry board meeting, and saying, "Humph."

The spectacles were a product of the "vision screening" to which all GED candidates in Grantville were subjected and were also the reason that the man had finally been able to learn his letters. He was all too prone to wax eloquent in regard to the epiphany the Lord granted to him when the "apprentice optometrist" handling the machines announced cheerfully, "No, you're not a dunce, whatever they told you twenty years ago. You're just farsighted. Go to McNally and get this prescription filled before you start classes."

Welford had learned to read and write, but did not yet have the "GED." One of the up-timers in the parish was tutoring him in first-year algebra, which appeared to be the sticking point. He was one of the night watchmen at the vaccine firm, but had a promise of heading a squad at the Leahy Medical Center once the GED was in hand. The commander was holding the position for him.

Why, just to command a squad of guardsmen, did the man need to know even first-year algebra? By the time the rowdy brawler—he just could not seem to pass up a fracas in his free time—passed this course, if he ever did, he would know more higher mathematics than most professors at Oxford and have no use for it at all. The up-timers' view of the necessary components of education for what some of their books called the "working class" verged upon the insane. Why didn't they just call a peasant a peasant and a laborer a laborer? It was as if, in their minds, academics and gentry did no work. Requiring the "GED candidates" to learn to swim might make some sense, but why algebra?

Herrick looked at Welford closely. Why him? Surely there must be a more appropriate candidate for promotion in this city. Hadn't St. Paul said something applicable? No. He was thinking of "neither a borrower nor a lender be," and that was from Polonius, not from Paul; from Will Shakepeare's Hamlet, not the Bible. Still, one could surely derive "neither a brawler nor a . . . some word starting with the letter 'l' . . . be" from Paul's admonitions on the necessary qualities of a bishop. Or a member of a vestry board. Couldn't one? His mind drifted toward the composition of a satirical epigram. What word would work that began with "l"? He had heard Mistress Riddle's grandson use the term "limp noodle" in conversation, but that lacked a certain poetic ambiance. Moreover, no one had been willing to provide him with a precise definition. It didn't scan, either.

It hadn't been so bad when he arrived. The vestry board had been headed by the chief justice of the SoTF Supreme Court. But then, after the election, Mr. Charles Riddle had moved to Bamberg. If the admiral and his wife were only here . . . but they were in Magdeburg, so he might as well wish for the moon. The Holcombs were in Magdeburg. Almost every up-time Episcopalian of any social distinction was . . . somewhere else.

Which left a seven-person vestry board consisting of . . . Mistress Riddle. He could think of her, if he tried hard enough, as a representative of her husband, who was becoming increasingly feeble. Mistress Wendy Thomas, from the Technical College faculty. She had been divorced, but the first husband had been left up-time, thank goodness, so he could consider her a widow. But remarried, now, to a Lutheran, which was a most undesirable state of affairs. Mr. Kitt—thank the Lord for Mr. Kitt. Mistress Christie Penzey from the high school faculty, also divorced, but with her husband thankfully left up-time, so another honorary widow. Mr. Edgerton, also from the high school faculty but, alas, like Thomas Riddle, far from young. And two rather crude ex-mercenaries.

Rather crude? He took a mental red pen to his composition. Very crude.

A vestry board on which there were women? Almost as many women as men? Herrick shuddered. If Mistress Thomas could be induced to resign in favor of her brother, who was also an academic, husband of the overenthusiastic coffee purveyor . . . Yes, that might work. That left the problem of Mistress Penzey. Who else was there who might replace her? Mr. Clark, perhaps, though he was young for such a responsible position and away so much of the time . . .

Well, he was going back to England, so it wasn't his problem any more. Herrick dragged his attention back to the conversation.

"We've been to that village in Gloucestershire once," Tomkins said more practically. "With the cowpox people. So we know how to get there. And how to get back with a group of people in tow, if Vicar Barneby is willing to come with us, which is more to the point. If we leave now, we can get there before winter. If we leave now, we can get back with them before winter, and then St. Alfred's won't have to depend on visiting priests who come to see the libraries and are willing to hold services for a while, but spend more time in their homilies reciting poetry than they do quoting the Bible."

He gave Herrick a rather fishy eye. "Not that you haven't improved the way we speak," he added grudgingly. "We know many more words now than we did a few months ago, not to speak of a few years ago. Not that most of them come in handy for anything practical."

Mistress Riddle raised her eyebrows. "What makes you think that Mr. Barneby would be willing to come?"

"Uh," Welford said. "Well."

That was the problem with sudden inspirations. It was hard to explain why you thought they would work.

One of the problems, anyway.

"Vicar Barneby seemed like a very fine man," Tomkins said. "His wife seemed to be a very good lady. They have five children. If they bring their servants, too . . ." He beamed. "It would practically double the size of the regular attendance at our services."

"That's not," Welford grumped, "why the idea came to me." The eye he gave Herrick was more evil than fishy. "One thing, though, Vicar. You stay put until we get back. No haring off for greener pastures 'til we find someone to take your place."

"We should write Vicar Barneby . . ." Veleda started.

"What's the point?" Tomkins asked. "We can get there as fast as a letter can. Just write it and we'll take it with us. Anyway, even if a letter might get there first if you sent it as far as Amsterdam by air post, there's no point in giving Barneby and his wife time to think up reasons to refuse. That's not the result we want. It's a lot harder to say 'no' to someone's face."

Herrick smiled suddenly. "Mistress Riddle."

"Yes?"

He looked at Welford and Tomkins. "May I suggest that we bring in front of the vestry a proposal to divert enough of the funds now on hand for the purposes of renovation to send . . ." He paused. ". . . to send these gentlemen themselves as far as Brussels by air post. It would save considerable time, so perhaps I would be able to depart as scheduled."

Tomkins turned white.

"But the building . . ." Veleda sputtered.

Tomkins looked at her hopefully.

"Ah," Herrick said piously.

He'd heard Mary Kat call it his "stained glass voice." She had loaned him a very irreverent book with the title How to Become a Bishop without Being Religious. Irreverent, and it dealt with Methodist heretics, but still, the sheer practicality of many of its recommendations had been . . . eerily accurate . . . such as the advantages that a young clergyman derived from marrying a girl who wanted to marry a minister and the even greater advantages that came with marrying a girl who had an impressive dowry . . . ideally, by marrying one who combined both qualities.

"Ah," he said again. He looked at the ceiling. "But is it not more important to ensure that the flock is fed with the Word of God than to worry about their having a well-fenced pasture?"

She frowned.

"Anyway," he said briskly, "we can send a round-robin letter to the absent parishioners who are prospering—prospering very well—in their diaspora, explaining the situation and requesting a special contribution to replenish the fund."

Slowly, she nodded. "We should send them via Brussels, though, not Amsterdam. That way, they can speak directly to Archbishop Laud about the parish's concerns."

Welford turned as white as Tomkins.

Where was a squire when ye really needed him?

Brussels, The Low Countries, late July 1635

William Laud had only himself to blame. He had asked his secretary to locate, sort by date of arrival, annotate, and deliver to his desk a compilation of all the requests he had received from Mistress Veleda Riddle of Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia, since their arrival in Brussels.

This would not be complete, of course, but under the circumstances of his departure from the Tower of London, no one could blame him for having left the earlier ones behind in the archdiocesan archives in Westminster.

He tapped his fingers on the desk.

Thomas Wentworth did not have to display quite such a level of hilarity over the idea that a building no older than Grantville's St. Alfred the Great Episcopal Church (constructed in 1897 and thus barely more than a century old at the time of the Ring of Fire) might merit funds for something called historical preservation.

His secretary—William Dell had made his own dramatic escape from London in order to join his employer in exile—was responding with even more hilarity in regard to the enclosed pamphlet (illegally liberated from the Grantville City Hall's archives; please be so kind as to return it) describing the up-time National Trust for Historic Preservation and another (illegally liberated from the Grantville City Hall's archives, but we have quite a few copies, so you can keep it) describing the up-time West Virginia State Historic Preservation Office.

These pamphlets asserted that any building over fifty years old counted as historical up-time. Mistress Riddle derived from these an extensive argument that in a properly organized world, St. Alfred's should be eligible for federal matching funds, if only it had any funds on hand for the federal government to match.

"I believe," Wentworth commented, "that to the best of my knowledge, the parliament of the United States of Europe has had more urgent calls on its time than the maintenance of historical buildings. If the up-timers are so solicitous of historically significant structures, why did they blow up the Wartburg?"

"I believe," Dell said, "upon the basis of several close readings of the material . . ." He cleared his throat. "I believe that it was their general propensity to blow up historically significant buildings that led to the passage of this legislation. Can you even imagine a world in which structures were replaced so quickly that one that endured a half-century was considered to have attained a significant age?"

Laud picked up another broadsheet. "What is a 'New Deal' and why is it important that they have a mural from it in their post office? For that matter, what is a 'Preserve America mini-grant'?" He handed it over to Thomas.

Wentworth looked at the illustration dubiously. The shiny paper was of marvelous hardness and astounding whiteness; the colors of the reproduction were superb. Why had anyone gone to the trouble? "The muralist, presumably, was a local amateur," he commented. Frowning, he looked at it again. "What are these mechanical devices pictured in it?"

"I have no idea," Dell answered. "But I am quite certain that we barely have enough money to pay next month's rent on our quarters here in Brussels and certainly not enough to repair this Mistress Riddle's church building. Shall I draft a refusal? Polite of course, with a recommendation that she would do better to seek a wealthier patron?"

Laud nodded. "That's the first pile. Now as to the second . . . she wants a bishop?"

"If we didn't need our diplomatic contacts here in the Low Countries," Wentworth commented, "we could always move to Grantville ourselves and provide her with one slightly tattered Archbishop of Canterbury for her greater convenience."

"When she first presented her request, the main reason was that she perceived a need for there to be someone on the continent who could ordain clergy. For now—although, I most sincerely hope, not for long—that is scarcely an issue, since I am on the continent and can perform any needed ordinations myself. Still, because I hope that our sojourn will not be long, there is some merit to the request. Grantville by itself certainly isn't large enough to deserve a bishop, but it might be feasible to appoint a bishop to cover the entire Anglican diaspora in the United States of Europe."

"In partibus infidelium, I presume," Wentworth commented sardonically.

Near Gloucester, England, July 1635

William Barneby drew up his horse, handed the reins to his groom (who was also the family's gardener, general man-of-all-work, and footman). Dick Badger fell well into the category of "jack of all trades and master of none," or, at least, not quite master of any, but he was willing, cheerful, and strong, which made up for a lot of other lacks. Will the Younger hopped off the sturdy Welsh pony they had borrowed from Squire Albright for this expedition to the cathedral town.

Grace came out and kissed them both, the younger children trailing in her wake. "Is it good news? Is he accepted?"

Her voice was a little anxious. They were far from wealthy. If Young Will, with his angelic voice, could become a chorister at the cathedral, his education would be assured and they could husband their resources for the schooling of Benedict who, alackaday, croaked like a bullfrog, even at the age of eight.

"Accepted," Barneby said. "But. . . ." He looked around. Dick had a lot of gossips at the village tavern and the girls might chatter with their friends when they went to take lessons with the governess that Squire Albright employed for his daughters. They would mean no harm, but Mistress Warren was inclined to repeat all that she heard. "Later." He nodded toward the house.

Grace turned and led the way into the hall. The stone-built vicarage was old-fashioned. It had stood for well over two centuries and might well have sufficed for a celibate Papist vicar before the reforms of King Henry. She wished she had a modern parlor into which she could welcome her friends without having everyone else passing through on errands. The four chambers were not adequate, although Dick slept over the stable and Betty in the loft. William had taken one for his study; they shared one, the boys shared one, and the girls shared one. If guests came to stay, she and William had to give up their chamber for the sake of hospitality and sleep on cots in the hall. The kitchen, cellar, and brewhouse were in a separate building and she should not complain, because apart from Squire Albright's manor house, it was certainly the largest and most comfortable in the village.

With a nod, Barneby dispatched Dick to the stables. With another nod, Grace dispatched Betty to the kitchen. She told Young Will to change and take the other children out to the kitchen garden to weed, since weeding was a task never done.

"Accepted." Barneby resumed the conversation they had started outside.

"But?"

"But I am not certain that I want him there. The bishop . . ."

"What has Godfrey Goodman done now?"

"His tendencies toward Papistry are becoming more and more pronounced. Not in superficial things such as Archbishop Laud encouraged, such as the vestments and music. Those are, ultimately, adiaphoral, which is what the Puritans fail to understand. Goodman is deviating from the Thirty-Nine Articles in matters of doctrine and faith. While I am far from counting myself as a Puritan and like an afternoon of bowls and archery after the Sunday service as well as any man. . . ."

Grace nodded. "There is such a thing as a proper balance. A good, sturdy, Anglican faith is what England needs. But where else can we place him? Gloucester is near enough that he could come home regularly. Worcester? The King's School is there for the choristers and Thomas Tomkins is a truly outstanding musician."

Barneby shook his head in the negative. "With all due respect to Thomas Tomkins, there is the matter of the bishop. I will place no son of mine under a man who may well have committed bigamy."

Grace smiled. Bishop Thornborough's tangled matrimonial history, with a divorce case of scandalous proportions in York while he was dean of the cathedral there and his taking a second wife in Ireland while he was bishop of Limerick there with the first still alive in England, had provided the ladies of the region's gentry with much entertainment, even if it all happened thirty years in the past and the man had married and buried a third wife since then—he being her third husband as well. It was all as fresh as ever in the recollection of Squire Albright's widowed mother. Her eyes would gleam as she recited, "And then the second wife was accused of providing the poisons that the Countess of Somerset used to poison Sir Thomas Overbury, and . . ."

But . . . She pulled her thoughts together "You're quite right. In any case, he is much too inclined to tolerate the Puritans. Bishop Thornborough enjoys saying that he has outlived several men who expected to succeed him in his see. If the old man isn't careful, he will find that he has outlived his diocese and will see his cathedral vandalized, his choir abolished, and the organ torn to pieces by fanatics before he dies. So not Worcester. But, where?"

Barneby stood up. "God will find a way, Grace. And I have a sermon to prepare." He kissed her absently and headed for the small chamber where he kept his books safely away from a rambunctious household full of small children.

She watched him until he closed the door and then started to see how the children were doing in the garden. But instead of starting down the path, she leaned against the gate, watching them.

God was causing life to contain so many repetitions of "but" since the appearance of the visitors from Grantville who had come looking for cowpox and departed with vials of horse pox two years earlier. She would never have thought that the pamphlets about such things as clean water would cause such concern. It was not because anyone objected to clean water. Even in rural England, there were proverbs that presumed a reasonable level of cleanliness.

In the morning when ye rise

Wash your hands, and cleanse your eyes,

Next be sure ye have a care,

To disperse the water farre.

For as farre as that doth light,

So farre keepes the evil spright.

But that was sheer superstition. There were no sprites, no fairies, elves, brownies, or gnomes to be kept away by tossing a pan of water or attracted by serving a saucer of milk.

Both the bishop's officials and king's, from the lord lieutenant down to Squire Albright as the local justice of the peace, had taken undue interest in the pamphlets brought by the vaccine hunters. So far, all was well, but if they tried to place Will at a cathedral farther away than Gloucester, where they were still comfortably secure because the persons in authority knew them well, it would bring down more attention, probably from strangers, very possibly with less favorable outcomes.

They would have to do something. But what? Go someplace. But where?

But when? The answer to that was, soon.

But who would have them? But how would they get there?

She didn't even have to ask herself—But why?

The pamphlets came from Grantville, after all. The men who now controlled the king, since Her Majesty's much-grieved death and His Majesty's unfortunate injury, did not care for items and ideas that came from Grantville.

Everyone in the vicarage, right down to Betty—everyone who had met the travelers, even poor little Peter and his father who had been called in and interviewed—was . . . What did the pamphlets say about smallpox? Contagious. What did they call unclean water? Contaminated.

What did Grantville's pamphlets say about the source of contamination?

Find it and eliminate it.

It was only a matter of time before someone, somewhere, drew the logical conclusion from that recommendation.

Brussels, August 1635

". . . two members of the vestry board of St. Alfred the Great Episcopal Church in Grantville," Dell said as he escorted the two men into Archbishop Laud's overly-small study.

In the course of the next hour, Welford and Tomkins gave the three men gathered there a rather shocking introduction to new-time Episcopalianism, in Grantville of the here and now, as viewed from the hop fields and orchards of Herefordshire and the battlefields of the continent. Somehow, the communications from Mistress Riddle had omitted to mention that she actually served on the vestry board, as did other women from the up-time.

Laud had assumed that she stood to the parish in the role of a prominent benefactor, which was, of course, quite acceptable. He had never heard of a parish that was loath to accept benefactions from wealthy women.

But for a woman to be not a patroness of the church, but one of its administrators . . . ?

"St. Alfred's was built originally by a nineteenth-century coal baron who immigrated to the United States of America from Cornwall, with his own private funds," Tomkins said.

"I thought that the up-timers did not have barons."

"It's just what Herrick would call a figure of speech," Welford answered. "They didn't have titles of nobility. It just means that he was rich as hell."

"Like a squire," Tomkins added helpfully.

"Rich-as-hell and made his money from coal mines. Most of the rich-as-hell people who used to live in Grantville did. They also had 'railroad barons.' The up-timers, I mean. 'Cattle barons.' Umm . . . Any others?"

"Not that I can think of." Welford grinned. "His wife, they say, was very pious. The coal baron's wife, I mean. Now, there's come to be something else on my mind, most respectfully speaking, that Mistress Riddle has not directed me to say."

A concerned look crossed Tompkins' face. This had not been planned in advance. Welford's sudden inspirations were becoming worrisome.

"About schools . . ."

A half hour later, Welford waved his hand. "The way the Dutchies do it, you know."

The handwave was broad enough that it clearly encompassed not only the Netherlanders—Dutch in civilized English—but the ramshackle Germans—Deutsch, as they called themselves.

"How?" Wentworth asked with some curiosity.

"Well, they do it with a school in every parish—just enough schooling that the children learn their letters and numbers." Tomkins frowned. "That won't work in England. The parishes are too big, and quite a few of them are in the wrong spots. There are churches where people used to live a long time ago, way back in history, and no churches where a lot of people live now."

Welford grinned. "'Follow the money,' as they say in the detective stories. If it has an endowment, then it has a clergyman. If not, not. Ye gentlemen and lords"—he nodded at Wentworth—"aren't likely to send your younger sons into a position that won't support them in the style they want."

Wentworth squirmed uneasily.

"Ye need more sons of poor men going to the universities and becoming clergy," Welford plowed on. "Ye need more scholarships, more grammar schools such as young King Edward of lamented memory founded. Had he only lived . . ."

"So what do you suggest?"

"A school in every village. Make the parents send their children, girls as well as boys. How ye make them do it, I can't tell ye. Among the Dutchies"—Tomkins waved again—"'tis the city councils and gentry that force the farmers to send their sons and daughters. In England, 'tis the gentry who want to keep us unlearned. Ye've got to make the squires make the farmers do it until it's just a . . . custom, like it is in the Germanies. Once that's done, we can discuss the building of more grammar schools."

"Daughters!" Laud sputtered.

"Daughters." Welford grinned maliciously. "Ye should visit Grantville, Your Excellency. Mistress Riddle is not alone. There are many more like her. Many more to follow in her footsteps. Mistress Clark, for one." The grin reached his ears and his hairline. "Ye should meet the lady I hope to wed once this task is done."

"Lady?" Wentworth quirked his mouth.

"In Grantville, they're all ladies unless they don't act like ladies." Welford paused. "It's not like back home."

"What is Mistress Riddle like?" Laud asked.

"Past eighty years old, they say," Tomkins began.

Laud's expression brightened at the thought that this nemesis might not continue to harass him for many more years. His cheer did not survive the next comments.

"But a lady of good health and great energy. She is, as they say there, very well preserved."

Tomkins nodded. "Much better preserved than St. Alfred's. Of course, she was not so neglected during her middle years, nor allowed to fall into decay."

Laud sighed and picked up the funding request. The purpose of the audience he had granted to the two unlikely vestrymen was to discuss that—not these other, most unsettling, concepts.

Grantville, August 1635

". . . a reasonable number of contributions for the renovation project as a result of the last set of letters," Veleda reported with satisfaction. She beamed at Vicar Herrick, Christie Penzey, Wendy Thomas, and Marshall Kitt. "Now about the christening . . ."

Herrick did not wince. Mistress Riddle's granddaughter had produced a son the previous evening. By the wonders of radio, the child's father, off in the Rhineland, had determined the infant's name, to include that of both grandfathers.

Nasty continental influence, that. It was one thing for these Germans to baptize babies with double and triple names, but in England, they received one. One. John, Richard, or Henry. Agnes, Alice, or Joan. One Christian name was quite enough. The Grantville up-timers were a mongrel lot of foreigners, of course. How could a pack of immigrants from everywhere between Norway and the western coast of Africa regard themselves as being descended from a set of English colonies?

Mistress Hawkins, the French teacher, had told him a "colonialist joke," about up-time children from Algiers and Morocco, in the midst of the twentieth century, sitting in their schoolrooms and reciting, "Nos ancêtres les Gaulois," the first line of their introductory history textbook.

It wasn't that funny.

Nevertheless. He would pass young Charles Roger Utt across the font on Sunday morning with all the courtesy he could muster.

Mistress Mary Kat wanted to ask her friend Mallory Parker, the wife of the Rudolstadt city clerk, to stand as the godmother, but the woman was a heretic. How could one ask a heretic to vow before God to see to the religious training of a child in a different faith than her own should he lose his parents?

The Clarks would be godparents. The christening would occur in proper form.

Which would be followed by food.

And by coffee. The inevitable coffee. Why not sack?

He wondered how well Tomkins and Welford were succeeding in Gloucestershire.

****

The father, a heretic, wasn't present at the christening party. He was assisting with an effort to contain the spread of black plague, somewhere in the Rhineland. The grandparents weren't at the christening party. They were in Bamberg, that being the new capital of the State of Thuringia-Franconia. The great-grandparents were present, with one uncle, also a heretic, and his family. The father's sister had moved to Magdeburg, taking her children, to join her husband, whom Herrick had never met. She, too, in any case, was a heretic.

What would it be like for the child to have such a small body of relatives?

Herrick had been not even three when his father cast himself from an upstairs window and died of the fall. Not that the event had made much difference to him at the time, since he was still placed out to nurse and far too young to understand the rapid legal maneuvers by which his uncles managed to avoid a verdict of suicide and the consequent confiscation of his property as a self-murderer. His mother had taken his sister and the baby to live with one of her sisters and then remarried, but he had scarcely been lonely. When he was old enough, he and his brothers grew up in his Uncle William's house. With eleven cousins. Plus the cousins provided by his other ten Herrick aunts and uncles. Plus the relatives on the Stone side—all of the Soames and all of the Campions. In a London townhouse. An ample townhouse, by London standards. A chaotic pit of hell by any other. His tiny room at Oxford had come none too soon to save his sanity. A man could live far more content amid a few good friends, whom one saw when one chose, than amid a seething mass of relatives.

Or a seething mass of parishioners. One of the up-timers had quoted a proverb to him. "You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your relatives."

You couldn't choose your parishioners, either.

There was Mudge, back in Dean Prior.

Mudge every morning to the postern comes,

His teeth all out, to rinse and wash his gums.

Horne, back in Dean Prior.

Horne sells to others teeth; but has not one

To grace his own Gums .

Personally, he had a toothache today. He would set up an appointment with the dentist tomorrow. It wouldn't be long before he left Grantville, so indulging himself in a prudent amount of up-time tooth repair shouldn't be postponed.

Just why was he planning to return to Dean Prior?

Oh, yes. The income that supported him.

The infant's great grandfather pulled himself upright with his walker and raised one hand to propose a toast.

    How many more weddings and christenings would he have to attend before he died? The population of Dean Prior was about four hundred persons, total. Of those, perhaps half were children or elderly. Two hundred persons made one hundred couples. Couples or potential couples, since some adults were currently unmarried. Say, sixty married couples. Weddings, perhaps two to four a year. Those always had parties. Baptisms, perhaps twenty per year. Funerals with wakes, perhaps ten in a normal non-plague year. One of the few good things that could be said of plague, perhaps, was that there were no wakes for those who died of plague. The up-time encyclopedias said that he would live almost forty more years. . . .

How many toasts did that make?

How many of those toasts would be proposed by Mudge?

He raised his own glass to wish young Charles Roger Utt a prosperous future.

Gloucestershire, August 1635

"They're back," Peter said, catching himself with one hand on the doorpost of the vicarage kitchen.

Betty looked up from the hearth. The urchin was panting. His face was flushed, his bare feet were muddy. It was raining—again—so his hair was drooping over his ears.

"Who?"

"The cowpox hunters. Not all of them. Just the two Herefordshire men. I saw them in the village."

"If you saw them, then so did everyone else. Not everyone, maybe. But everyone who saw them will have run off by now to tell the rest."

"I need to go on and tell Pa."

She handed him a mutton turnover. "Run by Squire Albright's first and make sure you tell him directly. I'll go in and let the vicar know."

He swallowed two bites before he turned around.

Betty let the vicar's lady know. Mistress Barneby could handle telling the vicar.

****

Richard Tomkins looked at the group gathered in the vicarage orchard.

There wasn't room for them all in the house.

Barneby had said that he didn't want to use the church. Not for this discussion. It didn't feel right.

Tomkins and Welford presented the offer from the Grantville parish, with a cover letter signed by Archbishop Laud himself.

If, the squire pointed out, he was still an archbishop.

"He is in the eyes of God," Tomkins said. "He was consecrated. A king can't undo that. He can take away the temporalities of his see, but he can't take away that God's made him into a prophet. Like Elisha. Or was that Elijah? Jezebel could persecute him, but he was still a prophet of God."

"Not to mention," a voice called from the back of the little crowd, "that God sent Harry Lefferts to save him from the Tower. With fireworks as bright, from all I've heard, as any lightning that Elijah called down on the priest of Baal. Who, it sounds like to me, are on their way here. Or, probably, first to Gloucester and then to here."

"That's what it amounts to," Squire Albright said. He rubbed his hands together, not around and around as if he were wringing out wash, but briskly up and down, as if he was dusting them off. "I can do some things—a few things—to slow down any circuit riders they send out from London. But I can't stop them from coming, nor persuade them what to think after they've come. I'm sorry, Barneby, but since these men"—he waved at Tomkins and Welford—"have returned, it's all too likely that they'll reach the conclusion that you've been corresponding with the enemy all along. They'll be bringing soldiers with them, since that's the finding they expect to make, even before they start to hear the evidence."

"How can we prove that we haven't? We've had nothing to do with the Grantvillers all this time and didn't know that Tomkins and Welford were coming again?"

"Ye can't," Welford interjected. "Something I learned in the GED classes. Algebra and such-like. Ye can't prove a negative."

Barneby opened his mouth.

"S'true," Tomkins said. "That's why to make a case in court, there, you have to have enough evidence to persuade the jury that the criminal did it. They figure that even if he didn't do it, there's no way a man can prove he's innocent. He can claim an alibi, but unless he was singing a hymn in plain sight of the judge, in which case he wouldn't be charged, well . . . Everyone knows that friends will lie for each other. I don't think that a 'reasonable doubt' plea will work with Boyle's lackeys."

"Before they came . . ." Grace Barneby also waved a hand at Tomkins and Welford. "Before they came, already, I was asking myself when. I didn't finish it even in my mind to ask when we would leave, but when we would do—whatever had to be done. I was asking myself where we would go—when the time came to do whatever it was. Who would be willing to receive us. How we would get there, how we would live. I thought about the Netherlands. If King Charles hadn't sold the American colonies to the French, I would have thought about Massachusetts."

Barneby stared at her.

"You don't have time, Mr. Barneby," she said. She might call him William in private, even term him 'my dearest and most darling Willikin' in enthusiastic moments when they were alone, but it would be disrespectful of his office to do so in front of other people.

"You don't have time to think out into the distance. You have to think about the work you do, while you're doing it. Sermons don't write themselves and you have to pay attention to getting the right verses in place and such. Putting up plum preserves from morning to evening on a long summer day leaves a person's mind emptier. Open to considering different possibilities."

Barneby nodded slowly. He had never put up plum preserves, but he had picked plums often enough as a boy. Plums, apples, pears, damsons. It did leave the mind free to consider other things. Things such as, in his case, getting a scholarship like his older brother Henry and doing something other than spending the remainder of his mortal days picking fruit in the orchards.

He looked around. If they left, he would miss the benefits of those carefully preserved plums.

God had placed the parable of the rich fool in the twelfth chapter of the book of Luke just for men who harbored such thoughts. How often had he preached on it? Perhaps an abundance of plum preserves in the pantry was not quite the same as having "no room where to bestow my fruits," but it represented an excessive attachment to material things, nonetheless. And Squire Albright was clearly warning that if he now chose to remain here, take his ease, "eat, drink, and be merry," he was all too likely that the king's men, if not God directly, would ensure that, "this night thy soul shall be required of thee: then whose shall those things be, which thou hast provided?" And he would be that fool.

Not just on his own behalf, but for Grace and the children. It was unlikely they would receive mercy.

Everyone had heard of the treatment meted out to Oliver Cromwell's family. Cromwell was just a simple country squire himself when that happened. Not a powerful threat to the Stuarts in any way.

"So is he that layeth up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God."

He nodded decisively.

"I accept your offer, gentlemen. And given that we have no royal license to remove ourselves out of the kingdom, it would probably be prudent for us to leave as soon as possible."

"I'm coming with ye," Betty said.

Dick Badger stepped up next to her. "Aye."

"Us," Peter's father said. He nodded at Welford. "If the likes of him can study as deeply as any university man, if Tomkins there can learn the law, why not my sons, too?"

By the time the village sorted itself out, Welford was griping that they hadn't expected to be moving half the neighborhood, and there was no way that everyone and their gear would fit onto the little boat that had brought the pair of them into Bristol.

"My cousin," the vicar said suddenly. "My mother's nephew. If he isn't in port when we get Bristol—he's married to a Dutch woman and goes back and forth along the coast, so he probably won't be—there will be captains who know him enough to trust that we will pay. He has two half-brothers on his mother's side who are fishermen and three half-sisters who are married to seamen as well."

Squire Albright smiled a little sourly. "God will provide, eh, Vicar? Ye go and leave me here with the mess."

"Come along," Grace suggested.

"Nay. It should not be that bad. In any case, as my uncle who did so well for himself in the cloth trade in Worcester used to say each time that his brother-in-law sailed off for the Levant, 'Someone has to stay home to mind the store.'"

Grantville, August 1635

It was a memorial service, Herrick told himself firmly.

He was not conducting a Christian funeral for a heretic whom he had never met.

He was bringing comfort to Mistress Riddle's granddaughter, whose husband had died in the service of his country.

Mary Kathryn Riddle was a faithful member of the Anglican Communion.

She was also the widow of Derek Utt, the deceased.

The up-timers were taking with entirely unsuitable enthusiasm to the foreign continental custom by which women did not, as they should, assume their husband's name at marriage.

It had been a perfectly legal, valid, and sacramental marriage while it lasted, though.

He had checked.

With the up-timers, he had learned, it never did to take anything for granted.

They were using the church building that belonged to the Methodist heretics, because so many people wished to attend.

That was better, in all truth. It made it even more a memorial and less a service of Christian burial.

There were other memorial services for the man, elsewhere, being conducted simultaneously. The one in Bamberg was being conducted by a layman, Mistress Riddle's son, the chief justice of the supreme court of the state of Thuringia-Franconia. By the dead man's father-in-law.

There was no ordained Anglican minister in Bamberg.

The one in Magdeburg was being conducted by a Methodist heretic, also a layman.

There was no ordained Anglican minister in Magdeburg.

He looked across the chancel.

The organist was Roman Catholic, and female.

He gritted his teeth. It's a memorial service, he told himself again.

Men had been called upon to do worse things than this in the service of the Church of England since the days of the eighth King Henry.

English Channel, August 1635

The waves were choppy.

Richard Tomkins was cheerfully not seasick.

William Barneby was quite the reverse. Seasick and wretched. He had sailed with his cousin at times, but never out of sight of the coast. Never on a fishing boat permeated by the odor of cod oil.

Grace's brother, Augustine Ashmead, who had appeared on the dock in Bristol as if this journey had been planned well in advance, held Barneby's head.

"S'alright, Vicar," Welford assured him. "Tomkins is fine now, but just wait until we get on board the plane. You should have seen him between Grantville and Brussels."

"Plane?" If it had been possible, Barneby would have turned greener.

"Just you and your household. The rest of these hangers-on will have to find their own way beyond Amsterdam, no matter how deeply Ashmead here is convinced that the Grantville high school needs a teacher of classical Greek and it is his destiny to supply that need."

Ashmead cocked his head. "If we take a boat all the way, up the Rhine and then as far as possible up the Main and the Kinzig, I understand we should arrive in time for the start of the fall semester."

"You understand from whom?"

"Why, that would be telling."

Grantville, late August 1635

Robert Herrick turned around to wave goodbye.

At this point, it couldn't hurt to be polite just once more. He had survived the farewell pulled pork barbecue, not without some stomach pains resulting from the sauce. He was on the trolley. The trolley would take him to the train. The train would take him some distance before he had to rent a horse which he would ride until he could get upon a boat, which would get him as close as possible to Brussels.

He would rather have gone by way of Amsterdam, but the vestry board had given him a sheaf of papers, a number of verbal remonstrances to be delivered to Archbishop Laud, and a little extra money in addition to the much desired, possibly even much coveted, up-time hymnal about which he had dropped so many hints. Discreet hints, he hoped. So.

Symbolically, he should shake the dust of Grantville from his sandals.

Practically, he was wearing a pair of very well-made and highly polished Calagna and Bauer boots, so the gesture didn't seem very appropriate.

Veleda Riddle waved in return. Then she took William Barneby by the elbow and said, "I've scheduled a vestry board meeting at 4:00 p.m., so we'll have plenty of light in the fellowship room. We've been having some problems with the wiring at St. Alfred's, so the electricity is turned off for the time being. I don't want to risk having the whole building burn down after all the work we've done. That will affect the overall estimates in the restoration budget, of course."

She shoved a packet into his hands. "You'll have just enough time to familiarize yourself with it before the meeting."

The plane from Amsterdam, called the Monster and monstrous it truly was, a modern leviathan, had encountered some delays. By the time it got into Grantville, Tomkins and Welford had hurried him to the trolley station barely in time to see his predecessor's departing face.

He had no idea where Grace and the children were.

He had no idea when he would find out.

Two women hurried onto the platform. One threw her arms around Tomkins. The other threw her arms around Welford.

"Ah," Tomkins said. "Our fiancées, Vicar. Meet Misty and Jessica. They will be in need of instruction. Misty is Welford's. Misty Zeppi. She's a beautician. Her family's Italian, or they were before they came to America. She's a Roman Catholic. She's divorced. Jessica's mine. She's never belonged to any church, so you'll have to start by baptizing her."

Barneby made a slightly strangled sound.

"She's a drill sergeant," Tomkins announced proudly. "At least, she used to be. Now she's adjutant of the SoTF forces training battalion?"

Barneby recovered and greeted both of them.

"Aye," Tomkins continued, squaring his shoulders with obvious pride. "Her name is Jessica Hollering and she deserves the name. She can yell louder than any drill sergeant I ever met while I was in the army. We'll be back for the vestry meeting."

The four of them vanished.

"What," Barneby asked Mistress Riddle, "is a 'beautician'?"

Drill sergeant was a concept well within his grasp.

A massively tall and blond young man came dashing up to Mistress Riddle and, without waiting for introductions, shook Barneby's hand. "Hi, I'm Dane."

"You are Danish? Like the late King James' queen?"

"No, not a Dane. Dane. That's my name. I get that question a lot these days. Dad's assigned me to show you around. He's on the vestry board. My wife Jailyn's getting your wife and kids organized at the house we rented for you. If you don't like it, we'll look for something else, but Herrick was perching in one of the Riddles' guest rooms and we figured that wouldn't work for a family."

****

Barneby arrived promptly at 4:00 courtesy of the carillon in the tower of what he did not yet recognize as the middle school. In the interval, he had recovered his family and been presented with a colored map of the town and surrounding area.

"What," he had asked Dane, "is a Chamber of Commerce? Or, at least, why is it donating expensive maps to newcomers rather than engaging in commerce?"

There were several people in the room. The man of middle years, by elimination, had to be Dane's father. There was an elderly man. In addition to Mistress Riddle, there were two other women.

Tomkins and Welford grinned broadly.

"We may have left a few things out of the letter we took along when we went to fetch you," Tomkins said.

It occurred to Barneby that in his brief glimpse of Herrick as the trolley bore him away from Grantville, his predecessor had been smiling as broadly as the two Herefordshire men were at this very moment.

Brussels, late August 1635

Robert Herrick swallowed hard.

The exiled archbishop of Canterbury forged onward, leaving no opportunity for interruptions or objections. "Truly, I think our friend Wentworth's suggestion in regard to this is inspired, since you have the necessary diplomatic background from your time as chaplain on the Duke of Buckingham's 1628 expedition, not to mention that you already have experience in dealing with the up-timers. They, in turn, should welcome you as a choice because your father was a working goldsmith rather than a noble lord. You were apprenticed to the trade yourself, under your uncle, and did not go up to Cambridge until the age that most students are preparing to leave, but nonetheless, you are university educated and have spent several years in a parish. Your brother's contacts will be important in the merchant community on the northern coastal cities—not to mention the Cavrianis. Yet, since your uncle has been knighted, you will be acceptable to the majority of those Englishmen of gentle birth who are serving the King of Sweden, as well."

William Laud leaned back and smiled. "Just be grateful that I am not assigning the remainder of the European continent to your jurisdiction as well. Thomas suggested it, but that would involve a truly immense amount of travel."

Herrick blanched. Yes, he had pastoral experience, and not only in Grantville. During the last few years before he came to the continent again, stuck away in a country parish in "loathed Devonshire" in the diocese of Exeter, he had longed for London. He had not, however, longed to become rector of a London parish, discussing roof repairs with a vestry board. He had longed to move once more in the city's sophisticated literary circles, among the other writers who considered themselves to be the "Sons of Ben." Writing the occasional scathing epigram about one's somnolent and inattentive parishioners was nowhere nearly as satisfactory.

"Grantville . . ." he began tentatively. There were salons in Grantville. Interesting visitors.

"Magdeburg," Wentworth said firmly.

Herrick closed his mouth. Magdeburg might not be so bad. It surely couldn't rain more there than it did on the edge of Dartmoor, "the dull confines of the drooping West," and the capital of the United States of Europe would certainly have fewer sheep than Devonshire. There was some hope that in Magdeburg he could create a parish board whose members included Admiral Simpson . . . whose wife was a patron of the arts . . . and . . . he wouldn't have to worry about tenants on the glebe farm. There wouldn't even be a glebe farm. No, perhaps it would not be so bad.

Even though it was certain that the men who now controlled the king would not allow the export of his other annual forty pounds of income that came as interest on his inheritance. They hadn't allowed it when he left, which was why he had taken the parlous little support offered by St. Alfred's. They were unlikely to change their minds. Some groveling sycophant of the Royal Almoner. . .

What about churchwardens? Was there a building available? One would scarcely need them if there was no church fabric for them to maintain. Overseers of the poor? Who cared for the poor in Magdeburg? In Grantville, it had not been the responsibility of the parish . . . In any case, he was not gifting Laud with the hymnal, now. It would hold a place of honor as the first item in his new cathedral library.

When his mind came back to the conversation, Laud was saying, "Of course, there is no endowment to support such an office, but I will attempt to raise funds to at least match the income you have been drawing from the parish of Dean Prior, since it will be necessary for you to resign that living. Or, perhaps, not necessary. Since you received it in the king's gift, Charles may very well simply take it back once he finds out that you have accepted an appointment from me."

Match the measly little income from Dean Prior? Forty pounds per year? Forty pounds disposable, at least—there were obligations such as the curate's salary that nibbled away at the gross. For a bishop? Had the archbishop ever stopped to think just why he had found himself taking that temporary appointment at St. Alfred the Great to support his months in Grantville?

"What about Greene, my curate?"

"He who does most of the work?" Wentworth smirked. "Fills out the church registers, signs them, sends them to the bishop every year? At least you are not being as difficult as the famous bishop of Hippo whose would-be flock had to drag him into the cathedral by his heels to get him consecrated, while he screamed and tried to get a saving grasp on each pillar he passed as his head and shoulders bumped along on the floor. When we speak of a vocation, that's what I perceive as a genuine matter of being called into the service of the Lord as opposed to volunteering."

Laud frowned. "Behave yourself, Thomas." He turned his eyes back to Herrick. "I will do what I can do see that he is not deprived. Perhaps your friend Weekes can undertake something on his behalf, since he is a Devonshire man."

Laud, or perhaps Dell, seemed to have prepared an answer for every objection that Herrick could raise.

And as if that was not bad enough . . .

The archbishop's eyes twinkled. "Now. Next. One of the biblical qualifications for a bishop is that he be the husband of one wife (1 Timothy 3:2), which implies that you should acquire a suitable wife with more than deliberate speed."

Herrick countered that this passage was normally interpreted by Protestants to mean that the bishop should not be a polygamist, rather than as requirement that a bishop be married—omitting altogether the Papists' twisted view that it meant that a bishop should be married to the church, and thus celibate in regard to earthly marital ties.

"Be practical, Herrick," Wentworth answered. "A bishop needs a wife in order to deal with all of the social obligations that are attendant upon the office, particularly since your new headquarters will be in Magdeburg and your role will include a lot of . . ." He paused. "How did Harry Lefferts describe it? A lot of schmoozing with important figures in the USE government as well as coaxing your parishioners into contributing the money to build a church and, perhaps, subsidize whatever income that William can provide for you. Indeed, 1 Timothy 3:2 requires that a bishop not only be 'vigilant, sober, of good behavior' but also 'given to hospitality' as well as 'apt to teach.'"

If the issue was practical rather than theological . . . "Elizabeth, my widowed sister-in-law? She and her children have been with me for a half- dozen years," Herrick ventured hopefully.

"Adequate for a rural parish, but not the same—though, of course, should they wish to join your household again, they would doubtless be welcomed in Magdeburg." Laud nodded solemnly. "Herrick, you need to marry, with dispatch. Luckily, we have a couple of suitable candidates available right here in Brussels, clerical widows, both of them. Quite pious."

He smiled mischievously. "One, Mistress Carey, is some years older than yourself. She not only has a substantial independent income, which her connections in the Huygens and Crommelin families managed to get out of England and into the Netherlands, but is also in excellent health. As I understand they say in Grantville, she is very well preserved."

Herrick flinched.

To add insult to injury, the archbishop turned around and asked his secretary to bring them a pot of coffee.

Where was a glass of good sherry when a man could really use it?

****

Northwest Passage, Part Five

Written by Herbert and William Sakalaucks

    

November 1633—New Amsterdam Harbor

The two Dutch fregätten floated quietly, wrapped in a white shroud. The dense fog that had settled over the New Amsterdam harbor was both a blessing and a curse. It hid them from potential enemies but made navigation hazardous and obscured what was happening onshore. That something was happening was evident. The muffled cries and the reflection of flames in the fog were noticeable even out in the harbor off Fort Amsterdam. The Friesland and the Rotterdam had used the cover of the fog to sail unobserved into the anchorage. When the disturbance on shore became evident, they had quietly gone to quarters, with their guns loaded but not run out. Ever since the decision to try and reach New Amsterdam after the defeat at Dunkirk, the ships' captains had worried that they might not reach the colony before their enemies. It appeared that the worst had happened. Captain Tjaert de Groot of the Friesland used the fog as cover to send his last remaining boat ashore with his first officer to scout the situation. The boat was overdue and he was worried.

Visibility was now down to twenty yards. Every swirl of the fog brought visions of a French or English ship bearing down with guns run out. Finally, he could wait no longer. He picked up a speaking trumpet, and stepped to the railing. He made sure the trumpet was directed at the Rotterdam's aftercastle, away from shore and hailed the ship. "Captain van den Broecke, my boat is overdue and I have no others left to send. Can you send one? We must know what's happening." He placed the trumpet to his ear to catch the reply. Instead of the expected words, a laugh could be heard close by on the water. He reversed the trumpet and hailed the Rotterdam again. "Hold off, we've heard something." Slowly a lantern became visible through the fog. It came from the direction the ship's boat had taken earlier when it headed toward shore.

"Ahoy, the Friesland. Where the hell are you?" The shout was loud enough to carry across the harbor. It was the first officer, Pieter de Beers, and he was obviously drunk.

De Groot raced to the opposite rail. A drunken sailor revealing their presence to possible enemies was the last thing he needed. If the French or English had somehow beaten them to New Amsterdam, they could be facing serious opposition. Surprise would be their only hope if they were outnumbered. The boat bumped alongside and he hissed down at it, "Quiet! You fool! You'll give us away. Come aboard and make your report."

    De Beers boarded slowly, holding onto a rum bottle. When he reached the deck, he swayed more than the wave motion would account for and there was a broad smile on his face. De Groot could smell the rum half way across the deck. "Everything is fine, sir. The town is celebrating a successful harvest. The director general extends his greetings . . ." He raised the rum bottle. ". . . and an invitation to both crews to join the celebration." He extended the bottle to Tjaert.

"Very well, Mr. de Beers." In his relief at the news, Tjaert reflexively accepted the bottle and took a small taste, then a longer swallow. The rum sent a warmth to his stomach that drove away the chills of the fog and his fears. "It seems you've already received your share of the invitation. You'll be staying on board." He turned to the watch officer by the companionway. "Have the men secure from quarters and pass the word over to the Rotterdam that everything's fine. Then tell off some men for an anchor watch. Everyone else can go ashore. After what we've gone through the past months, they deserve it."

Word of the invitation quickly spread and sailors appeared on the deck ready to disembark as if by magic. They ended up milling about for some time. The battle damage from Dunkirk had left only one usable boat. The captain went ashore in the first trip. It took nearly an hour after he left to finish rowing the remainder of the crew ashore.

De Groot intended to seek out the Director General, Wouter van Twiller, to learn the latest local news and pass on what had happened at Dunkirk. The director general apparently had the same intention and was waiting for him on the dock. Van Twiller was short, stout, and very well off, judging by the cut of his clothing. "Captain de Groot, to what do we owe this pleasure? It isn't often that two ships of the fleet come to call. I want to assure you our full cooperation to make your stay enjoyable. Your men are welcome to join our harvest celebration." He gestured toward the crowd around the building. "Your first officer mentioned that you have news, but he said I had best talk to you."

Other well wishers started to drift toward the dock. Tjaert took van Twiller aside. "Is there someplace I could speak to you and your other leaders in private?"

The look on Tjaert's face sobered von Twiller quickly. "The church is just up the street. I'm sure no one's there at this time of night." He grabbed a young man who had been hanging back. "Go and fetch Krol, van Rensselaer, Schuyler, and de Vries. Tell them I said to fetch them and don't take no for an answer. Bring them to the church! Do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle." The youth ran off to the partiers by the bonfire.

Wouter asked de Groot quietly, "How bad is the news?"

All voyage-long Tjaert and van den Broecke had debated this very question. The fleet had undoubtedly been defeated at Dunkirk. What remained of it was unknown. The plan Admiral Tromp had discussed in the unlikely chance of defeat had been for the remnants to head to Recife. Circumstances for his and van den Broecke's ships had precluded that. "It's long and involved and I'd rather go through it just once. Suffice it to say that there won't be many Dutch ships calling here for some time."

Van Twiller pulled on his moustache as the word sank in. By the time they reached the church, his stomach was twisted up in knots. The money meant for the city's defenses had gone to other, more profitable ventures. When he had spent those funds, he never dreamed that someday the defenses would actually be necessary.

It took nearly half an hour to locate and bring the leaders to the meeting. As soon as Captain van den Broecke arrived in the company of the last two members, Tjaert started in with his news. "There's no way to make this easier to hear. The fleet has suffered a major defeat."

The New Amsterdam leaders all started to ask questions at once but Tjaert cut them off with a wave of his hand. "Let me finish first. We met the Spaniards off Dunkirk in September. The action initially began very well for us. Our fleet held the weather gauge and Admiral Tromp had ordered all ships to engage the Spaniards at close range. We—" He motioned to van den Broecke and himself "—were on the northeast edge of the action and caught the Spanish ship San Pedro de la Fortuna straggling from their main body. The French and English fleets were supposed to support us after we had engaged the Spaniards. We pounded the San Pedro until it was barely afloat. The Rotterdam suffered some rigging damage and we both received some shots to the hull. As the fight progressed, it left us about two miles to the northeast of the main fleet action. I signaled to the Rotterdam to finish off the San Pedro, while I took the Friesland back to the fleet.

"The French and English fleets were about to join us and I wanted to be in at the finish. From over a mile away, I watched as they passed through our fleet. De With's flagship was blown up in the first exchange of fire and that stunned everyone. I realized immediately what had happened. The bastards had switched sides and then I noticed that three English ships had broken out of their formation and were heading in our direction. I came about and headed back toward the Rotterdam. As we passed astern of the San Pedro, I ordered a final volley. I hope it sank the bastard, but we couldn't stay around to find out. Likely, that's the last time we'll get to administer that type of damage to a Spaniard in a long time. Their return volley was ragged but did take out our foretop. We cut away the damage quickly, but it cost us some time.

"By then the three Englishmen were definitely heading to engage us. I signaled the Rotterdam, to break off and follow my lead. I intended to try and head to port and warn them of the defeat, but the English now had the weather gauge and kept forcing us to the north. They kept coming, but their pursuit seemed halfhearted at best. Eventually we were able to lose them in a fog bank, but by then our only course was to head here."

Joris van den Broecke stood up with a beer in hand and slapped Tjaert on the back. "He's too modest. The ploy he used to make our escape was brilliant. As we approached the fog bank, he had a brazier set up in a hatchway and lit off some old, damp gunpowder and rags to smoke like there was a fire below decks. As soon as we reached the fog bank, he doused his running lights and launched his long boat with a spar holding a decoy light. The long boat held four casks of old spoiled gunpowder and a slow fuse. When the powder went off, the English thought he'd blown up and broke off the pursuit. I guess they didn't think the Rotterdam was worth any further effort."

Tjaert was blushing from the praise but added, "I'm not sure their hearts were in it from the beginning. Their fleet seemed more than willing to let the French have the lead from the brief observation we had before the chase. I just gave them an honorable excuse to break off."

"But what of our fleet? What happened to it?" Rensselaer had cut straight to the crux of the matter.

"I don't know." Tjaert answered and Joris just shrugged his shoulders in agreement. "The French treachery destroyed or heavily damaged most of the ships not already closely engaged with the Spaniards. I'd guess only a dozen, at best, were still fit enough to try to escape. In any case, the fleet has ceased to exist as a force to hold off the Spanish. What advantage the Spanish take from their victory depends on their leadership. The best we can hope for is that they close off our ports, otherwise we may be on our own."

"But what do we do?" Van Twiller had started as a West Indies Company clerk and realized the implications from the loss of the fleet. The Spanish were a long-time enemy but were more concerned with retaking Holland. The English were fierce trade rivals at sea and the French, rivals in the fur trade. Trade and money were powerful motivators. "Without the fleet, we're at the mercy of any fleet that arrives here. The French and English, both have reasons to wish us gone."

"You probably have some time before you have to worry about an attack. We didn't go down without inflicting heavy losses. They'll need to refit before anyone can show up here. We need to ourselves. We suffered damage to our masts and rigging in the fight and on our voyage. Our bottoms need to be careened and shot holes repaired. Can your yard handle our repairs?"

"Only if we do it one ship at a time." De Vries owned the local shipyard and understood the tasks involved. "It doesn't sound like you've suffered any damage we can't handle. How fast we have to finish will be the biggest concern."

"I'd hoped you'd say that. I'll keep one ship on patrol. We may have been badly hurt at Dunkirk, but we can still take the fight to our enemies. We plan on trolling the Grand Banks for prizes. It may be only a pinprick now, but who knows what the future will bring."

The meeting continued for another hour as they discussed technical issues on repairs and theorized on what would happen in the foreseeable future.

De Vries added an extra two weeks to his estimate on repairs when he realized that both ships were fregätten. He would have to extend the slipway to handle the larger size of the ships. By the time they had broke up, Tjaert was relieved that at least the local leaders seemed to grasp the severity of the situation. They would do what needed to be done to get his ships battle worthy again. If only the French and English would cooperate.

December 1633—West Bank of the North River

"Heave! Heave!" Each explosive pull inched the Rotterdam up the extended slipway of the drydock. Dockworkers slathered on grease with huge straw brushes to ease the ship further into the berth. The temporary expansion of the drydock's slipway to accommodate the fregätten had taken de Vries almost a month to complete, instead of his original estimate of two weeks.

Joris stood next to the dock master, watching his ship rise out of the water. The last hectic week, emptying the ship of all cannon and stores to lighten it and reduce its draft, had left his crew exhausted. Now, the critical point was fast approaching. He yelled at the crew on the ground, holding the lines to the topmast. "Steady on those lines! Keep them taut!" If the lines to the mast weren't kept taut, the ship could topple in the dock. Everyone was struggling to use the last of the tide to pull the ship clear of the water. Their breaths steamed in the cool fall afternoon. Two more turns of the capstan brought the ship as far up the slipway as it could go. Immediately, dockworkers swarmed around the dripping hull, setting braces to stabilize the ship. When the foreman yelled that it was secured, the ship's crews on the lines eased off and let out a cheer. Van den Broecke just let out a long sigh. He'd been holding his breath from the tension.

The dock master leaned over the side and pointed to the site where they had struggled throughout the journey to stem a leak. "See there, Captain? You were lucky to have made it here. It looks like you took a hit as you rose on a wave. The butt ends are sprung and the frame member is damaged. It's going to be at least a month before we can finish this."

Van den Broecke wasn't happy. "I've got to report to Tjaert. He'll want to know how long until we can sail again." He fixed the dock master with a hard stare. "You're sure it's going to be a month? A lot of lives could be in jeopardy if you run longer."

Huetjen bristled at the comment. "Captain, I know my business. With your crew to help, we'll be done by the new year. I commanded a ship once, too, before I lost my leg." He held out the peg leg for emphasis. "I know what you're going through, watching it stuck on dry land. I'll hurry the work as fast as I can." He paused, pointing at the damaged planking. "You'll get it back when that's as good as new! I have family here and we need both your ships if we're to survive."

The captain chuckled. "Very well. I'll leave my child in your care, doctor. Get her well soon." He swung himself over the side and slid down a rope. He slowly walked around the ship, surveying the damage before he set off in search of Tjaert to let him know that he would be sailing alone on his planned cruise. Joris wasn't too concerned. In these waters, even one Dutch fregätten should be more than a match for anything she met. If she wasn't, a whole fleet probably wouldn't be enough.

****

In preparation for the council of war, de Groot had spent the previous two weeks surveying the fortifications around New Amsterdam. He had even sailed the Friesland up the river as far as he could safely take her to "scout out the territory" as he told von Twiller. Tjaert met with a few key members of the colony to learn more about the Dutch settlements further upriver. He wanted to lay the groundwork for his future plans.

    The debate over how to proceed had settled into three factions amongst the settlers. Some of the leaders weren't sure if there really was a threat and certainly didn't want to spend any more money paying workers to strengthen the fort's defenses. Von Twiller led this group. Others wanted to abandon New Amsterdam and return to the Netherlands immediately. The rest wanted to stay and fight. When it came for Captain de Groot's turn to speak, he surprised everyone.

"I agree with the Director General. I don't think we should spend anything on the fort here."

In the outcry that followed, only van Rensselaer noticed the slight emphasis on the word here. As the turmoil started to settle, he spoke up. "I think the captain has something to add."

"Thank you, Kiliaen. New Amsterdam is a wonderful city, but it is undefendable. Any force that is sent will have naval support and troops. The frontier forts at home work because the Spanish only attack from one direction. Here, an attacker can land troops on one side of the town, sail around the island and land troops on a second site, then bombard the fort from a third. The Friesland and the Rotterdam cannot and will not be tied down to defend a city that cannot be saved."

"But what choice do we have?" exclaimed a patroon in the back of the crowd. "I'll do whatever I must to defend my home."

"I'm glad you asked." De Groot's smile looked a lot like the one the mouse saw on the cat that had caught it. "Your house is near Orange?"

The patroon just nodded yes.

"While New Amsterdam is undefendable, the colony is defendable, but only upriver. If any fortifications are to be built, the effort must be made upriver. I've spoken with a number of traders and took the Friesland to scout the site in person. About twenty-five miles north, there is a spot along the river that's ideal for a fort. It's on high ground and could be defended from water attack with a log boom. Our fregätten are offensive weapons. We can do more harm raiding the French and English shipping than sitting at anchor. We will work out of New Amsterdam and will fight if the enemy appears while we're in port, but the colony must be prepared to abandon the city if a large force appears."

Three merchants were immediately on their feet shouting for recognition. The Director General cut them off. "I understand your concern. We cannot possibly abandon the city now. It's the dead of winter. Captain, you must reconsider."

Tjaert just stared at him.

Van Rensselaer stood up. "If I might make a suggestion." Everyone turned to Kiliaen, because he had given no indication to that point where he stood. "Wouter is right. It is the dead of winter." He turned to face de Groot and gave a slight wink that went unnoticed by the group. "Captain de Groot, shipping off the Banks is slim this time of year. One ship shall be more than enough to handle what's there. The other one can stay in port and finish refitting. They can trade places by spring and we would be able to finish refitting both your ships completely, at our expense. Then, when the shipping season resumes, you both could cruise for prizes." He clasped his hands on the table. "In the meantime, construction of the fort you suggested could be started. Since it will benefit my manor upriver, I'd be willing to pay for the work through the winter. We could revisit the issue of the city in the spring. Who knows? We may even get good news and find our fears were unfounded."

The city merchants nearly fell over themselves in support. Tjaert and Kiliaen looked at each other and nodded. Their plan had gone exactly as they had hoped.

****

No Ship for Tranquebar, Part Four

Written by Kevin H. and Karen C. Evans

    

Over the Indian Ocean

September 27, 1636

The airship sparkled in the early morning light. There was only darkness below, as shadows still shrouded the earth. At almost two miles above the surface, the airship could see the sun rise much earlier than they would see it on the ground. Even now the crew watched as the sunlight spread across the water below.

Marlon was in the observation dome. He had his binoculars, and was examining the coast they were passing. "I can't tell where we are just by looking. I used to think that all India was a jungle, but so far I can only see more of the same desert we've been passing over since we left the Mediterranean." He handed the glasses back to the lookout, and started climbing down from the dome.

By noon, they could see the western edge of the Indian peninsula. Frode, the navigator, stood beside Marlon, with his own spyglass. "It's kind of hazy but I think I can see almost the whole southern tip of the Indian subcontinent."

He closed up his glass, and picked up a chart. "According to my sailing instructions, Tranquebar is just up from the point across the narrow strait to what your maps call Sri Lanka. What do you think they're going to say when this airship comes over the horizon?"

Marlon chuckled. "Whatever they think it is, I'm almost certain they don't expect it to be from Denmark. I've been talking to Herr Lund, the new governor. He says that they probably think that the Danish East India company is still floundering around, trying to arrange for a ship that will get here sometime next year. This will be a real shock for them, I'm afraid."

****

The course had been set deliberately south of where the navigator thought Tranquebar was. They turned north and sailed over India now for more than two hours, waiting to sight the fort. They were at about five thousand feet, watching the countryside pass by. Everybody was on the lookout, leaning over railings and out of windows, watching for the large square fortress the company had built there thirteen years before. As landmarks went, it was probably the best thing they were going to get for positive identification from the air.

"There it is!" Then several more shouts came confirming a sighting.

Marlon turned to Eric, the flight engineer. "Somebody tie a weight on the end of a rope, and then put our Danish flag on it. We'll lower it to about twenty feet below the airship. I don't want anybody down there taking a pot shot at us because they don't know what we are."

Just like in Venice, crowds of people were standing in the open and pointing upward. Marlon thought, I wonder if this is ever going to become commonplace? "Let's tie a bucket or bottle or something to a long strip of cloth. We need to get a message to the people in the fort, and tell them how to help us land. You go get the container and a streamer, and I'll write up the instructions. Then you can check it before we make the drop."

Later, their preparations made, Marlon instructed Gunnar, the helmsman, to take the airship across the fortress. "Well, here goes the first aerially transmitted message from Denmark to India in the history of the world." He tossed the green glass bottle out the window. The container fell, streamer fluttering behind it.

Marlon watched as the bottle, trailing a long tail of cloth like a kite, bounced off the wall on the west side of the fortress. Luckily it didn't break. He could see a figure running across the fortress courtyard. The boy scooped up the bottle and ran back toward the building on the east side of the compound.

"Okay, Gunnar. Take it downwind and then come back to that open area just south of the fortress," said Marlon. "We're going to have to make two more runs before we can land. First we're going to drop Ulrik and let him tell them how to set up the mast. Then we're going to drop the mast. For every run, we need to come in at a very low level, and make sure our deliveries are gentle. I don't want to lose either the man or the mast."

The crowd of people was pouring out of the fortress gates. They were all hurrying to a large open area south of the fortress. The airship was creeping upwind just about five hundred feet above the ground. Small boys were waving and shouting. People were staring in open amazement that such a huge thing could be floating toward them.

Marlon braced his feet against the railing near the gangplank and tightened the harness on Ulrik. "Okay, remember to do it exactly the way we practiced. Make sure that the rope hits the ground before you do. You want it to dissipate any shock before landing. I don't know how much static electricity we've built up."

The crewmen nodded. When Marlon said "electricity" nobody wanted to tinker with such a dangerous sounding concept.

Everything was ready. Time to go. Ulrik stepped to the door. The men at the winch put their thumbs up and started the crank, lifting the crewmen above the floor. Then they swung him out the door.

Marlon grinned like a picket fence. "Okay, start him down, boys." The winch crew were cranking like crazy, and Ulrik looked as if he were walking on air. He had a rope dangling below him that would bleed off the static electricity.

Marlon leaned out of the door and watched his man drop slowly but steadily toward the ground. He saw little boys running to catch the end of the rope. He got his megaphone and shouted, "Stay away! Stay away from the rope!"

Ulrik shouted as well, but the boys below didn't stop. Marlon felt as if he were going to burst, trying to save the boys from serious injury. Then he saw someone in a white uniform come running into the crowd of boys. He spoke to them, and gestured sharply, and the boys scattered. The rope touched the ground and bounced along for a moment, then Ulrik was within stepping distance of the ground.

He released his harness and made a perfect landing tumble, rolling into a ball and jumping up immediately.

The man in white walked over to him, shook his hand, then grabbed him in a huge embrace. "Looks like we're welcome, after all." Marlon grinned a moment more, then hurried back to the bridge.

"Okay, Gunnar. Time to deliver the mast. Then we can finally land this thing."

Gunnar brought the ship around in a stately turn, and then was again pointing at the potential landing site. Ulrik was pointing up to the airship and the long mast that have been slung below the cargo compartment. The pivoting cone attachment for docking was already in place on the mast. It seemed to take forever as he spoke and gestured what he wanted to do with the mast. But finally, Ulrik waved his arms.

Marlon said, "There's the signal. Gunnar. When the mast is away take us back over the ocean for the final run while they get it set up."

Marlon sat down in the command chair, feeling completely exhausted and rubbed his forehead. It's true that he hadn't gotten the sleep he needed on this trip. Getting ready to land was taking a huge weight off his shoulders, at least for now.

The Royal Anne sailed out over the ocean and waited. It seemed like only a few minutes but must have been more than an hour. Finally the mast stood on end, and was guyed down firmly to the ground.

"Docking positions," ordered Marlon. "Take us around and bring us up to the mast slowly. Let's do it by the numbers. I don't want to look like an idiot or a fool in front of these people. This is the first time they've ever seen this done, so let's do it right."

Governor's Office, Tranquebar

September 27, 1636

About sunset

"You've certainly caused quite a bit of an excitement." Roelant Crappé was host to Captain Pridmore and the replacement governor, Niels Lund. They were sipping tea and watching the sunset out of the west window of the office.

Crappé said, "This has probably been the most surprising thing to ever happen in this place. Nothing can compare with a great ship appearing out of the clouds, and flying to our outpost."

Niels nodded. "I don't know how much you've heard about things happening in Europe. But there are wonders and things that have never before been seen. And it's going on all over the continent."

Marlon set his cup down and picked up where Niels left off. "Yes, it's really true. There's a whole group of people who came from the future and settled in central Germany. I know for a certainty, because I'm one of them."

Roelant tried, and failed, to stop staring. The airship captain didn't look any different from any other captain ever entertained in this office. And yet, in speaking with Marlon, there was something subtly different. "So, Captain. You come from a time of magic and miracles. This all should seem totally normal to you."

Marlon chuckled. "Indeed, it may seem so. But even in the future where I came from, airships like this always seemed to have a certain magic. People were absolutely fascinated every time they saw one flying around. It's almost like people could not keep from looking at airships, 'blimps' as we called them. I still think they're just wonders beyond belief."

"I know you were wondering why we are here," Niels said. "Your missive was received by the Danish East India Company just this month. And already, we are here with this airship to pick up the most valuable portion of your cargo. We can only take twenty tons, so we need the most vulnerable parts. We can take it back to Denmark in less than a month."

Roelant looked a little surprised. Marlon grinned and pulled out his own large, official packet, covered with seals and ribbons and placed it in front of the long-time factor. "You know, it's a lot more fun to give this away instead of getting one."

After Roelant had thoroughly examined the packet, Niels pulled a document folded into soft leather from his inner jacket pocket. "This is our manifest. We didn't really know what we could bring to India that would have any real value in trade. As far as anybody knows, all the Indians want from Europe is money. However, we bought about ten tons of glassware from Venice. It's some of the finest they make, and hopefully in such a large quantity we can make a profit on it."

Roelant smiled. "Glassware is a good choice. It was never feasible to ship any on the long journey around the Cape of Good Hope. But I'm certain that you, as the new governor, will be able to find buyers. I'll introduce you to my assistant, Chander. He will be of great help."

Marlon said, "My greatest concern, frankly, is fuel for our engines. We used far more fuel than we expected on the trip out here. The monsoon winds are now blowing to the west and we can fly with the wind and get more distance for the fuel we burn, but I still don't think it's enough. We need something in the way of fuel to take us all the way home."

"What sort of fuel do you need? There may be charcoal available, but I don't know in what quantities. And I don't know of any coal." Roelant scratched his chin, thinking of availability and costs.

"My engines run on liquid fuel, like oil or petroleum. Do they use any kind of oil around here for lamps or heating?"

The factor shrugged. "I will have to think about this. I really don't know exactly what we could use. There is very little of this petroleum that you speak of in use here in India right now. Don't worry, though. I've never seen anything we couldn't find in India somewhere. I'm sure we'll think of something."

Marlon stood up and started to pace. "You know, I can adjust to whatever we find, and I'm thinking . . ."

Roelant held up his hand and interrupted Marlon. "We can leave that for another day. Tonight, the natives have prepared a huge festivity to celebrate your arrival from home. They like to have a feast whenever anyone arrives."

Niels said, "Yes, and I'm sure it doesn't hurt your feelings, Roelant. You end up getting home again, even though the ship sent out to retrieve you sank."

"Indeed that has crossed my mind," chuckled Roelant. "Now let's all go to dinner. I think we have some things you may enjoy quite a bit."

****

Marlon sat at a desk in an office they'd loaned him here at the outpost. He felt as if an army of paper was marching past him, and he had to do combat with every single report. The more things change the more they stay the same.

He mumbled to himself. "When I got out of the army, I got a job where I wouldn't be shot at. Little did I know I'd be drowning in numbers. We go through the Ring of Fire and I'm still playing with numbers. I move to Denmark and I'm still playing with numbers."

From the door came a dry laugh. "I do believe the whole world floats on a sea of numbers now." Niels Lund came into the office. "Blame it on the people who want to buy and trade and want to get value for it. That seems to be all we have to defend ourselves, in a shroud of numbers. Perhaps they will keep us from making a devastating mistake.

"I came to show you this list of cargo that we want to send home with you. As you recommended, it's all compact, perishable, and highly valuable."

Marlon reached over and picked up the paper, then almost choked. "Are you sure these numbers are correct? I can see that the nutmeg will sell, and even the opium would bring a lot of money. But your numbers here are truly astonishing."

"Yes, indeed. And when you convert the expected sale price from Gilders to your USE dollars, you should expect to clear a little more than ten million on this trip alone. That's not much compared to what a whole ship would win if we could only get it back to Copenhagen. Your load is only about one fifth as large. But still, if we can get more than one airship a year out here, we could make a very tidy profit."

Marlon shook his head. Ten million dollars for a month of travel? "I'm not certain, but it's probable that we can make five to ten trips a year. It depends on whether or not we can have another airship available to us. There are all kinds of problems that we're lucky not to have experienced on this trip. Only one bad bearing in an engine, and almost no weather concerns. We had good weather all the way out except for when the wind shifted. The only serious problem we've really had, besides rescuing that very beautiful young lady, was that we burned a lot more fuel than we should have. That's something I hadn't expected."

Just then the door opened and a young maid servant brought in a tray. She curtsied, and delivered a practiced speech. "Kind sir, here is the meal you ordered. It is bread and cheese and ghee." Then she curtsied again, and scurried out.

"Did you order this?" Marlon asked.

"Yes, I did." Niels grinned. "In the heat of the day, according to Roelant, everyone eats a light meal. The more rich foods are for the cool of the evening. But you should have something to eat. You haven't eaten all day. This will help keep your mind clear."

"She said this was ghee?"

Niels shrugged. "According to Chander, it's a kind of butter from the milk of the water buffalos. He says they boil it to clarify it, and all the solids are removed. He says it keeps very well in this weather and does not go rancid as quickly."

Marlon tore off a bite-sized piece of bread, dipped it in the little pot and tasted it. "Not bad. A little like toasted butter without the same feeling in your mouth. I kind of like it." He dipped another piece of bread and continued to eat. Then he almost choked, dropped the bread and started scrabbling in his pockets until he found a small silver box.

Niels asked, "Marlon, are you all right? Should I call a doctor?"

Marlon shook his head, and tried to swallow the rest of what was in his mouth. "No, Niels, I'm all right. Just let me try something."

Marlon pulled a small metal device out of his pocket, opened the lid and spun a wheel. Flame leapt up out of the lighter.

"What is that thing? Is it supposed to burst into flame like that?"

"Yes, Niels. Don't worry. It's called a lighter. We use them kind of like permanent matches." He handed the small silver square to Niels.

The governor examined it closely. It had rounded corners, and an etching on the side of some kind of heraldic device with arrows. "That's a very unique device. Do you have more of them?"

Marlon looked down at the floor, and his voice sounded gruff for a moment. "Well, no. This was a gift many years ago from a friend in the army. That was our unit insignia there." He held out his hand, and Niels quickly handed the lighter back.

Marlon kind of cleared his throat, and put the lighter down on the table. "Never mind all that. I've got to try something."

Marlon tore a strip of paper from the edge of one of the reports, dipped it in the ghee until it was well coated, and left it in the little pot, with just a half inch of paper sticking up above the oil. When he held the lighter's flame to the paper, the strip lit, and burned with a clear, smokeless, yellow flame. The paper wasn't consumed in the fire, so it was obviously acting as a wick.

Marlon began practically dancing around the small room. "This is fantastic. You've done it, Niels. This is exactly what we need. How much of this ghee can we get?"

"Are you saying you want to use this food for fuel?"

"I think so. It has the right feel, and all oils have a lot of energy tied up inside. We could use it to heat our boilers. That is, if we can get enough of it."

"My friend, sit down," Niels said. "You're making me tired. I'll see what we can do to get you some more ghee." He stepped to the door of the office. "Chander, can you come in here for a moment?"

The governor's assistant was a local who spoke Danish very clearly, even though he had a strong accent. "Yes, sir? How may I help you, please?"

Niels pointed at Marlon's tray. "Chander, is it possible to get this ghee in large quantities? As though we were going to sell it?"

Marlon laughed. "A couple of tons a least."

Chander looked thoughtful. Finally he said, "I know of a group of merchants who make this in quantity and sell it in the larger cities. Here we are a small village, and have a local source for our needs. But in the cities . . . they require a great deal of ghee. Does it matter how pure it is?"

"What do you mean? There are different levels of purity?"

Chander nodded. "The rich can always find pure ghee, like this. It has the best flavor, and is not burnt. But the poor, who require it to cook their food, have to settle for ghee that has been polluted . . . I mean it has palm oil or other food oils added to extend the pure ghee. It is certainly not as tasty."

    "Chander, that's marvelous," Marlon said. "Adulterated ghee sounds like a dream come true for me. I want to ask one more question. Is ghee ever used for lamps or lighting, like this?"

Chander looked a little horrified at the small pot of ghee smoldering away on the table. "I do not know for sure. My mother never used the ghee in this way, but it is possible. Especially in temples and shrines. Why do you want it? Do you have a new buyer?"

"We need fuel for the airship, so that we can return to Europe. Ghee seems like it would be ideal."

****

That evening, some of the young officers were sitting in a drinking establishment in the village of Tharangambadi. There was Magnus, Ulrik, Henning, Gunnar, and Martin. And since Gunnar was there, so was Estela. She didn't let him out of her sight if it were possible.

They were listening to Chander recount the Marlon's odd behavior. "And then he picked up that flaming pot of ghee, and danced into the hallway. I was concerned that he'd spill the burning oil on himself, and we would have to beat it out with our hands."

Everyone at the table laughed. Captain Pridmore was often the subject of discussion with the most senior of the officers of the Royal Anne.

Chander shook his head ruefully. "And to think I went to such effort to find high quality ghee for their dinner. I could have served the meanest quality, and he'd still have been delighted."

Gunnar had Estela by the hand, and their fingers were interlaced. "That is true of almost everything Captain Pridmore does. I was in the workshop the day he showed up wearing that strange yellow camisole with the smiling face. He looked like a vagabond, or a traveling minstrel. And yet he showed no consternation."

Estela lifted her head from Gunnar's shoulder. "Captain Pridmore has always been so gentle with me. He always treats me as if he were a true gentleman. What do you know about his family?"

Gunnar said, "Not much. Herr Pridmore has always been courteous. He speaks to everyone, no matter who. We've almost gotten used to it, really."

Eric, the assistant engineer, frowned. "Chander, are you saying that it's possible we may find enough of this oil to fill our tanks and take us back to Denmark? Your hospitality is wonderful, but I would rather spend the winter in my own home."

Chander put down his cup and shook his head. "I have not dealt with the ghee merchants, but I have heard from my neighbors that they are a difficult group of men. I do not look forward to the negotiations, especially after they find that we want large quantities of their product. They have the reputation of cheats and rapscallions."

That brought another laugh. Estela asked, "Chander, where did you learn such language?"

Chander's white teeth gleamed in the dark room. "Herr Crappé taught me a lot about swearing in the years I've worked for him. He is very adept at the art of oath and insult."

Estela looked thoughtful. "You are doubtful of coming to an agreement with these oil factors? Maybe I could help."

All the young men stared at her as if she had just grown a new head. Gunnar patted Estela's hand. "You don't need to worry, sweet one. We will get you home. We don't want to worry you."

Sparks glinted in Estela's eyes. "Gunnar, are you saying that you don't think I would be able to negotiate with these men?"

Gunnar didn't take the warning seriously. "No, of course not, Estela. Negotiating with a factor is man's work. You don't need to do that anymore. I'm going to take care of you now. Don't bother your pretty head."

Estela not only unlaced her fingers from his, she pushed him away and stood up. "If you think so little of my upbringing and abilities, Gunnar Ibsen, I'll be leaving now. I'm going to offer my services as buyer to Captain Pridmore. Perhaps he has more of an appreciation for what a woman can do." Then she spun on her heel, and stomped out of the tavern.

For a moment the young men at the table stared at each other. Then Chander stood and bowed. "It is not proper for a young lady to walk alone after dark. I will accompany her to the fort. Good night, gentlemen."

Gunnar looked at Magnus, Eric, and Henning. "What was that about? Why would she flounce out like that?"

Eric was the only one at the table who was married. His young wife at home, Marina, was expecting their first baby. "Gunnar, go after her. Apologize."

"Apologize for what? What did I do wrong?"

Eric slapped Gunnar on the back. "Does it matter? Make the apology kind of general, and see if that helps."

****

The next day, Herr Lund, Chander, and Estela formed a small parade, followed by several small boys. They walked through the small village, and finally arrived at the shops of the ghee-sellers. Herr Lund was there as the buyer, Chander was the translator, and Estela was the negotiator. Discussions had gone late into the night, but Marlon finally put his foot down and sent Estela along.

Now they sat down with a congenial man, Sanjay Soury. He offered them refreshment, and they accepted. Chander translated their exchanged courtesies, and finally brought the discussion around to ghee.

Estela said very little, watching her opponent on the other side of the table. The man was probably in his forties, but he could be older. It was difficult for her to tell. People didn't seem to age quite the way she was used to here. But she saw a man who was confident in his ability to rake as much money from these foreigners as he could.

Chander opened negotiations. He had been coached extensively by Estela. "We purchased some ghee this week, and want to perhaps have some more. It was of marginal quality, but we feel generous to a man so obviously advanced in years. We don't want to take advantage of our elders."

Herr Soury blinked. He had never been addressed in such a manner by the Danish factors. He signaled his wife, and a light lunch was served. While they were eating, Chander again brought up the possibility of purchasing some ghee.

Herr Soury smiled and held out both hands. His explanation was obsequious. Chander bowed, and turned to Herr Lund. "Our host apologizes, but he has not been able to find higher quality ghee for an affordable price. He says it is because the cattle are not producing milk in any quantity."

Herr Lund leaned over and looked at Estela. She nodded, and whispered to Chander. Chander then asked for several barrels of ghee, ready for travel, to be delivered in three days.

Herr Soury beat his chest, pulled open his shirt and pretended to be about to stab himself in the heart with a rather dull knife, and he even pulled on his hair until he looked like a beggar on the street.

Whenever Chander wavered in the negotiations, Estela would lean over and whisper. Any empathy that he had been feeling would vanish. Then he would attack the negotiations again.

****

Two days later, small boats from the north arrived at the docks. They were filled with barrels of very low-quality ghee.

Marlon stood on the docks with Engineer Jannik and Niels Lund. He was elated. "Niels, you've done well. You said they were sending three tons of the oil? And only for two hundred Guilder? I thought Chander said the ghee-sellers were cheats and liars. How did you do it?"

Niels blushed a little. "I thought I was a good businessman. But after watching Estela bring that man to tears, and wring the oil out of him, I think I'm just an amateur. She has trading in her blood, that's for sure."

Chander still seemed a little worried. "Herr Captain, I would apologize for the quality of the ghee. It is not at all pure. There is very little butter in it and I . . ."

Marlon interrupted. "Chander, I tested the sample you brought home, and I think we'll do better on it than we did on the olive oil from Venice. This stuff is pretty powerful. I don't care, really, how pure it is."

Chander sighed in relief. "Then I'm certain you will be happy with this product. I inspected it before I delivered the payment, and there are no impurities in the fuel oil, and the barrels are consistent. They haven't been artificially weighted."

Niels said, "Chander, we've only been here a week and already you've proved to be a valuable part of my staff. What was Roelant paying you? I'm sure it's not enough. No Dutchman could understand generosity as well as a Dane."

****

As the sun went down Marlon gathered his crew in the large dining room. He invited Niels Lund and Roelant Crappé. Estela was seated to the right of Gunnar.

When everyone was seated, Marlon stood. "Men, we have finished the first half of our pioneering expedition. As your captain, I want to let you know that I am proud of you. We reached Tranquebar safely, and in a very timely manner. We have accomplished what nobody else in the world has done."

He stopped speaking as the room erupted into cheers and hooting. The crew was all enthusiastically celebrating their success. Finally, he held up his hand for silence. "Yes, I agree that we have done something wonderful, but I want to remind you that we are only at the half-way point of our journey. We still have to make it back to Venice and then to Copenhagen to be counted as successful. And to that end, I want to have a bull session. And before any of you jump up to ask me what that means, I'll explain it."

The crew laughed, and then listened again. "Now that we have finished our longest piece of flying so far, I wanted to find out what the problems were, as well as the things that worked out better than you expected. I expect all of you to contribute, because nobody had exactly the same experience. That means that I don't want to hear from just the bridge crew, or just the engineer, Herr Jannik. I want everybody to think of something productive and helpful to say. Even if someone else has said what you planned, please feel free to tell me what you think." Marlon stopped and grinned. "And that's an order!"

There was silence for a moment, then a young man stood in the back of the room. Marlon recognized him as one of the cargo specialists, Torsten. "Herr Captain, I want to say that I don't like the breathing tube. Is it necessary on our flight home?" He sat down among murmurs and nods among his fellow crew members. They all seemed to have the same opinion. Not that I blame them one bit,Marlon thought. I hated the silly thing myself. Couldn't sleep a wink with it on.

"I agree with you," Marlon said. "Trying to work, eat, or sleep with the breathing apparatus strapped to your head is not my favorite form of entertainment. But I find it far preferable to piling into a mountain peak in the middle of the night. If we decide that our course is over some of those tall mountains, yes, we will use the tubes again. I'm sorry, but I value you all too much to risk your lives if I don't have too."

Niels Lund stood. "Herr Captain, I was not a member of your crew, just a passenger. But I have a question as well. Do you intend to fly the same route home again? I also didn't relish the experience of the face mask."

"I chose that altitude because I didn't want to play games with high mountains in the dark. However, from the beginning we had planned going home a different direction. So our course home is south, closer to the equator. We will follow the Arabian Sea across to the Mediterranean. There we turn toward the north and fly up to where we can see Italy and follow the Adriatic Sea up to Venice. This has the great advantage of being fairly low altitude all the way. We don't have to worry about mountains, and now that the wind is changed from the monsoons, we can fly with the wind, close to the equator almost all the way home."

At the mention of the Mediterranean, Estela blanched and grabbed Gunnar's hand. "Don't worry, Miss Estela," Marlon said. "We'll be over the Mediterranean, not on it. Those pirates will never be able to reach us."

Roelant Crappé said, "Marlon, I understand monsoons. I've been here for fifteen years, and seen the weather up close. I know the monsoons are a steady blow, but they are not usually violent. Just a lot of rain. From what Niels has told me, though, I understand that bad weather is very dangerous for your airship."

Marlon went into lecture mode, something his crew was very familiar with. "The greatest enemy of an airship is violent weather. Nothing good can happen in a thunder storm. The best thing an airship can do is run from weather. We've been very lucky so far that no weather or storm line has crossed our path."

Tranquebar

October 2, 1636

The cargo load process had been varied and interesting. Not only was it cargo different than they had loaded previously, but it was extremely more valuable. The spices were actually considered valuable even in India, though not nearly so much as in Central Europe.

Great care had to be taken as each bag and parcel of spices was carefully accounted for and stored. They would have just a little over eight tons of cloves, five tons of nutmeg, five tons of patterned silk from China, and two tons of opium. While they would only be hauling about a tenth of the average cargo ship back from Tranquebar, it would provide significant profit for the return voyage.

****

That evening, Marlon stood in the doorway of the governor's office, talking to Niels. They were admiring the sunset together. In just a couple of weeks, they had become good friends. Marlon said, "After we go, remember to put our hydrogen generation machinery under cover. Please keep it somewhere safe so we can use it on our next trip here."

"Marlon, I know you have the equipment, and I'm planning on keeping it safe from vandalism and such. But what is it really for?"

"It's to generate a fresh batch of the lifting gas for the airship. Before we leave, we will purge all the hydrogen cells, and fill them with fresh gas. That way, we will be more sure that we'll reach Copenhagen again. And having that thing out of the hold will give us half a ton of extra safety on our return trip."

Niels walked to the balcony, and looked out over the sea. The water seemed to be gleaming pewter, reflecting the intense Indian sun. "All right. We'll keep the mechanism safe. What else do we need to do to make sure you return in a timely manner?"

"Well, we definitely need to set up a radio beacon. It will help a lot on navigating to here on another trip."

"Why do you need to leave at midnight tonight? It seems such an odd hour to travel when one has a ship not dependent on the tides."

"If we leave tonight at midnight, we should make all of our navigation checkpoints for course changes in the daytime. The only checkpoint we will have to do in the dark is when we reach Cyprus, and have to turn more north. According to the calendar, the moon will still be fairly bright. We should be able to see the island, and know when to turn."

"It's amazing to think of making navigation checks so far away in so short a time," Niels said. "I can see why you want course corrections in the daylight. It makes sense. And yet, I was never aware we were traveling at such high speeds while I was aboard. Truly a miracle."

The crowd had been growing steadily all week as they loaded cargo. People from all over the countryside had come to see this marvel. And they were camping all around waiting for the chance to see the great airship fly. The trade colony had been forced to put up a fence around the perimeter the fields, just to keep the people from overwhelming the men.

Marlon stepped back into the office. "Well, I guess this is it. I'm going onboard until it's time for us to leave. I don't know how soon the next airship will be able to return. I don't think I'll be the one flying. But we're not leaving you hanging out here on the end of a limb."

"As long as you send someone back some time in the next twelve years. That's the end of my contract. I want to go home on the airship if possible. I'm not sure I'd survive the sea voyage."

Marlon grinned and shook Niels' hand. "Good luck to you."

"And to you, Marlon. God go with your return journey, and at least write me a letter describing the king's face when he sees the loot you're taking home. I'd love to be there for that."

****

Martin had drawn almost the last watch on the observation deck. Mindful that he was taking care of his ride home, he paid careful attention to his duty. He wasn't even drowsy, even though it was not quite time for their midnight launch.

There! Far to the north and east Martin could see the faint flickers of lightning. He stepped to the speaking tube. "Attention on deck. You need to send a message to the captain. I can see lightning to the far northeast. We may have a storm coming." Martin turned back to look at the storm. Yes, it could be coming closer. He hoped it wouldn't be a problem.

****

Marlon was packing up the last of his paperwork when there was a knock on the door. "Yes?"

Jan's voice came through the door. "Captain? There is a report from observation. It looks like a storm is coming."

I knew it couldn't last; it's been too long since we had bad weather, Marlon thought. "Sound the recall. We're almost ready to go, we might as well go now."

At two hours before midnight, Marlon sat in his command chair on the bridge. His guests were safely ensconced in their accommodations, and everything was ready.

As the ramp of the airship was pulled up, he heard cheers rise up from the surrounding crowd. He grinned at his bridge crew. "Everybody ready?"

There was a chorus of, "Yes, sir."

"Fine. Release the cart." As Marlon finished the sentence, he could hear the cables dropping away from the rear the airship. The cart that kept the airship steady and rotated within the wind was now released. It would be left behind for their return.

"Bring the engine revolutions up to counter the wind and push us up against the mast a little." The hum from the propellers rose in pitch.

"Release the pin! Drop revolutions of the engines. Let us slide back a little. Drop ballast so we can gain a little altitude. We want to get up high enough to avoid those lightning strikes."

The airship drifted slowly inland, all the time gaining altitude.

Everyone on the bridge was busy and efficient. Marlon's was the only voice heard until his orders were repeated through the tube. "Set course west northwest. Set revolutions for seventy knots." Marlon breathed easier when he heard confirmations echoed back to them from across the control room. "Set altitude at five thousand feet."

The fortress of Tranquebar slipped away in the moonlight. They had begun their journey home.

****

Marlon climbed up to observation. "So where is our storm?" he asked Martin.

Martin pointed. "There to the north, and a little bit east. I can't tell if we're out-running it or not. It stretches in a long line just north of us and the wind is pushing south and west."

"Don't forget to harness yourself up here. If it catches us, we can't afford to lose you."

Marlon climbed back down into the airship and proceeded to the bridge. "Okay, everyone, this is not something I ever really wanted to experience, but it looks like that storm is going to catch us."

The bridge crew appeared more determined than ever.

Marlon looked over to where Estela sat near Gunnar. "I'm sorry, Estela, but in this kind of situation, I think you will be safer in your cabin. Gunnar needs to be able to concentrate on the helm, and doesn't need to worry about you as well."

Estela looked as if she would argue, but Gunnar laid his hand across her hand, and shook his head. "It's true. I want you to go to your cabin and wait. I'll come for you as soon as I can."

Without another word, the girl hurried off the bridge.

Marlon watched her out the door, then turned back to Eric, at the flight engineer station. "Wake up all shifts. Make sure everything, and I mean everything is tied down. Then have the men assume their emergency stations."

Eric began issuing orders on the speaking tube, then Marlon continued. "Bring us up to maximum revolutions. Maybe we can outrun most of this bad weather. There is a chance, just a small chance, that we can outrun the storm."

Roelant stepped onto the bridge and waited for a moment of quiet. Then he stepped over next to Marlon at the window. "Well, Captain. What kind of chance do we have? Are we going to be burned out of the air by the lightning?"

Marlon was quiet for a moment. "I'll tell you a story that may help you sleep. Airships, especially larger airships, usually ride through the sky in a majestic fashion. There was a story from the old timeline about an airship called the Hindenburg. One time, on a bet, one of the passengers stood a fountain pen on its end, on the table. Then the other passengers placed wagers on how long it would stand on end before it fell over."

When he didn't continue, Roelant finally asked, "Well, what happened? How long did it stand?"

Marlon laughed. "The Hindenburg weighed more than one hundred and fifty tons. It took a lot to shake her. That pen stood undisturbed for three days. Finally, the man who owned the pen claimed all the wagers, and put the pen back in his pocket."

Everyone knew when the storm struck twenty minutes later. The airship shuddered, and the winds outside pounded on the envelope and howled around the windows. The helm whipped back and forth even though they had already put two people on the wheel. They were working furiously to keep the wind from disturbing the trim of the control surfaces.

Everyone aboard was at their stations, carefully watching for anything to happen. An hour later, the view ahead had begun to clear and a few stars were becoming visible. But the buffeting, if anything, had increased. It was if a giant's fist was pounding and squeezing the airship.

Then, audible to everybody aboard, there was a loud crack.

Marlon got on the general announcement and said, "Find out what broke right now, and make sure it gets secured."

A whistle came over the tube and Eric reported. "Engineering reports that a beam above the port side stabilizer has cracked, and is protruding through the fabric of the envelope. Jannik thinks we might be bleeding hydrogen."

Marlon was out the door of the bridge before Eric finished, and only heard the last few words as he climbed into the body of the airship. At the top of the cargo hold, he hurried aft, working his way outboard.

On one of the support beams, he looked up to see four crew members already struggling with a cracked stringer. Tue Strang, the night helmsman, was doing a good job of supervising the other crew members. They had two pieces of wood they were using as a kind of splint. Right now, they were struggling to wrap a line about it to make a splice in the beam. A fifth man was threading sail-making needles, preparing to close the rip in the skin. Marlon watched, careful to stay back out of their way.

Maybe it was because he was concentrating so hard, or possibly just because they had finally outrun the storm, but the buffeting and furor seemed to decrease outside the airship. The beam was finally spliced up, and the sewing commenced on the cloth skin.

Marlon asked Tue, "So, how does it look?"

"Well, sir, it's not pretty, but it's solid. We should be fine now."

"Did the broken stringer pierce the gas bag? Are we bleeding hydrogen?" Marlon tried mightily to keep panic out of his voice, but he wasn't sure how successful he was.

Strang mopped his face with a kerchief. "No, I don't think so. It only tore the skin, as far as we can tell."

"That's great. Spread the word to make sure everybody checks in. Then have one of the cooks examine everybody for injuries. When people get excited, they may not even notice that they're hurt."

He left the men to their work and headed down to Engineering. Jannik and his men were rushing about on unknown tasks, but it reminded Marlon more of a gang of organized ants than a swarm of confused bees. "Jannik, report. How'd we come through the storm?"

"No problems down here, Captain. I heard we were bleeding hydrogen."

"I was just up checking and Tue already has the break under control. It looks like the gods were watching over us. They're sewing up the skin, but didn't detect a rip in the gas bag. I'll send someone up at daylight to test, but so far, we're all right."

****

After the storm, the trip proceeded with no real trouble. As the night advanced, Marlon finally calmed down enough to try and sleep. "Boys, I'm going back to my cabin. Wake me at five for the morning fix. I want to take it right at dawn. And let me know if you need anything, because I'm headed back past the galley."

The two men manning their stations just nodded and waved Marlon away. Eric grinned. "Go get some sleep. I'm just glad I'm not totally in charge like you are."

Marlon walked back to his cabin. At least I have a cabin. Most of the guys are sleeping in Annex One, between the frames. He took off his jacket, and threw himself on his bunk. He was asleep before they reached the ocean.

****

The dawn fix put them just exactly where they should be. Marlon sighed in relief. "Continue on course and let me know if anything changes."

The sea glittered in the sunlight. He could tell by looking at the crests of the waves below that the wind was blowing from behind them. He and the navigator were at the front of the bridge, doing the calculations for the morning.

Marlon picked up a chart. "According to my calculations, tomorrow's dawn should put us at the end of the     Arabian Sea before we have to cross the land to reach the Mediterranean. Make sure the navigation fixes are taken with care. I need to go back to my cabin and fill out some reports."

What he really did was amble into the galley for breakfast. They would be in the air for another couple of days, and he no longer felt as worried about finding his destination. Venice should be very easy to find, and they would be in radio contact quite some time before the city was in sight.

These days Estela felt comfortable enough with the whole crew that she didn't need to be by Gunnar's side at all times. This morning she was in the kitchen arguing with the cook.

"Henning, you may have cooked on board sailing ships before, but I'm telling you that you have overcooked my eggs. Let me show you what I mean."

And before the man could say another word, Estela had his pan in her hand and was cracking eggs into it over the fire. Marlon backed out of the galley quickly, knowing that he didn't want to be in the middle of that discussion. He hurried back to the night station, and got a cup of coffee and a roll. Lunch would come soon enough, and it was possible that by then the small storm that was buffeting the galley would be over.

****

Sunset brought them to within sight of the Arabian Peninsula. Marlon stood in the observation dome. The land was really inhospitable looking, only tiny patches of green as far as he could see.

He handed the binoculars back to Martin. "Alexander the Great lost almost his whole army down there. It seems almost unfair for us to travel it so easily."

He climbed down and went to the bridge. When he sat down in the command chair, he noticed that the helmsman and navigator were looking at each other. "What's up? You two look like you have a question. What is it?"

From his chart-filled table, Frode spoke up. "Martin told us on the speaking tube what you said in the dome. You talk of the greats of history as if you knew them."

Marlon settled in his chair. He relished discussions like this. "Well, history has always been something of a hobby of mine. I guess I've always wanted to see the places I've read about. I've always wondered what it was like, and what I would have done there."

He stood and walked over to the window next to the navigator's table. "And here we are flying over the very places where the history that I've studied happened. It's an astonishing feeling at times."

****

By midnight, Marlon saw that they were passing over a narrow strait, the Arabian Sea according to the maps. "Wake me up early for the navigation fix, like you did today."

Morning showed them still on course. He knew they were over Persian territory. Someday, this would be disputed territory between Iran and Iraq, but now it probably belonged to the Ottomans.

As the day progressed, the airship began to rise from the heat. Engineer Jannik stepped onto the bridge, and brought the situation to Marlon's attention. "Sir, we've gained almost a thousand feet, and not dropped any ballast. Should we bleed off the cells a little and maintain five thousand?"

Marlon stroked his beard. "Let the airship rise. I don't want to bleed off any hydrogen at this point in the journey. When it cools off, we'll sink again. We should be just fine. I don't think it'll push us up to the thinner air, so we won't have to use the hoses."

All day, the heat pushed the airship higher and higher. Below was almost endless broad desert, spread out in all directions. The dusk navigation fix came in with them pretty much where they were supposed to be according to the charts.

For some time Marlon had been staring out the window of the control gondola. He seemed to be examining the landscape very thoroughly, as if he was looking for landmarks.

The navigator stood beside him. "Sir, are we off course? What are you searching for?"

Marlon looked up as if he had been a long distance away. "No, we're fine, I'm not searching. I've just wanted to see this country for some years now. Ever since I read a couple of books back up-time."

He looked at the desert below. Then he saw it, a shadowy line of trees stretching off to the east. By then, Eric and Gunnar had joined them at the window.

"There it is. I'm sure of it." Marlon started grinning, and pointed to the ground. "Look down there on the river. That's the same line there. It's the canal that goes across toward the capital of Persia. It was once very important in trade to this part of the world. And if the book I read was accurate, then right there on the river there would've been a dam. In the story they broke it and flooded the whole river valley."

Gunnar looked down at the river. "This was from a book?"

Marlon nodded, his grin growing even bigger, if possible. "Yes, one of my favorites, as a matter of fact. It's a science-fiction book, in a series I was reading. There was a huge army besieging Babylon down the river from here. So the Romans broke the dam and the flood destroyed the invading army.

"It was a really good series. In fact, there was another book coming out. And then the Ring of Fire happened, and I never got my book. I have really wondered what was going to happen next. Traveling to India brought it all to mind. Guess I'll never find out, though. Not now."

****

Marlon stretched and grinned. "This is turning into a dream trip, with no problems. I'm going below to have dinner, and then read for a while. Wake me up at midnight. We need to make that turn north, so I'll take the midnight shift. That way I'll be here to watch for Cyprus to make our course correction."

At midnight, the course correction was made successfully. The waning moon was still almost full. It shone down on the Aegean sea and made Marlon think Homeric thoughts until dawn.

The dawn fix put them between Greece and the coast of Turkey. The day progressed with the sparkling Mediterranean shining perfectly blue under the Royal Anne. Weather showed no signs of danger, in fact there was hardly a cloud in sight.

Finally the coast of Italy was sighted. "Turn us north; we're coming home." Marlon was feeling exhilarated. He'd slept much of the day, and now everything seemed like a simple walk-through.

"We're . . . what? About four hundred miles out. Are you getting anything on the radio?"

Eric's answer came back. "Not yet, but we'll keep trying."

Later that afternoon, the radio station in Venice could be heard clearly. Marlon grinned from his command chair. "Well, if we can hear them, they can receive us. Contact the embassy in Venice and tell them we're coming in to land. And tell the factor for the Stone family that I've got his package."

****

If the first arrival of the airship in Venice had been treated with fanfare, the second arrival was almost unbelievable. The airship arrived over Venice just before sunset, and the crowds were in the streets, on the bridges, and in boats on the canals all over the city.

Gunnar swung the airship to come in from down wind and ease up to the mast. The docking maneuver was almost routine. Marlon hung out a window, and shouted to the crowd below, "We have indeed returned from far India."

The crowd cheered wildly, and Marlon was almost beyond giddy at having succeeded such a great flight.

****

Marlon told the crew that if they got everything off-loaded and reloaded by four o'clock, they could all have a six-hour pass. They worked like maniacs, and cleared the decks by three thirty.

Finally he was alone onboard. He knew that someone had pulled the short straw, and was sitting on the observation deck. But otherwise, it was nice to have some real quiet. Marlon was planning to speak with Reva on the radio after dark.

By 10:15, almost everyone had reported back to the ship. Estela had not gone far, just meeting some of the women of the island, and exchanging gossip about the trip and the trading.

Eric tapped on Marlon's door. "Captain, Gunnar's not back yet. Everybody else is accounted for, and several of them are already asleep so they can be up and about for the night shift. But nobody's seen Gunnar."

"Nobody? Where's Estela?" Marlon was already pulling on his boots. He'd had a little nap after calling Reva, and he felt a little confused and sleepy.

"She's in her cabin, crying her eyes out. Nobody can get a word out of her, except in Portuguese. And since none of us understands a word she's saying, we're not sure what's happened."

"Okay, Eric. I'll see what I can do." Marlon ambled down the corridor to Estela's room. He could hear sobbing as he came to the door and knocked.

The door flew open, but he watched as the hope in the girl's eyes faded as she was faced, not with her Gunnar, but only with the old captain.

"No, Herr Pridmore, I don't know where Gunnar is. I'm beginning to think that he has deserted me, and is running away. Why else would he disappear and not come back? He wouldn't tell me where he was planning to go, he just said that he had some business, and couldn't tell me what it was." Estela returned to her bed to sob into her pillow. Marlon resisted the urge to pat her shoulder, and went to the bridge.

There he found Claus and Frode with their heads together, whispering. He strode over, and grabbed their collars. "All right, boys. You know Gunnar better than anyone on this airship. You've been friends with him from before you were recruited. You know where he went. Out with it. What's going on?"

The cook and the navigator looked up, with guilt all over their faces. For at least thirty seconds, neither one said anything. Finally, Claus looked at Frode. "I'm going to tell him. I think Gunnar's in trouble."

Marlon let go of their shirts and sat down. And before Frode could stop him, Claus looked Marlon in the eye. "Gunnar went down on the docks to find out what he could about Estela's father. He's in love with the girl, and thinks that with his pay from this voyage, he'll have enough to get a house, and propose marriage. But before he can do that, he needs to speak to whatever family she has left."

Marlon knew that the two young people were very firmly attached to each other. He just didn't know that Gunnar was fully ready for such a big step. "I'm glad you told me, Claus. I may be able to find him, and get him back aboard before we launch. You two stay on this ship. I don't want to be looking for more than one at a time."

****

Marlon called the USE embassy by radio. By the time he reached the canal, a group of men met him, ready to search. First they went to all the Portuguese ships in the harbor, and then to all the factors that handled Portuguese goods.

Finally, around one in the morning, Gunnar was located. He was haggling with an old Arab over the price of a small gold ring. The Arab was trying to hold him up for more money than the young man had. But with the arrival of several bullies from the Murano, he relented, and sold the ring to Gunnar for a good price.

Marlon met the rescue party at the foot of the ramp. When Gunnar saw him, his shoulders sagged. He stood in front of his captain like a prisoner facing a firing squad.

"Gunnar, just tell me. Are you really serious about marrying this girl?" Marlon's voice was not that of the angry commander, but more like a friend of the family.

Gunnar's eyes lit up at the thought of Estela. "Oh, yes, sir. I can't think of anything I want more that that."

"Well, that's fine, Gunnar. For as long as I've known you, you've always been a very dependable young man. I think you will make a good husband. But tell me what you found out about her father."

"It was the same story all over the Portuguese dock. Her father was killed in a struggle with the pirates, and she has no other close relatives. Even if the pirates had been able to find someone and demand ransom, they wouldn't have gotten it. She would have been sold into slavery if we hadn't . . ." Gunnar's eyes were clouded with a mixture of anger and unshed tears.

Marlon said, "I see. Well, you're late returning to duty, but I'll overlook it this time. Just don't let it happen again."

****

Gunnar cleared his throat. "Sir, I wish to ask for Estela's hand. I have a good job as helmsman of the greatest airship in the world. I have a small piece of land that was left to me by my paternal grandfather, and intend to build a small house on it for our family. If something should happen to me that I would be unable to work on the airship, I have training as a dock worker, and I would still be able to support Estela and our children."

Marlon nodded. "That all sounds good, Gunnar. But I need to know how you feel. Is this a financial arrangement in order to inherit whatever claims she still may possess of her family's holdings? Or do you care about the girl herself?"

Gunnar blinked tears from his eyes. "Sir, from the moment I saw her, and pulled her from that wagon, I have loved her. She is beautiful, and smart . . . she will argue with anyone if she thinks she is right. And I heard from Chander just exactly what she did to negotiate for our fuel oil. I'm reminded of it every time I climb up to the Annex and pass the engine room, because I can smell the toasted butter smell of the ghee. I love her, and I can't imagine living without her."

Marlon stood up and grinned. "That's what I was hoping to hear. Let's go find your girl, and tell her that she has my blessing to marry you, if she's foolish enough to be willing to take responsibility for your foolishness."

Estela had come out of her room when she heard Marlon's voice, and when she saw Gunnar, she launched herself at him from ten feet away.

It took a little bit of untangling, but as soon as Gunnar had set her on her feet, he went to his knee. He looked up at the light of his life. "Estela, will you consent to marry me?"

Estella stopped a sob by pressing very hard on her lips. "You mean it? Even though I'm an orphan? There may not be any . . ."

"I don't care! All I want is you!"

Estella let the sob escape, then threw her arms around Gunnar. "Oh, yes. Yes, yes, Gunnar. I'll marry you!"

****

As the sun came up, there was a sense of tension onboard that Marlon had not felt before. More of the crew were at the windows, watching the mountains slide by.

On the bridge, Eric, Gunnar and the navigator were all distracted as well. Everyone was impatient to get home. Marlon went to the window and pointed. "There! That's the Zugspitz, the highest of the alps. Now we can turn north. Bring us about."

It was about three in the afternoon when Marlon caught sight of Copenhagen. Kerchiefs waved from every window, and the city was prepared. Flags were flying and cannons were fired from the walls as the airship appeared. Mobs of people crowded around the Flughaven, and filled the streets of the city.

Marlon said, "Gunnar, Bring the airship around downwind, and dock us. We're home."

****

Marlon and his crew marched down the carpet like conquering heroes. He bowed to King Christian, and then handed His Majesty a packet covered with ribbons and seals. With a look of pride, he turned and announced, "Tons of cargo, and not a man lost."

King Christian grinned like a lion, contemplating the cargo in front of him. "Captain Pridmore, Denmark is proud of your efforts."

"Your Majesty, I present Eric Strand, flight engineer. Jannik Lynnggard, Chief Engineer. Gunnar Ibsen, Helmsman. Frode Nillsen, navigator."

The introductions continued until each man had bowed to the monarch. The last down the stairs was Roelant Crappé with Estela on his arm.

Marlon turned to the King. "Your Majesty, this is Herr Roelant Crappé. And he is accompanied by Senhorita Estela Diaz Sansão."

"Marlon, you amaze me. No matter what miracles you do, you always have one more up your sleeve. How did you manage to have such a beautiful woman to distract me from the cargo you brought home?"

Marlon cleared his throat a little. "Well, Your Majesty, it wasn't exactly planned. We had occasion to rescue her from Ottoman slavers. We just couldn't let those heathens have such a flower of Christendom."

"Very nice. We have planned a celebration in the palace. Please have all your men attend. There are people here that can handle the ship and its cargo. Get them cleaned up and ready for the party. And of course, bring this young lady along."

After being dismissed, Marlon excused himself from the rest of the crew. "I've got something onboard I've got to take care of right quick. Get yourselves over to the palace."

****

Marlon finally got up to one of the seawalls that was near the airfield. There sat Reva, just as he thought she would. Reva was never one for large crowds and a lot of speeches. "I got you something special. Here, tell me what you think."

Reva laughed. "Never mind that, Swordfish. I get a hug, first, don't I?"

Marlon wrapped his arms around his wife, and swung her around in a circle, kissing her as if he hadn't seen her in a year. Then he set her on the ground and handed her a leather sack. It had a small blue ribbon that tied it shut.

"What's this now?" Reva's eyes were sparkling like they had when he asked her to marry him so many years ago. Upon opening the package, she pulled out several smaller packets. "What's all of this?"

Marlon just grinned. "You've just got to open everything, I guess."

Reva pulled out containers of spices, some jewelry, and one more piece, wrapped in brown paper.

"Oh, I think you'll like this one the best." Marlon held out his hands for everything else, so Reva could open the brown paper. As she pulled away the wrapping, silk as blue as the Mediterranean Sea flowed out. It seemed to go on forever.

"Oh, Marlon, this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." She grabbed him and nearly knocked the silk and the spices to the ground in her efforts to give him another kiss.

After a long moment, Marlon let go. "I've been invited to the palace for some kind of party. Want to go?"

Reva laughed. "Do you think I can smuggle you out early?"

"That's the best idea I've heard all day."

****

The Aqualator

Written by Rick Boatright

    

Being number 11 in the series

"What the up-timers don't know that they know"

Fr Nicholas Smithson SJ and Br Johann OSB

Number 11: On Computing, March 1633

A feature of the up-time world that many down-timers long for is their electronics. From radios to phonographs, from public address systems to telephones, from calculators to laptops, everyone longs for the things that come from tubes, transistors and integrated circuits.

In particular we long for the integrated circuit. By the early 1970s up-timer technology had matured past the thermionic valve (the vacuum tube) and the transistor to embrace ICs. Both general purpose ICs and "application specific" ICs were used in almost every device.

Why were ICs so popular with up-time engineers? Prior to the invention of the integrated circuit making complex devices from tubes and even individual transistors was difficult. Some applications required thousands of transistors to be hand-wired into circuits, with an equally large number of other components like resistors and capacitors. The work was time-consuming, error prone, costly and jeopardized reliability.

Another problem—what engineers called “the tyranny of numbers”—also existed. The sheer number of a system’s interconnected transistors and other devices prevented progress. Their size and weight often precluded their use in many devices. Prior to integrated circuits, commercially available computers filled rooms and required other rooms of equipment to provide cooling and power. If one component failed in those rooms full of parts, the entire system could be compromised.

Jack Kilby's invention in 1958 of the integrated circuit made obsolete the hand-soldering of thousands of components, while allowing for Henry Ford-style mass production. In particular, designers wishing to use digital logic for controls and computation were freed to build devices with thousands and even tens of thousands of circuit elements while decreasing size and cost and increasing reliability.

However, we have no illusions that the wonders of the IC age will come to us soon. The refining of single crystal silicon and germanium, the production of masks, circuit boards, and even standard resistors and capacitors are years away. For the next decade at least (and perhaps longer) we of the USE find ourselves in the tube era, and for most of that era tubes will be fragile, hand built and expensive. In regard to electronics, we find ourselves faced not simply with the tyranny of numbers, but the tyranny of scarcity.

This scarcity hits us hardest in field of computation.

Computationally intensive professions such as engineers, designers, architects and aviators, businesses like banking and retail and wholesale trade long for the ease of electronic calculation. The cheapest up-time giveaway four-function calculators are sold across Europe at prices which would ransom a Count. Slide-rules and mechanical calculators are a poor substitute at best, and down-time produced adding machines use scarce machine tools and materials and in any event as yet fare poorly against a skilled abacus operator. What is needed is a substitute for the transistor, and the integrated circuit; something that can be produced now in adequate numbers and with inexpensive resources.

We offer a possible path to a solution.

In the mid 1960s and into the 1970s, lead by researchers at Bendix corporation, a series of developments resulted in the entirety of computer logic elements being designed and built entirely out of unmoving grooves in a solid substrate through which a fluid was pumped. These "fluidic" devices depended on the "coanda effect" (the tendency for a moving fluid to cling to a surface).

An entire suite of fluidic devices was designed including all the critical elements of computer logic; NAND and NOR gates, flip flops, adders, shift registers and more.

While not the subject of this paper, the authors note that fluidic amplifiers were designed and built which could amplify sound cleanly and with reasonable precision with no electronics and no moving parts.

However, up-time, these technologies were a solution in search of a problem. Jack Kirby had already invented the integrated circuit, transistors were everywhere, small powerful batteries could be purchased in every corner market. What need had they for devices that depended on leaky messy streams of fluids, pumps and other complexities? Fluidics was consigned to odd corners of the up-timers' world in the nozzles of ink-jet printers, the control systems of expensive cars' windshield washers and custom built control systems for airplanes which would not die from an electromagnetic pulse during an atomic bomb attack.

No, the up-timers rightly let fluidics languish in the corners of their minds, eventually forgotten by the mass of up-timers.

This forgetfulness need not be the case in our world. Coanda effect devices are essentially two-dimensional and can be pressed with molds into wet clay. The first four-function electronic calculators used a few-hundred transistors. The equivalent device, a four-function calculator made of fluidic gates pressed into clay, powered by water can be made on a clay tablet less than a yard square. (if properly designed, this square yard of clay could be cut into nine parts and stacked into a 1 foot by 1 foot by six inch stack.) A "keyboard" of small valves would control input and output could be to a printer or a set of spinning wheels.

We choose to name this imaginary device the "Aqualator."

Logic diagrams for such a calculator, drawings of the required fluidic logic elements, pumps, indicators, and valves are available at the Grantville research center for the usual prices.

Looking farther ahead, the first "personal" computer, the Altair based on the Intel 8080 computer chip was approximately as complex as the first commercially available vacuum tube computer, the Univac. Both had between 5000 and 6000 logic elements (tubes or transistors). An Altair level fluidic computer of 6000 devices along with 1K of fluidic random access memory would, with some research and refinement require not more than two square yards of pressed clay. (These could be quartered and stacked into a cube little more than 1 foot on a side.) Expanding the ram to 16K can be done using a parallel system "buss" of piping to a second cubic foot of fired clay. The developers will, of course have the privilege of naming such a device once commercially available, but thinking of the Altair, we propose a similarly astronomical name with an aquatic bent: Aquarius.

The Aqualator calculator should run at speeds approximating those of up-time hand-held calculators. Essentially, "as fast as you push the buttons."

The Aquarius' clock speed is limited by the speed of sound in water, rather than the speed of light as in electronic devices. In order for all parts of the device to be in sync, the maximum clock speed has to be half-or-less of the time for a signal to travel from one end of the device to another. Sound, in water travels at 1500 meters per second, so, since the Aquarius is about a meter from one side to the other (following the channels inside the block) the clock frequency of the Aquarius will be 1500 Hz, or about 1/650 the speed of the Altair. A program which ran to completion on an Altair in 1 hour will require twenty-six days to complete. Switching to glycerin instead of water can increase the speed, and reduce the running time by 25%. An Aquarius running on molten zinc at approximately 800 °F almost doubles the clock speed and halves the run-time. The technical details of filtering and pumping molten zinc without exposure to air we leave to the engineers.

Optimization of code, and the implementation of parallel processing will be far more important to fluidic computer designers and programmers than it was up-time.

No complete logic diagram for a programmable computer came through the Ring of Fire, however all the elements of a computer are represented in various up-time documents. These have been collected into a single source document which is available at the Grantville research center at the usual prices.

Conclusion: Once again, a solution is presented to us near complete by the up-timers, unaware of what they brought us and the riches contained in it.

Respectfully submitted:

Nicholas Smithson, Society of Jesus

Johann, Order of Saint Benedict

References:

Popular Mechanics, July 1967, page 114+ http://bit.ly/cPTomX (Google Books)

Programmable Water, Paulo Blickstein http://www.blikstein.com/paulo/projects/project_water.html

A Description of Several Fluidic Breadboards Built to Investigate Transmission Information Over One Tube, Authors: Larry F. Zimmerman; NAVAL AVIONICS FACILITY INDIANAPOLIS IND August 1968.

AUTOMATION OF MACHINES BY MEANS OF PNEUMATIC LOGIC ELEMENTS (UTOMATIZACE STROJU PNEUMATICKYMI LOGICKYMI CLENY), Authors: Ondrej Brychta; FOREIGN TECHNOLOGY DIV WRIGHT-PATTERSON AFB OH, November 1967

Operation, Application and Production of Fluid Logic Elements and Amplifiers. Authors: R. W. Hatch Jr; FOREIGN TECHNOLOGY DIV WRIGHT-PATTERSON AFB OH September 1967.

The Multihull and the Mariner

Written by Iver P. Cooper

    

The conventional sailing ship has a single hull. However, multihulls—two or more hulls joined together by a deck or poles—can be found in the seventeenth century in both the Indian Ocean and the South Pacific.

The chief advantage of the multihull is extreme lateral stability, which in turn means that it can carry more sail over narrower hulls, and can forego ballast. Thus, it can be built for high speed.

The twentieth century debate over whether multihulls are better than monohulls was about as passionate as the seventeenth century theological ones of the Catholics and the Protestants. (Fortunately, monohullers aren't allowed to burn multihull advocates at the stake.)

Multihull Missions

First, I am going to try to whet your appetite for learning more about multihulls by talking about the missions that they conceivably could be designed to perform. After that, I will talk about the types of multihulls, their history, and the nitty-gritty of designing them. Expect this section to be optimistic in tone; I will talk about problems later.

Courier. The racing catamaran designs could be adapted for use as military couriers. Since these carry information, not goods, they can be designed with the light displacement necessary for planing. They will rely on their speed to evade enemy warships.

Landing Craft. Small Hawaiian catamarans were able to reach land despite heavy surf, when conventional ship's boats were forced to stay offshore. (Morton 63).

Passenger/Vehicle/Fast Freight Transport. In 1997, 43% of the high-speed ferry fleet were catamarans. (Sahoo). The benefits of the catamaran design include large deck areas, shallow draft, high stability, and energy-efficient high-speed power cruising (Van Leer). It's not a very large step from a passenger ferry to a troop transport. A multihull could be used, like a nineteenth century clipper, to carry perishable or high value/low density cargo.

Tankers. The high initial stability of multihulls, especially catamarans, gives them an advantage in carrying liquids, which can slop around and destabilize an ordinary ship.

Warships. Multihulls should be more stable firing platforms, and if adequately powered, they are faster than monohulls. And the cross-structure deck area provides room for additional armament. (See "Fighting Ability" below.)

Offshore Drilling. The open deck of a catamaran could be a drilling platform for exploratory drilling in lakes, rivers, and shallow coastal waters. Examples would be Caddo Lake, Louisiana; the delta region in Nigeria; Lake Maracaibo, and the waters off Long Beach, California. The catamaran could have a "well" at its center, where motion is minimized, for lowering a drill. (Van Leer).

Aircraft Carrier. The open deck of a multihull might be handy for launching a tethered balloon. This could be used for both observation and communication. In 2003, the trimaran RV Triton was used as the launch vessel for a manned balloon. (See "Air Support" below.)

Types of Multihulls

The catamaran has two equal-size "demihulls," whereas the proa has a main hull and a single, narrower outrigger. In the standard catamaran, the hulls are side-by-side, but hulls can be staggered (bow of one forward of the bow of the other) to reduce wave resistance. In the extreme variant, the "Weinblum," the stern of one hull is forward of the bow of the other. There has also been experimentation with asymmetric hull shapes. (Zaraphonitis).

The trimaran has three hulls. These could be equal-sized, but more usually they are a main hull and two narrower outriggers. The outrigger hulls can be shorter than the main hull, and they can also be set in an arrow configuration with their midsections aft of the main hull midsection. In an extreme version, their bows are aft of the stern of the main hull, as in Cousteau's Alcyone, so what you have is a "monocat," with a single hull fore and two hulls aft.

The four-hulled tetramaran has been the subject of some theoretical analysis. You could have, side-by-side, either four identical hulls, or two main hulls like a catamaran as well as two outriggers like a trimaran. Or a two-by-two, with two leading hulls and two trailing hulls. Or modify that into a blunt arrow ("slice") configuration, by placing the trailing hulls further apart. Or make a "diamond": four identical hulls, with the two central hulls virtually nose-to-tail, and the other two hulls flanking them.

A pentamaran has five hulls. In the Nigel Gee designs, it has one central hull and four short outriggers ("sponsons"). One pair, kayak-shaped, flanks the midsection of the main hull, and the other pair, rowboat-shaped, follows behind it. When the ship is upright, the aft sponsons kiss the water, but the forward sponsons are above it (Gee). I have seen theoretical analysis of a pentamaran with one large, two medium, and two small hulls, all side-by-side.

Multihull History

Pre-Ring of Fire Asia

In 1521, Magellan encountered the single outrigger (proa) canoes of Guam, which a Spanish chronicler likened to "dolphins, jumping from wave to wave." (Levinson, 84). In 1616, Le Maire and Schouten saw a Tongan double canoe (catamaran), and another was seen by Abel Tasman in 1643. As for double outrigger canoes (trimarans), Drake saw them in 1579 in the Caroline Islands (Morton 75), and Tasman saw them near New Ireland (59). There is also an Easter Island petroglyph depicting a double canoe, possibly with one mast per hull. (Kane).

It is likely that even in this early period there were numerous variations, from one Pacific island to another, in hull shape and crossbeam design (Harvey 5; Morton 59–76).

The proas were fast; Anson thought they could make twenty knots (Morton 72). And Polynesian multhulls weren't just fishing boats; some were over 100 feet long (63), and could carry several hundred men (63). Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century pirates, from Borneo, Malaya and the Philippines, used proas much as the Barbary Coast corsairs used xebecs; to overwhelm sailing ships that were becalmed.(Morton 76; Warren, 170).

OTL Europe and America

The first European proa was built in 1860. Proas are capable of planing; Munroe's thirty-foot 1898 proa could travel at eighteen knots (2.5 times hull speed).

European experiments with catamaran designs date back at least to the 1660s, when Sir William Petty (1623–87) built three single-masted, double-bottomed catamarans, Invention I (1662; 30'LOA, 1.75 tons), Invention II (1662; 30 tons, carries 30 men; hulls 20' x 2'), and The Experiment (60'L, 16 guns). The Invention II won a race with the Holyhead-Dublin packet boat, and The Experiment held its own with three fast vessels of similar size. (IWHR; McMullen 24). The Experiment was able to "come within less than five points of the compass, some say very much less." (A square rigger typically couldn't sail closer than six points of the wind.)

In the 1780s, Patrick Miller constructed a large catamaran (235 tons; 100'L, 31'B, five masts with square sails and five paddle wheels between the hulls). Miller also built the first European trimaran.

Robert Fulton built a peculiar 20-odd gun steam battery, the Demologos (1814). While it has been called a "catamaran" by many popular sources, it would be more accurate to think of it as a monohull divided longitudinally into three compartments; the middle one, which was 15 feet wide, holding the paddlewheels. This was partially flooded as a result of water welling up through a 66 feet long "race" at the bottom. (Photos NH74702, NH65481, NH61883; Bauer 53). The point of the design was to protect the paddlewheels from enemy fire. However, the middle compartment would have greatly reduced the lateral stability provided by the large beam; if the ship heeled, the water would surge, shifting the center of gravity in the destabilizing direction.

Colonel Stevens used a trimaran "horseboat" on the Hoboken ferry line in 1814. In essence, the horses were on a treadmill and this turned the paddle wheels between the center and side hulls. (Baxter. 19). The same line also employed a double-ended catamaran steamboat. The hulls were 80 feet long, 10 feet across, and 5 feet deep, with a hull separation of 10 feet (so the deck across the hulls was 20 feet wide). The waterwheel was between the hulls, and there was a cabin 50 feet long and 10 feet wide. (20).

In 1862, a catamaran snagboat was converted into the ironclad river gunboat USS Benton, and served as Commodore Foote's flagship. But it appears that the builder used the old catamaran hulls "as a pair of bracers," connecting them at both top and bottom. (Konstam 10; Slagle 190).

A very large twin-hulled ship (290 feet long, 60 feet wide), the steamer Castalia, was launched in 1874. She had a draft of only six feet, which let her freely enter "tide-controlled" ports. Nonetheless, she was resistant to rolling. (Rogers 65–7).

In 1876, Nathaniel Herreshoff's Amaryllis (24'L) catamaran won the New York Yacht Club's Centennial race against over thirty monohulls, ranging up to 40' long. The racing officials disqualified it, and later barred all catamarans.

However, multihulls made a serious comeback after World War II, thanks to "new" materials such as aluminum, plywood, fiberglass and most recently carbon fiber composite. They are popular for private racing and cruising, and dominate the passenger ferry market. Nonetheless, few warships and no dedicated cargo ships are multihulls.

Will their fate be different in the new time line?

Multihulls in Canon

According to canon (1633, Chap. 4), the timberclads used in the Baltic War campaign are catamarans, with paddle wheels positioned in-between their hulls. Unfortunately, we know nothing about their dimensions. Their success will give the catamaran design a certain degree of credibility that it would not have possessed previously.

As for the ironclads, Simpson ". . . built them around what was effectively a double hull. Each of the propulsive pumps—and the tunnel in which it worked—occupied its own individual "pod," separated from the rest of the hull (and from one another) in order to prevent them from being disabled by a single hit or hull breach. It was almost a catamaran effect. . . ." (1634:The Baltic War, Chap. 44). This sounds much like the Demologos or Benton.

The ironclads are "low, squat," "slab-sided," looking something like the CSS Virginia (although probably lacking a ram). The dimensions are 500 tons displacement, about 120 feet long, and minimum draft (with trim tanks empty and centerboard up) of 4 or 5 feet. (1633, Chap. 28; 1634: The Baltic War, Chaps. 31, 52). I would guess a maximum beam of 30–40 feet, because of river travel limitations. I suspect that they are smaller but more heavily armored versions of the Union "City-Class" ironclads.

Principal Dimensions

The basic parameters of the catamaran are its length, depth of hold, and hull width and spacing. (For a trimaran there is also the size ratio of the hulls.) Its effective beam, for stability purposes, is the sum of the hull widths and the clear space between them. The weight of the ship and its contents will determine its displacement and thus its draft.

Modern pleasure catamarans have length/overall beam ratios about 1.5–2:1 (with racers up to 3:1), and trimarans 1–1.5:1 (Shuttleworth; McMullen 56). A wide beam is advantageous from the standpoint of stability and wave interaction, and disadvantageous in terms of stress on the cross-structure. Generally speaking, the trimaran will have a greater overall beam than a catamaran of equal length, because the stresses are divided over two connecting structures. (Harvey 41, 60).

Pleasure catamaran demihulls are slim, with length/width ratios in the range of 8–16:1, with 10–13:1 being most common. For trimaran main hulls, that ratio is 8–10:1. (Harvey 58ff; White 53ff).

According to a 1990 commercial catamaran survey (two-thirds fast ferries), the ships were mainly 10–40 meters, with length/hull width 6–12:1, depth/draft 1.5–3.5:1, and centerline hull separation of 20–45% demihull length and 150–240% demihull width. (Insel 13ff). Catamaran fast ferries constructed 1994–2003 had waterline lengths of 37–106m, and beams of 9–30m. They carried 150–1200 passengers and 10–312 cars. (Soare 1184).

Cross-Structure

An open-deck (OD) multihull provides a minimal cross structure; a network of rods, springs or cables that connect the hulls, and some kind of net or trampoline surface so that the crew can scramble from one hull to another. This cross-structure is very vulnerable to the forces that drive the hulls apart (see "Structural Integrity"). Herreshoff provided joints which allowed for a certain amount of independent rolling and pitching of the hulls, thereby reducing the stress on the connections (USP189459; Kemp 353).

The next step up is a flat solid-deck (SD). This offers greater strength, and can carry deck cargo or armament. If the ship rolls over enough to "fly" a hull out of the water, the exposed underside increases the windage and thus the risk of a capsize

The most elaborate cross-structure is a higher profile "bridge-deck" (BD); it provides an enclosed area for crew or cargo and thus has at least two decks (floor and ceiling). Hence, both the roof and floor ("wet deck") of the bridge are holding the hulls together. A high profile deck adds weight and increases windage but, if it remains watertight, provides reserve buoyancy.

A full bridge-deck is one that runs the entire length of the hull and is common in catamaran ferries. A pleasure boat is more likely to have a short, highly streamlined bridge. Usually, there is just netting in the forward third of the ship, so a wave can't push the bow up.

****

The so-called SWATH (small waterplane area twin hull) design, invented in 1938 (as Frederick Creed's proposal for an aircraft carrier!), combines an elaborate cross-structure with underwater hulls. This isolates the hulls from wave motion (if the hulls are deep enough), but of course it also increases draft, and you need one long (Duplus-type) or two shorter (Kaimalino-type) wing-shaped vertical struts to connect each hull to the cross-structure. In 2000, about fifty SWATH ships were in operation or construction (Dinsmore). A variable draft SWATH has ballast control, like a submarine, so it can either rise up to enter shallow harbors or sink down to minimize wave response.

****

If the side hulls of a trimaran are the same height as the main hull, then a deck can be built across all three.

If the side hulls are shorter, there are three options. First, the side hulls may be suspended directly from the crossdeck, drawing less water than the main hull. (See USS Independence, 2008). Secondly, they can be mounted on vertical or curved struts that come down from the main deck so the keels are even. Finally, they can be mounted on wings that extend from one of the lower decks of the main hull.

You can also build SWA trimarans; you can put just the main hull underwater, or just the outriggers, or all three hulls. (Dubrovsky).

Stability and Seaworthiness

A ship can heel over (tilt to one side) as a result of crosswind pressure on sails, waves coming against the beam, recoil from firing a broadside, and turning. A self-powered catamaran doesn't have to worry about the first of these, but the others still apply.

The great advantage of the multihull is lateral stability (resistance to heeling). Imagine a monohull ship in the form of a rectangular block that floats in water. If you cut the original hull in half lengthwise, and connect the halves with some lightweight crossbeam, the resulting catamaran has the same length, displacement and draft as the original multihull, yet the metacentric height (initial stability is metacentric height times displacement) is increased. If the space between the halves is equal to the total widths of the hulls, thus doubling the effective beam, the increase in metacentric radius is 4.8-fold (Biran 65), and, if depth is half-breadth, density 0.5, and center of gravity at half-draft, the increase in metacentric height is seven-fold. The improvement in stability is such that a multihull doesn't have to carry ballast.

The Navy conducted a study of the effect of prolonged wave-induced rolling. Only 10 degrees roll cut crew efficiency by 50%; 20 degrees by 80%. (White 23).

On the other hand, a multihull does have some seakeeping weaknesses. If the freeboard (height of main deck above water) is unchanged, then simple geometry dictates that because of the greater beam, the deck is immersed at a lesser angle, and stability decreases after that immersion angle is passed. The heel angle of maximum stability might be 6 degrees for a catamaran, 20 for a trimaran, and 60 for a monohull (Shuttleworth).

Likewise, multihulls are likely to have a lower angle of vanishing stability (heel angle at which the ship no longer has a tendency to right itself) than a corresponding monohull. Nonetheless, the dynamic stability (total work which a wind or wave must do in order to capsize the ship might be 50% more for a multihull than a monohull.

Monohull warships have a relatively high center of gravity because of armor and armament. This would reduce their range of stability if they weren't given a large metacentric height to compensate. This makes them "stiff"; if they heel over, they will snap back too fast and this can cause discomfort for those on board, or even dismast a sailing ship. Having a short roll period also means that they are more likely to encounter sea conditions in which the wave period matches the roll period, and that exacerbates the rolling motion. (Atwood, 69ff).

Multihulls naturally have a large metacentric height. However, the roll period is lengthened if there's a lot of weight distant from the roll axis. That's certainly true of an open-deck catamaran, which has almost all its weight in the hulls (Shuttleworth), and it's true to a lesser degree of trimarans and catamarans with elaborate crossdecks. (A tall mast helps, too. White 194).

A ship pitches as well as rolls. Because ships are longer than they are broad, they have more resistance to pitching. Because multihulls are squatter than monohulls, their pitch period is closer to their roll period, and this can result in a very unpleasant motion called "corkscrewing." This can be alleviated by redistribution of weight.

A multihull running with too much sail up can pitchpole (somersault forwards). Pitchpoling can also be caused by the bow being buried in rough seas, which is why you don't want to have a simple solid crossdeck extend all the way to the ends.

Monohull proponents complain that if a multihull capsizes, its multihull's lateral stability becomes a disadvantage, as it's just as stable upside-down as rightside-up. Multihull fans retort that a monohull is just as stable on the ocean floor as on the surface.

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SWATH designs will have a larger beam than a conventional catamaran of the same displacement to compensate for their relatively small waterplane area, which determines their initial resistance to wind-induced heeling. (swath.com). However, because the SWATH hulls are deep underwater, they are virtually immune to wave action.

Propulsion

Multihulls can be powered by the wind (as captured by sails) or be self-powered by combustion of fossil fuel.

Trimarans are essentially monohulls with outriggers, and the mast(s), if any, will be placed on the main hull.

For sailing catamarans, there are two choices. First, to place the mast in the center, i.e., on the cross-structure. If the multihull is open-deck, the main beam, on which the mast rests, must be strong enough to support it. Indeed, the Hawaiians, working with wood, stepped the mast on a longitudinal beam that distributed the downward thrust over three or more crossbeams. (Kane).

The second option is to put the mast(s) on the hulls. In the "biplane" (parallel) mast array (DUO 425), there's one mast on each main hull. The problem is that the masts can only be stayed on the "inboard" side. A variant on this are A-shaped "bipod" masts (SMG50), in which the masts are mounted on the hulls but meet above the crossdeck.

It is worth noting that by putting two short masts on the hulls, rather one long one on the cross-deck, you lower the center of effort and therefore reduce the "heeling" action of the wind (see Stability).

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The first transatlantic record-setting self-powered ships used a steam engine to drive a paddle wheel (Great Western 1838, 14 knots); later ones powered a propeller (Napoleon 1857, 20 knots). The steam engine was replaced, first with a steam turbine (Mauretania 1907, 25 knots), then with a diesel engine (Normandie 1935, 30 knots). Large warships in which the was driven by a gas turbine (which has a high power to weight ratio) appeared on the scene in the Sixties. Finally, the propeller was replaced with a hydrojet, powered by a diesel engine (catamaran Hoverspeed Great Britain 1990, 37 knots) or a gas turbine (monohull Destriero 1992, 53 knots). (Pinder 143).

Paddlewheels can be placed between the hulls for protection, but propellers and hydrojets would probably be mounted on the hulls themselves. This is problematic in the case of SWATH designs; "until very recently it has been very difficult to package much power in the submerged bodies." (Friedman).

Simpson's timberclads had paddlewheels, whereas the ironclads "used powerful diesel-driven pumps scavenged from the Grantville coal mine to provide hydro-jet propulsion."

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On a hybrid (sail/steam) ship, it's advantageous to be able to lift the paddlewheel or propeller out of the water when sails are in use, to reduce resistance. Patrick Miller's Edinburgh trimaran had paddlewheels whose immersion could be varied. And the CSS Alabama had liftable screws.

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On a hydrofoil-supported catamaran ("hysucat"), foils generate lift, like airplane wings, once the ship is in motion (Hoppe). Foils can be mounted below more conventional underwater hulls (see sailing biplane catamarans Techniques Avancées and Spitfire), or suspended ("midfoil") from the cross-structure. To maintain pitch stability, two foils are better than one (Loveday 5).

Speed

In light winds, sailing multihulls are slower than monohulls of equal displacement because the two hulls experience greater frictional resistance. As winds pick up, multihulls can surpass the monohulls, because they can safely carry more sail (if the hulls are spaced far enough apart). Because of the great beam, the trimaran can carry more sail without capsizing, and thus has a higher maximum speed than a catamaran of equal length. However, three hulls cost more than two, and on a fixed budget, you may need to choose between a longer catamaran and a shorter trimaran.

For racing sail, the trimarans are superior in light winds (the outriggers are barely in the water and resistance is like that of a monohull) and the catamarans beat them when winds strengthen. (Howard 5).

In 1905, the three masted 56m schooner Atlantic (300 tonnes, 41.18 m LWL, 8.85m beam, 1720m² sail; Ancko) established a record run of 12 days, four hours (10 knots) for the 2950 mile run from New York to Falmouth. The record, first broken by a trimaran in 1980, has been held exclusively by catamarans since 1988, and is now (2006) held by the catamaran Orange II, which made the passage in 4 days, 8 hours (28 knots). The same ship also holds the round-the-world record (50 days, 16 hours) and the 24 hour record (706 miles). Orange II has length 36.8m, beam 18m, mast height 45m, and 700 m² upwind and 1000 m² downwind sail area. (multiplast; Bernard Gallay Yacht Brokerage).

Of course, Orange II is strictly a racer. Her displacement was 28 tons light, 30 tons fully loaded, for her 2005 round-the-world record journey (50 days, 16 hours). And to achieve that low displacement, her hull, deck and sparring are all carbon composite. A catamaran intended to carry cannon or cargo would have a much lower sail power-to-displacement ratio, and wouldn't have this turn of speed.

That said, any monohull whose maximum speed is limited by its ability to safely carry sail rather than its hull speed could be improved on by "slicing it in half" and redesigning it as a multihull.

The problem of frictional resistance can be alleviated by using a hull of semicircular cross-section (McMullen 35), the circle being the shape that provides the lowest ratio of perimeter to area and thus the least wetted surface for a given carrying capacity. (For stability reasons, a monohull can't have that shape unless it's heavily ballasted.) Even then, two hulls will experience about 40% more frictional resistance than a monohull of the same displacement and length (Stevens). The world's largest sailing catamaran had about 50% more wetted surface area than an equal length monohull, despite having a smaller draft. (Lawless).

The disparity is smaller with low-displacement racing designs. If you take into account both elimination of ballast and beam/draft ratios, a catamaran equivalent of a YD40 yacht (ballast is 40% displacement) might have an increase in wetted surface area of only 8%.

On the other hand, the hulls of a catamaran might be made very narrow, to reduce wave resistance further, and this increases the ratio of surface to enclosed volume. This is taken to an extreme in the SWATH designs, where the wavemaking is by very narrow struts, reducing wavemaking by perhaps one-third (Dubrovsky), but the wetted surface area is perhaps 2.3 times that of an equal-length monohull. (Stevens). For this reason, they are usually shorter than a monohull of equal displacement (swath.com).

Of course, you can give the multihull an engine so it doesn't have to worry about light winds. However, it will still need to put up with greater frictional resistance than would the equivalent powered monohull. The trick is to give it enough power so that its cruising speed is such that its total resistance is less than that of the monohull at that speed. And remember that reduced resistance, for a self-powered ship, translates into greater fuel efficiency. Modern "power cats" typically have fuel efficiencies of 10–20% at 6–10 knots and 40–70% at 15–25 knots (BYA).

Wavemaking resistance is small at low speeds, but more important at high ones. If we ignore interaction among the hulls, the resistance is proportional to the sum of the squares of the widths of the hulls. (Yeung). Hence "slicing a monohull in half" reduces that resistance by 50%.

The hull interaction can reduce or increase resistance; if you can control your speed (as you can with a self-powered multihull) you can choose one that benefits from the reduction. The hull separation/length ratio determines which diverging waves are reduced, and which strengthened, at a given speed by hull interaction. For a catamaran, Tuck and Lazauskas recommended a centerline-to-centerline separation of 20–30% hull length. They have also said that "at low and high speeds, we should keep the hulls close together, at intermediate speeds the hulls should be widely spaced." (Lazauskas/Solar). Other sources recommend separations of 35% (Tasaki) or 40% (I&M) hull length. Interference falls off if your speed is high enough (above Froude number 0.6; "hull speed" is 0.4)(Loveday 16; I&M). If the hulls are asymmetric, there are additional complications, but interference was minimal with "tunnel" width 40% length. (Zaraphonitis).

The ship's motion also creates transverse waves. As speeds increase, transverse wave resistance peaks first, and then it falls off as diverging wave resistance continues to worsen. Staggered hulls flatten out transverse waves by hull-hull interference. (Tuck/OHS). Transverse wave formation is also dependent on the slenderness of the hulls, and White (57) says that it's significant only when the demihull's length/width ratio is less than 8:1.

It's conceivable that a trimaran could have the ability to vary the longitudinal and lateral outrigger spacing, much like a swing-wing aircraft. (Lazauskas/Solar). Variable width catamarans, with telescoping or folding cross-beams, have also been proposed.

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Tuck/OHS mathematically compares a large number of multihull configurations with the same displacement (31.25 tonnes), length (19.1 meters) and draft (1.25) meters. Looking first at side-by-side hulls, the wave resistance was about the same up to 7m/s, but at higher speeds the tetramarans beat the trimarans which beat the catamarans. Up to 10 m/s staggered hulls were superior to side-by-sides. Among the staggered hulls, the diamond and slice were superior to the arrow.

If you looked at total drag, two hulls were better than three, and three better than four. If Tuck doubled the hull widths, thus doubling the displacement (and increasing wavemaking resistance), this shifted the advantage to the trimaran and tetramaran for speeds of 7 m/s up.

Maneuverability

If you keep the displacement low, the multihull is likely to draw less water than the equivalent monohull, because it doesn't need ballast for stability. Consequently, it will be able to enter shallower waters.

The low draft of a multihull is a disadvantage when it comes to sailing "upwind"; the multihull offers less "lateral resistance" to the side force exerted by the wind. A ship can increase lateral resistance permanently by having a keel that extends below the main body of the hull (which also permanently increases draft), or by dropping a vertical centerboard or daggerboards through a well in the bottom of the hull. Usually, a catamaran will have one on each hull, and a trimaran just one on the main hull. The latter is more effective and hence a trimaran is usually faster to windward.

A low displacement is also a disadvantage when changing tack; the multihull doesn't have much momentum and therefore is prone to stopping when it's pointing directly downwind. One solution is to build up speed before tacking; another is to gybe, that is, turn the stern rather than the bow through the wind.

Multihulls typically turn more slowly than monohulls because of the wider beam. Catamarans are slower than equivalent trimarans because the weight is further from the turning axis.

The greater beam is also a problem in constricted waters, such as rivers and small harbors. And docks may not be large enough to accommodate a large-beamed multihull.

In nineteenth-century river catamarans, central paddlewheels acted as unintentional "ice-catchers." (Baxter, 21). This could become a problem with the USE's timberclads.

Capacity

Our ships are more than just racing shells, they have work to do. That means we need space to put passengers, cargo or armament. With a multihull, we have two choices: the interior of the hulls proper, or the crossdeck (if any).

If speed were our only concern, we would build narrow hulls, to minimize frictional and form resistance. However, a hull that is too narrow can't be used for anything but to provide buoyancy. Figure that a large wine or tobacco barrel will have a diameter of about three feet. But of course you can't fill the hull with cargo, you need some empty space for buoyancy. So for the hull to be used for cargo, it probably has to be at least six feet wide, and ten would be better. Frankly, you can probably stow more in the hold of a monohull with a ten foot beam than in two six foot demihulls.

An open deck catamaran with two ten foot wide hulls spaced twenty feet apart, a depth of hold of five feet, and a length of eighty feet, would have a cargo capacity in the hulls of something like eighty tons. So loaded, it wouldn't sail like a racer, of course.

A closed deck greatly increases the cargo capacity of a multihull, since the multihull has a much wider beam than a normal ship. We can increase the cargo capacity even further by providing one or more covered decks. However, covered decks will perhaps be less important once containerization of freight transport takes place.

With a SWATH design, the space in the struts and lower hull is rather inaccessible, and best reserved for machinery and infrequently used equipment. The main living and cargo space will be in the cross-structure.

Displacement and Draft

So, yes, the big-beamed multihulls have lots of empty space. The problem for a multihull comes when you start making use of that space, thereby increasing the displacement. First, the wavemaking resistance is proportional to the displacement. Secondly, increasing the displacement increases the density of the ship and thus the draft, and if a multihull has skinny individual hulls, that rapidly increases the wetted surface area (Sailmagazine) and reduces the clearance of the cross-structure above the water. Also, adding decks, or storing cargo on the cross-structure, naturally raises the center of gravity. Increases in both that and density impair stability.

For a ship with vertical sides above the original waterline, there is a linear relationship between the added weight and the increased draft. For Lulu, a catamaran with elliptical hulls 96 feet long and 14 feet wide, 6 tons weight translated to one inch immersion. (Vandiver 41).

The problem is particularly acute for those full bridge-deck multihulls. Remember, when the specific gravity (density relative to water) of the loaded ship is 1.0, the ship is completely submerged. If the bridge-deck volume is twice the total hull volume, then when the specific gravity is just 0.33, the waterline is at the underside of the bridge-deck, which obviously isn't acceptable. Acceptable loading is probably to a specific gravity of at most 0.2. For typical steel ships, a passenger ship is about 0.43 and a cargo ship 0.68–0.8. (Arnott 12).

Because of the sensitivity of performance to weight, designing a multihull is more like designing an aircraft than a conventional ship. (Van Leer).

Structural weight is roughly proportional to surface area, and so a multihull is going to weigh more than a comparable monohull. The structural weight of the world's largest sailing catamaran was 85% higher than for the equal length NG380 monohull. (Lawless). A Naval Surface Warfare comparison of proposed 700 ton high-speed vessels had the structural weight of the catamaran being about 21% more, and the trimaran 33% more, than the monohull. For the monohull, structural weight was 20% of the full displacement. . (Nguyen). The structural weight/enclosed volume ratio for a steel hull is 5–6 pounds/cubic foot for a monohull and about 7.5 for a catamaran. (Stevens 25); water is 64 pounds/cubic foot.

Bear in mind that the fuel for self-powered ships contributes significantly to the displacement. For a steamship with a lightship displacement of 5500 tons that was 55.5 days at sea, it was about 1400 tons, leaving it with a cargo capacity of 11,400 tons. (SNAME).

Curiously, cannon for warships do not result in a huge increase in displacement. A 36-pounder might weigh 3 tons and require 10' lengthwise and 12' inboard of gun deck (MurrayS 16). If the gundeck were 5' high, that would come to 600 cubic feet. That is a "stowage factor" (SF) of 200 cubic feet/ton. (The real SF is somewhat less, perhaps, as one must take into account ammunition, gunpowder and gun crew, but it should be close.) Cars, which are regularly transported by modern catamaran ferries, have an SF of 150—as compared to 18 for iron ore or 35 for water. The effective SF for passengers on those ferries is probably around 600, taking into account the standard deck area allowance per passenger. You can see why multihulls can profitably carry passengers and cars, but not bulk goods.

Deck Area

For some cargos—such as passengers—deck area is more important than volume. A catamaran typically offers 2–4 times the deck area of a monohull of equal length, and a SWATH design perhaps half that. (Dubrovsky).

Structural Integrity

The cross-structure must be strong enough to keep the hulls connected, despite a variety of forces that work against this.

Gravity. The first of those forces is gravity. The cross-structure can be modeled as a beam supported at its ends; it suffers a load as a result of its own weight and that of whatever it's carrying. It will tend to sag, causing the upper surface to be compressed and the lower surface stretched. These stresses increase with an increase in the load, the distance between those surfaces, or the length of the beam (the clear hull separation). If they exceed the ability of the material to resist (mild steel has about four times the tensile strength of wood), the cross-structure ruptures and the hulls go their separate ways (briefly).

If we have a SWATH design, then the end-supports are the struts, which behave like slender columns, which are compressed by the weight of the cross-structure and can fail by buckling. The load which will cause buckling is inversely proportional to the square of the strut height. Unfortunately, it has to be high enough so the cross-structure isn't slammed too often by wave action between the struts. Another approach is to increase the thickness; the buckling resistance increases as its cube. However, the thicker the struts, the more waves they make, slowing down the ship. The buckling resistance is linearly proportional to the "length" (parallel to centerline of the ship) of the strut, so longer SWATHs are less susceptible than smaller ones. Some materials resist buckling better than others; the resistance is measured by Young's Modulus; iron and steel have a value perhaps fifteen times that of wood and three times that of aluminum; fiber-reinforced plastic is perhaps 75% as good as steel. If buckling occurs, then one side is compressed and the other stretched, and whether rupture occurs then depends on the factors from our beam analysis.

If the struts are too stubby to fail by buckling, they can still fail by crushing, which is dependent on the compressive strength of the materials of which they are made.

Wavemaking. Once the ship starts moving, new forces come into play. The flow about the hulls isn't symmetric and side forces are created that usually push the hulls apart. (If the separation is small, there can be a Venturi effect that sucks them together). (Loveday).

Wave Action. In anything but still water, we must consider wave action. First, consider what happens under the cross-structure. Ocean waves, especially in a "lumpy" sea, can pass between the hulls. Also, the bow waves come together under the cross-structure. Either can pound the cross-structure from below if it's too low. Then there's slamming from above. A wave can break and come down on the deck. Or the ship can bury its bow in the water.

According to the second commander of the USNS Hayes, a catamaran research ship, her cross-structure cleared calm water by seventeen feet. That wasn't enough to avoid pounding. To make matters worse, the cross-structure was "just plain housing structure designed to take no more than five-pounds per square inch of pressure." Tests later showed that the pounding pressure in a heavy sea was 200 psi. However, he was able to ease the situation by going to full speed and turning the bow into the sea. (Slowbell).

The wider the catamaran, the lower the hulls will ride on the shoulders of a wave in a "beam sea," bringing the crest closer to the underside. A general rule of thumb is that the clearance should be the larger of 6% of the waterline length or 20% of the span between hulls. (Currie; Sail Magazine; Van Leer). Of course, the problem with a higher bridge-deck is that you have a higher center of gravity.

The independent movement of the hulls can cause a variety of problems. Remember, each hull can move on three axes (heaving, surging, swaying) and can also rotate about three different axes (pitching, rolling, yawing). The two hulls will "feel" different parts of the wave system and will react differently. Which opposed motions will be worst will depend on whether the waves are coming from in front (head sea), the side (beam sea), behind (following sea), or somewhere in-between (quartering sea). Estimating the load that this will place on the structure requires a knowledge of the "wave spectrum" (the frequency of waves of different heights, wavelengths and directions) in the waters you are planning to sail in.

For example, for a catamaran, the worst transverse racking (one hull higher than another) occurs in a "beam sea" when the wavelength of the waves is twice the centerline separation of the hulls, since one hull is on the crest and the other in the trough (SSC 29).

Quartering seas promote pitching in opposition, causing twisting. The larger the cross-sectional area of the cross-structure, the greater is its resistance to twisting. The twisting causes shear stress. The stress is reduced by increasing the cross-sectional area of the structural lattice and the thickness of its members. The ability of a material to resist it depends on its shear strength (steel is 12–50 times better than live oak, depending on whether the shear is perpendicular or parallel to the grain).

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The trimaran can achieve a given overall beam with two short spans rather than the single long one of the catamaran. If the required structural weight of the cross-structure is more than linearly proportional to the beam, that will give the trimaran the advantage. (Paine 97).

The various staggered hull configurations require more complex cross-structures, which is why I wouldn't expect them to crop up in the first few generations of multihulls.

Construction Cost

For modern pleasure ships, catamarans cost about twice as much as monohulls of equal length at the low (35') and high (60') ends of the spectrum, and perhaps 50% more for a 49-footer. However, the costs per cubic foot capacity are about the same. (BYA). The world's largest sailing catamaran (44m length overall) cost about 35% more than the most comparable monohull, but there was a similar difference in displacement. (Lawless). Estimated hull structural costs for a 700-ton naval vessel had the catamaran 50%, and the trimaran 100%, more expensive than the monohull. This was based on assumption of costs per pound which were 20% more for the catamaran and 50% more for the trimaran, presumably related to the strength requirements. (Nguyen).

It may seem as though you can save money by converting an existing sailing ship to a trimaran by attaching outriggers. While that will help with stability and therefore the ability to carry sail under strong crosswinds, the converted hull would have a length/width ratio that is considerably smaller (usually 3–4:1) than that typical of the main hull of a trimaran designed as such. That in turn means that it will have more wavemaking resistance at high speed.

A better candidate for conversion would be a hybrid sail-oar galleass, as those had length/ beam ratios of perhaps 6:1.

Operational Efficiency

When the market demands high-speed—for example, for delivery of passengers or time-sensitive cargo—a powered multihull is more fuel-efficient than its monohull equivalent. For bulk cargo delivery, the monohull is likely to remain dominant (White xi). Fuel bills are lowered by operating at low speeds, and at that speeds, the multihull suffers a frictional resistance penalty and hence consumes more fuel than the monohull. While fuel is not relevant for sailing ships, a heavily laden multihull will not be as fast as its monohull counterpart since it's unlikely to capture enough wind to travel at the speeds at which it's favored.

Fighting Potential

Offense. One advantage of the multihull for combat is its stability. This has several consequences. First, there is no need to time a broadside to match the extreme of a roll, in order to maximize accuracy. Secondly, the multihull is less likely to have the problem, when sailing in a crosswind, that as a result of heeling (being tilted by wind action) its leeward guns are pointing too low or that its windward guns are pointing too high. It can also carry its guns higher, where the ports are less likely to be closed because of a high sea state. And rolling interferes with the reloading of the guns.

Minimizing rolling also has defensive advantages; the ship doesn't expose the area below the normal waterline to an opponent on its windward side.

For a sailing multihull, the cannon probably would be mounted in the hulls. However, these would each only need to be wide enough to accommodate the working of a single broadside if the rigging were on the cross-structure between the hulls.

Another possible advantage of the multihull is that the breadth of the cross-structure would permit the warship to have greater fore-and-aft armament, an advantage in both pursuit and flight.

Taking that a step further, the multihull can enjoy a very large deck area. That means that it can hold a lot of mortars for use in bombarding a fort or city. (Curiously, deck area is becoming more important in 21st-century warships, but to accommodate launch cells for cruise missiles.)

In 1682, the French Navy introduced the first bomb vessel, a galiot-type vessel with a ketch rig with forward-pointing mortars (Goodwin, the bomb vessel Granado 1742, p. 7). Mortars, please note, are artillery which fire explosive shells in a high arc, thereby circumventing defensive walls. In 1726, the British placed the mortars on turntables (primitive turrets). Ideally, the multihull would be self-powered, so that the rigging didn't restrict the firing arcs.

The main constraint on putting cannon, especially mortars, on the cross-structure is that the deck must be strong enough to support the weight of the weapons (4 tons for a 13" mortar) and more importantly withstand the shock of their recoil (the mortar's powder charge was 12–15 pounds and propelled a 10 pound shell) (Goodwin 16). This is probably the greatest impediment to the use of multihulls for shore bombardment. Siege mortar-bearing "bomb vessels" had to be extremely heavily built in order to survive their own fire; the mortars were supported on multiple "cross-hatched" layers of beams, with coiled rope as a shock absorber under all. (Ware 10).

For it to be practical to use the cross-structure as a platform for mortars, it would have to be a multiple deck structure, with the crossbeams extending deep into the flanking hulls, in order to spread out the load more effectively. Or better yet, build it in steel. You can't expect to take two conventionally constructed hulls, build a single connecting wooden deck, and plop a siege mortar on top of that. Unless you want to make a big hole in the deck after you fire it a few times. . . .

However, you could put the mortars in the hulls, and still put fairly heavy cannon on a closed deck cross-structure. Even though they were lightly built ships, a Mediterranean war galley's centerline armament could be as nasty as a 40–55 pound full cannon on a sliding, recoil-absorbing mount, flanked by two pairs of lighter weapons. (Guilmartin 323).

Defense. In wartime, we have to worry about vulnerability to enemy action. A pole connection could be severed by a single cannonball, but it is a rather small target, so hitting it, save at close range, would be a matter of chance. Closed decks are easier to hit, harder to destroy. Still, the cross-structure is likely to be a relatively light structure, vulnerable to raking fire.

Another hazard is that an enemy could try to row or sail a small boat, filled with explosives or incendiaries, into the "tunnel" under the cross-structure, and blow it up. Vigilance, bow and stern armament, and perhaps some sort of netting, are the best defense.

Air Support

If a sailing catamaran had its masts on the hulls, it might be possible to operate the balloon from the crossdeck. Otherwise, to avoid fouling of the balloon tether by masts and rigging, the multihull would have to be self-powered.

Dirigibles have such a huge cruising range that they can usually make do with land bases. However, multihull dirigible tenders may come in handy as forward bases when we are using military dirigibles in operations against distant enemy territory. They would need a well-anchored mast to which the dirigible could be moored, and they would also have to carry enough fuel to get the dirigible to the next base.

A multihull can certainly provide a good landing area for a helicopter (the Pigeon and Ortolan had helipads, as did the 1972 SSP Kailamino); what I am not sure about is whether we can build helicopters any time soon.

Lastly, there is the possibility of supporting airplane operations with a multihull. The simplest case would be one in which the multihull merely carries fuel for a seaplane that takes off from and lands on the water, but then there is no advantage to the multihull design. The next step up would be to catapult the seaplane off the multihull's deck. Finally, we could provide a landing strip for an airplane, but that would require a very long multihull and carrier-type arresting gear. In 1926 Italian naval designer Guidoni proposed a 3500 ton catamaran aircraft carrier! (Preston 67).

Ship motion is a major cause of carrier landing accidents and hence there is reason to hope that a catamaran, especially of the SWATH type, would provide a more stable air support platform. (Stevens 31).

Final Thoughts

It makes a significant difference whether the ships you are designing are wind- or self-powered, and whether they are built out of wood, steel, or high tech materials (fiberglass, carbon fiber composite, etc.).

A multihull can safely carry more sail in strong winds, because of its enhanced stability. The conventional warships which are mostly likely to benefit from a multihull design are the shorter ships, because the wind heeling "moment" would be proportional to the fourth power of the length, and the resisting moment to the third power. Also, the shorter warships were most likely to be given a relatively high (>=4:1) length/beam ratio, both to increase their speed and to maximize the broadside armament they could carry. You could replace any of these with two demihulls of half the width, and separate them by a "tunnel" of one or two hull widths. At the low end—two ten foot demihulls separated by a ten foot tunnel—this is comparable to the nineteenth-century catamaran river steamers, and so it should be possible to construct an adequate cross-structure out of wood. After that, we'll see . . .

Still, my prediction would be that sailing multihulls are likely to be limited to light-displacement dispatch vessels and landing craft. While the heightened stability of multihulls allows them to carry more sail than a monohull of equal displacement, they can't count on getting strong winds, and in light winds they will be slower.

Steam power is going to make multihulls much more attractive, as they can be driven to the speeds at which reduced wavemaking resistance is more important than increased frictional resistance. While they're too displacement sensitive to be suitable for cargos like iron ore, they should work fine for carrying passengers, low density "fast" freight and naval artillery.

Steel and other new shipbuilding materials with high strength/weight ratios will allow ships to be longer, have wider crossdecks, and carry more payload. Bear in mind that in wooden ships, the hull accounts for about half the displacement, whereas in steel ships, it's as low as one-fifth. (Reed 72; Arnott 12).

Jonathan Swift made fun of Petty's late seventeenth century catamarans, writing of "our crazy double-bottomed Realm." With steam and steel, multihulls may not be so crazy after all.

Author's Note: The "Multihull Addendum" posted to http://www.1632.org/gazetteextras/ provides a bibliography, tables of ship data for selected multihulls, and some stability calculations.

Time for ReConStruction

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

    

It's about that time again! Time for a 1632 mini-convention. This year we'll be at NASFIC/ReConStruction, August 5 - 8, in Raleigh, NC.

The website for more information is: http://www.reconstructionsf.org/

We've proposed a schedule of panels to the organizers, which is listed below. We hope to see you all there! Aside from panels, there's usually enough time to sit around and talk about the Gazette, the 1632 Universe, and the forthcoming books.

Thursday Afternoon:

Kevin Evans/Steam in the 1632 Universe

Karen Evans/Chocolate—Not As Easy As You Might Think

Friday Morning

Karen Bergstralh/Agriculture in 1632

Karen Bergstralh/Horses and the 17^th Century

David Carrico/Music—No, Rock is Not Popular . . . Yet

Friday Afternoon

Rick Boatright/Weird Tech in 1632

Rick Boatright/Weird Tech in 1632 (Hugely popular topic, so we gave it two hours this year.)

Virginia DeMarce/Research, Research, Research—We Mean It.

Saturday Morning

Virginia DeMarce/Time Passed in the Past

Garrett Vance/Art in the Grantville Gazette

Karen Bergstralh and Virginia DeMarce/Demographics in Germany

Saturday Afternoon

Virginia DeMarce/Clothing of the Times

All of us/How to Get Published in the Grantville Gazette.

All of us/Snerking the Plots—Shhh!

Come join us!

Summerland Rentals

Written by R. J. Ortega

    

It was, beyond doubt, the most comfortable waiting room Kirby Foster had ever been in. The wingback chair was soft and inviting, the air conditioning neither too hot nor too cold, and the cup of complimentary coffee—fresh ground mocha java—sweet and light to the exact degree he preferred each. The situation was so relaxing, in fact, that it was several minutes before he realized that he had no idea what it was he was waiting for, nor how he had gotten there in the first place.

That distressed him; his father had gone senile, near the end. Despite the pain in his knees and the intermittent flutter in his heart, the possibility of losing his clarity was the one thing Kirby truly feared about growing older. But he'd barely had time to fret when the pretty red-haired receptionist smiled up from her post, and said, "Mr. Foster? Mr. Janus will see you now. Go straight down the hallway, third office on the right."

He considered asking her why he was meeting this Mr. Janus, but decided not to bother her with the worry that a customer might not be in his right mind.

The sign painted on the glass of the third office door on the right read "Summerland Rentals." Bells chimed as he entered, a chain of small jingles on a silk ribbon hanging from the doorknob. The sound recalled childhood memories of his grandparent's country home. He found himself smiling as the room's occupant, a sharply dressed dark-haired man with an eagle's beak of a nose, rose from his computer station to greet him with a hearty handshake.

"Mr. Foster, welcome! My name's Janus. I can't tell you how big a fan I am. I've been following Nut Clusters since it began." He had a slight, indeterminate accent.

"Thank you, that's very kind." Actually, the fellow didn't seem old enough to have read Kirby's comic strip for that long; he'd begun Nut Clusters right out of college, more than forty years ago. Janus didn't look a day over thirty. But perhaps he'd read the collections. "I'm afraid I'm having something of a senior moment. I honestly don't know why I'm here."

"Not to worry," Janus said, gesturing him towards a chair that proved, if anything, even more comfortable than the one in the waiting room. Janus sat back down at his work station, and began punching keys. "A great many of our customers have the same problem, at first. You're here so that I can help you move into your new residence."

"A new home? But Renée said she'd never move again—"

"This is more in the way of a summer rental; hold on just a minute while I pull your file up."

He did a little mouse-work, pointing and clicking. The noise mixed with the soft notes of a bit of music drifting in from no place specific; Kirby nodded in time to the beer-barrel beat, and smiled again. "I like your company's taste in muzak."

"You know the tune?"

Kirby nodded, grinning. "Neil Hefti, Gotham City Municipal Swing Band. It was the theme for this local TV show, old monster movies . . . God, I loved that show." He lowered his voice confidentially. "It’s even in my will that I want it played at my funeral, just to, y'know, remind everybody that life isn't so serious . . ." It took a moment for the dime to drop. "Oh."

Mr. Janus paused at his computer. "Worked it out, eh?"

Making no reply, Kirby patted at his jacket. "I wondered why I was wearing this monkey suit; I only put it on for weddings and funerals—ah!" Reaching into his right pocket, he produced a pint bottle of Irish Whisky. "Well, it looks like my brother Clint kept his word after all." From the left pocket he pulled two shiny new pennies. "I suppose I owe these to the ferryman?"

Mr. Janus shook his head. "All pre-paid."

"That's cool." Kirby sighed. "Damn, I was really looking forward to retirement. How'd I go?"

"Quietly, in your sleep; if you want more details, I can look them up. Congratulations on putting it all together so quickly, by the way. Most clients take a lot longer."

Kirby shrugged. "Summerland Rentals; the name alone should have tipped me off. My daughter Brandy, she's into all this new age stuff, Wicca, modern paganism, all that. She told me about the Summer Land a few times. Where good Pagans go when they . . . you know."

"It must have rubbed off, or else you'd have wound up at Heavenly Acres, or Elysium Estates, or one of the other subdivisions."

"The way she described it, I expected the afterlife to be a lot more rustic." Twisting the top off of the bottle, Kirby drank a double-shot's worth. "Care to join me?"

"Well, I don't know why not."

Taking the offered bottle, Janus downed a healthy swig before returning it; Kirby was surprisingly unsurprised to find that the bottle was still full. "So, the pharaohs had it right, eh? If you're buried with it, it's yours forever?"

Janus laughed. "Well, that was a bit before my time, but no, they didn't have it right. Mummy movies to the contrary, the ancient Egyptians didn't believe in reincarnation, which is how things actually work."

Kirby fought to keep a smug smile off his face. He almost succeeded.. "I always thought that idea made the most sense. So, do I have to go back, ah, downstairs then?"

"Not for a while, no; that's why I've set you up with one of our rental properties." Janus stood, gesturing Kirby towards the door. "My car's out back."

That car, as it turned out, was a classic 1951 Hudson Hornet coupe in two-tone green and white, gleaming in the sunset glow.

Kirby’s eyes gleamed back. "Jesus, my Grandpa had one just like this. We took a road trip to Disneyland one year. . . ."

"August, 1959." Janus gunned the engine into life; seconds later they were on a freeway filled with vintage vehicles of every description. Kirby stared about in fascination. Not only were the cars period pieces, so was the freeway, the roadside filled with billboards in a profusion he hadn't seen in decades, advertising products straight out of a nostalgia magazine. Not once did they pass through the terra-cotta valleys of modern sound-barrier walls, rolling instead through thickets of neon motel signs and brightly-lit Madison Avenue poster-board.

As Bobby Lewis belted out Tossin' and Turnin' on the radio, Kirby asked, "Is it far? That coffee's going right through me."

"Long enough for another drink; can I have that bottle again?"

"Drinking and driving—" Kirby began; then he giggled, and handed the bottle over. "Hell, why not? What can happen, we're dead already."

"You are. I'm staff. But it's all right; the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh." Janus removed both hands from the wheel. Sure enough, the car continued to maintain course, accelerating and changing lanes on its own. Janus took a long slash from the bottle. "If you drive by hand here, it's for the sheer pleasure of it. No accidents in the Summerland."

Soon they entered a bucolic suburban landscape of long, curving hillside roads. "Hey," said Kirby, "I know this town; this is where I grew up."

"Imagine that. Has the neighborhood changed much?"

Staring at a tract of flat-topped GI-bill housing that, on Earth, had long ago been torn down to make way for a gated community, Kirby shook his head. "No, it hasn't changed at all." They passed a grocery store, of a chain that had ceased to exist in the late eighties. There was a fireworks stand in the parking lot. "Fourth of July? Is that 'summer' thing literal then? The last I remember it was late March."

"Earthly time doesn't matter much here. But the idea of 'summer' has strong associations for you Americans; school vacation, personal freedom, sleeping late, all of that. Summerland’s been getting a disproportionate number of your countrymen lately; it affects the landscape."

They turned an extremely familiar corner, and pulled up in front of a blue-and-white ranch house just as familiar. "Be damned; this is my folk's place."

Janus produced a set of keys, and tossed them to Kirby. "Yours, now."

He hesitated at the door. "Hey, are my parents inside? Together, I mean? ‘Cause if they are I'm not sure I want to go in. I had enough of their screaming matches back when. "

"Just don't think about them; they won't be here unless you want them to be."

Kirby nodded tightly. "Good. Divorce improved their relationship about a thousand percent." As the door swung open, the bombastic notes of The Gotham City Municipal Swing Band drifted out. Kirby couldn't stop his grin. Sure enough, the twenty-one-inch Philco black-and-white console was tuned to a familiar studio set. "Well, it looks like we're in time for Creature Features." He shot Janus a sidewise glance. "That's no coincidence, is it?"

"No accidents in the Summerland. They're showing Attack of the Mushroom People tonight." Picking up a bowl of popcorn from a coffee table he offered it to Kirby. "Want to watch?"

Kirby took a handful; the kernels were still warm from the stove. "Maybe later; let's look around first."

His old bedroom was much as he remembered it, from the shelf full of plastic dinosaurs to the student desk, whose top, spread with a protective layer of newspaper, held a half-finished Aurora monster model kit. Opening a desk drawer, he found a pile of Blackhawk comics, and a Disneyland ticket book, empty except for a pair of unused "A" tickets.

In the kitchen, the fridge was filled with soda cans that required a church-key to open, and whole milk in glass bottles.

"Shall we check out the second floor?" suggested Janus.

"What second floor? It's a ranch house."

But, sure enough, there was a stairwell where his parent's room should have been. He climbed the steps, knees aching. The air was filled with an enticing aroma, a mix of bluegrass smoke and sandalwood incense. At the second-floor landing was a studio apartment, door open, with numerous mattresses on the floor. The walls were plastered with posters ranging from a map of middle-earth, to a black-light portrait of Ché Guevara, to a Fillmore West advertisement for Muddy Waters. On a table that had begun life as a telephone cable spool were an assortment of hand-made pipes, a cigar box filled with dubious-looking dried plant matter, and a surprisingly expensive turntable/tuner spinning side one of Magical Mystery Tour.

"My God," Kirby breathed, "Gentleman Jim's crash-pad on Frederick Street. I spent most of the summer of '69 here." He wandered about, examining the titles on a cinder-block and wood-plank bookshelf, a mix of Tolkien, Kerouac, Burroughs and Charles Schulz. A cardboard box on the floor held a few dozen well-thumbed Marvel comics, mostly Doctor Strange. "Christ on a crutch, I almost expect Jim to walk through the door himself."

"Ask and ye shall receive, brother," said a voice from the landing.

Kirby's head snapped towards the doorway; standing there was a ferret-thin figure of a man dressed in multiple layers of denim, curly black hair hanging over his shoulders. There was a strange hazy shimmering outlining him, but before Kirby could get a clear look at it the two were entangled in a wrestling match of hugs and back-slaps.

"Shit man," Gentleman Jim said; "you got old!"

"Wish I could have said the same of you." Kirby blinked tears out of his eyes. "Damn Jim, what were you thinking, mixing your medicines like that?"

Jim shook his head. "I always was the leave a good-looking corpse type, I guess."

"Well, I guess you managed that. You've been here ever since, huh?"

Jim snorted. "I wish; nah, I couldn't make the rent, I've reincarnated twice since '72." He tilted his head to one side, eyes focusing on something distant. "Matter of fact, right now I'm an eleven-year-old black girl in Chicago. Hey, cool, I'm reading one of your books; the Sunday Not-So-Funnies collection. Good shit man."

"Ah, thanks. I guess." The thought, “So there is drug abuse after death!” flitted through Kirby’s mind.

It must have shown on his face; Jim brayed like a donkey. "Hey, no, dude, it's not like that. Look, I gotta go; got a poltergeist gig back in the Haight." He hooked a thumb at Janus. "Just listen to old two-face there, he'll set you straight." He flashed a peace sign, and vanished, leaving only the echo of the word, "Later" hanging in the air.

Kirby raised an eyebrow at his guide. "Old two-face?"

Janus smiled a slightly puckish grin. "As Gentleman Jim would put it, 'That was an old gig, man.'" He fanned the air. "Let's step out to the back yard, and I'll explain; another minute in this atmosphere and I'll need a bag of Oreos."

The back yard was identical to the one Kirby's brother Clint had owned in the seventies, right down to the redwood deck circling a huge above-ground swimming pool. Janus pulled a pair of ice-cold Buckhorn beers out of a cooler, handing one to Kirby, who sat down in a folding chair and popped the top. "So, if Jim is somebody else in Chicago, how can he be here?"

Janus spun his pop-top ring on one finger. "What you were talking to wasn't Jim McManus, just his memories. You see, when a soul reincarnates it can't take its life experiences with it; so they form a false body—we call it a shade—to keep them safe. You can visit with old friends and loved ones, even if they're currently incarnate; all you have to do is think about them, and they'll be drawn to you."

"Huh." Kirby drank deeply, enjoying the taste. He hadn't seen Buckhorn since before his father died. "So, if Jim’s memories are still around will he, or that little girl, or whoever, eventually recover them?"

"Mmm, well, eventually yes. But he’ll have to attain true enlightenment first. That can take a while. Buddha nature doesn't grow on trees, you know. And once someone works up to the Avatar-slash-Saint Level they don't hang around rest stops like this place. They move up to Nirvana, or one of the Seven Heavens. You know; the high-rent districts."

"Yeah, rent; Jim mentioned rent. So, you guys use money around here?"

"Not as such; there is a bookkeeping system though. You pay your rent with positive karma."

Kirby mulled that one over. "So, if I go into arrears, I reincarnate as a banana slug, or something?"

Janus laughed. "Animal reincarnation is a myth, except for cows, sometimes. And you can't reduce your base karma level past the point you last died at. It's like a trust fund; while you're here, you can't spend the capital, just the interest."

"Interest?"

Janus pulled a PDA from his sports jacket, and punched a few buttons. "Man, I love these things; they beat scrying mirrors all to Hell. Okay, here are the stats on that little girl in Chicago; right now she's reading the Nut Clusters storyline where you dealt with teenage suicide. . . ."

Kirby winced. "That one cost me a few newspapers."

Janus nodded. "But you stuck by your guns, which earned you extra points. Bravery is always a good investment option. Anyway, that girl lost a close friend recently. Your story is helping her cope. That earns you interest." He pressed another button, held the display up for Kirby to see. Two numeric values showed: One was constant, in six figures. The other was considerably smaller, but steadily rising. "Every time your memory inspires someone, each time your work puts a smile on their face or brightens a dull hour, that post-death positive karma goes to your drawing fund, which pays your expenses until you decide to reincarnate." His dark eyebrows rose; "Which won't have to be any time soon." He whistled deep and low.

"Good bank balance?"

"Compared to you, Scrooge McDuck is a pauper." He rose, tossing the empty beer can behind him; it vanished in mid-air. "I'll see you a month from today, four-fifteen sharp, to collect the rent, and review your portfolio." He headed down the deck steps.

"Next month? But . . . I don't know how things work here . . ."

Janus continued towards the back-yard gate. "You'll figure it out. Just relax, and enjoy afterlife for a while. And upgrade that old-man body; no need dealing with aches and pains, not with your numbers."

"How do I—”

Janus called back, "Just think young!" as the gate swung shut behind him.

Kirby remained seated for a minute or two, finishing his beer, staring up into the clear night sky. Then he rose, tossed the can behind him as Janus had done, loosened his tie, and, with a scream of "Banzai!" leaped, fully clothed, into the pool. He emerged a few seconds later, ten years old and dressed in swim trunks, splashing like a dolphin and howling for joy at the top of his lungs, until an old woman's voice from the yard next door interrupted his exuberance:

"Hey, keep it down; some of us are trying to sleep. Damn kids."

****

Rent Day: Twelve-year-old Kirby Foster rocketed down the steepest hill in town on a bright red Schwinn Varsity ten-speed, hot summer wind whistling through his crew-cut hair. He knew those hills, knew every curve, every dip, with knowledge held deep in his muscle memory, engraved by a daily catechism of trips to school and grocery, cub scout meetings and paper routes, and by the sheer joy of motion for the sake of motion. He'd ridden those streets in his dreams long after arthritis had forced him to forgo the sport, and now that he had the thrill of the pavement back, he was determined to never miss an opportunity again.

He'd been older earlier in the day. He'd spent a pleasant two hours as a sixteen-year-old, tuning up his first car, a 1956 Studebaker, in the company of his father's shade, who had offered advice, and occasional Buckhorns. Then he'd driven to the Dairy Belle Freeze for a burger basket lunch before aging up to twenty-two, trading the Studebaker for the VW camper van he'd practically lived in during the beach-bum summer he'd spent after university. He was smiling at a shoreline filled with perfect four-foot barrel curls, one step away from taking his surfboard down from the roof rack, when he suddenly realized that his appointment with Mr. Janus was just a half-hour away. Damn, but it was easy to lose track of time in the afterlife.

He'd immediately ditched the comfortable-but-slow VW, transforming his ride with a thought into the Honda 750 he’d ridden in his college days. He'd peeled out, splitting lanes and daring amber lights to stop him, with the reckless abandon of the pre-deceased. By the time he'd reached the outskirts of his home town he had made up almost enough time. But, even pressing deadline, he couldn't resist the urge to try and beat his own downhill bicycle record, and had shifted himself young the moment he'd left the freeway.

He was doing a good thirty miles an hour, backpedaling for balance, his hands loose on the handlebar brakes, as the hill bottomed out just on the turn to his own street. He took the turn wide, as he always did, counting on a bounce up to the sidewalk to reduce his momentum; it would have worked, if his elderly next-door neighbor hadn't picked just that moment to check her mailbox.

The collision was unlovely, cushioned only by the fact that both of them were effectively indestructible. That didn't mean there was no pain or shock. Kirby recovered first, rising on wobbly legs to find the old woman groaning on the sidewalk, trying to lift herself up on matchstick arms, her deep-lined face a caricature of anger. He felt his twelve-year-old heart drop with the certainty of a tongue lashing on the near horizon. For diplomacy's sake, he spent a moment's concentration adding two decades to his age before offering a hand up and a sputtered apology. "I'm sorry; it was an accident—I didn't mean to hit you."

He expected a stinging reply; in the month he had lived next door her words to him had been few, but uniformly delivered at a decibel level suitable for a civil defense system. Instead, she curled in on herself like a turtle retreating into its shell; her staccato whispers were barely audible. "I know. It’s okay. Just don't. Just don't . . ." Suddenly her eyes snapped open; she blurted, "You're not!" and exploded to her feet like an oversized trap-door spider. In two long-legged leaps she was at her door, slamming it shut behind her.

Kirby hardly even noticed when the two-tone Hudson Hawk pulled up behind him.

****

Mr. Janus sat his laptop computer atop the polished mahogany wet bar, and began booting it up. "Nice digs."

"Thanks." The third floor of Kirby's one-story ranch house was devoted to the luxury condominium he and a very pregnant Renée had leased with the advance from the first Nut Clusters hardcover. "I don't spend a lot of time up here. It's kind of lonely without the wife and kids." He sipped a tequila sour, and snorted at himself. "Sorry; 'Poor little rich boy,' and all of that."

"Not at all," Janus replied. "It's perfectly normal to go through a period of mourning for the living. Just remember, you've earned every bit of luxury. I mean, just check out this portfolio." The screen lit up with the image of a soldier in 1940's vintage combat gear. "Sergeant James Madigan, born 1919; died during the Normandy invasion; posthumous Medal of Honor. That was you."

"Huh. Hey, wait a minute, I know that face." He moved nearer the screen, eyes narrowing. "Jesus Christ, he was my father's top-kick during the war. Dad always sent flowers to Arlington on Memorial Day, said he'd never have made it off Omaha Beach without him."

"Yeah, that happens a lot, souls interacting across incarnations. Your father's currently your grandson Richard, by the way."Janus moved the mouse, pointed and clicked; the picture changed to that of a thin-faced woman in a nurse's uniform. "Grace Barbara Williams, born 1891, died during the influenza epidemic of 1918; worked with a gauze mask on, to avoid infecting others. She wouldn't leave her post, even with a hundred-and-three degree fever. "

Further clicks revealed a Cree Indian warrior who'd died in the Battle of Cut Knife; a portly black woman who had guided sixteen escaped slaves to freedom on the underground railroad before being cut down by a recovery agent's pistol; and a Chinese peasant woman of no particular note except that she had died at the remarkable age of one hundred and six years. Each portrait was accompanied by a display of graphs and charts. Each had left their next incarnation with an improved karmic balance.

"Wow, even Grandma Wong there? I mean, she didn't even die heroically or anything."

"No, but she plowed all of her interest back into the main account by reincarnating early. Good thing too; it helped balance out the previous five cycles." He showed the next five lives in a single display, an eclectic mix of genders and ethnicities; their karmic charts could have been cut-and-paste copies of each other.

"Jesus, talk about being stuck in the rat race. What happened?"

"Suicide loop. Killing yourself gives your karma a bad case of the stutters. You reincarnate into the exact same situation, which can lead you right back to another suicide. Lather, rinse, repeat."

Kirby finished off his drink, frowning. "That doesn't sound fair; what if you had inoperable cancer, or . . ."

"The system adjusts for things like untenable pain, or heroic sacrifice. Technically Sergeant Madigan committed suicide by jumping on that German grenade, but it didn't hurt him any." He thought that one over, and grinned sheepishly. "Karmically speaking, that is. It's suicide from self-pity or despair that costs you." He powered the laptop down. "Enough business; how are you adjusting? Like the neighborhood?"

"It's a little different; my daughter would love it—lots of candle-and-crystal types and a Renaissance Faire every weekend."

Janus nodded. "Yeah, before this big paganism revival Summerland mostly got the undecided. Atheists, agnostics, the occasional Deist. . . ." He chuckled. "Man, you should have seen the look on Asimov's face; thought he'd never stop laughing." Stepping behind the bar, he mixed himself a martini, very dry. "So, no problem neighbors?"

"Well, I didn't say that." Kirby refreshed his own cocktail. " My neighbor at 206; what's up with her?" He stepped to a picture window overlooking the house next door. Both front and back yards were a jungle of overgrown grass and hedges gone wild; the only exception was a well-maintained rectangle of garden in the back. "Lord, her lot is a mess.” He shrugged. “I can’t hold that against her, I guess. I hate yard work myself. But the only time she comes out is to yell at people. She ought to try being a kid for a while, it might relax her."

"Her name's Rachel Ward." Janus sipped his drink. "She's a Section Eight case."

"She's crazy?"

Janus stared blankly at the remark, and then smiled. "No, no, not the military term, 'Section Eight' as in housing assistance." Nibbling his martini olive he moved next to Kirby at the window. "Her drawing fund bottomed out a long time ago, but she refuses to move on. So, basic housing only, no luxuries like age control, extended interiors, or self-tending lawns."

"That must suck. Bankrupt in paradise."

"It's her call." Janus checked his wristwatch. "Whoops, almost close-of-business; I've got to get going. Let's settle the rent."

"Sure. Ah, do I write a check, or . . . ?"

"Just hold out your hand." Kirby did so. Janus took it in his. "Now say, 'I authorize this transfer.'"

Kirby shrugged. "I authorize this transfer." There was a tingling in his hand, like a mild electric shock. "That's it?"

"For the next thirty days, yeah, that's it." Janus picked up his laptop and showed himself out, leaving Kirby alone with his thoughts. He'd never particularly liked being alone. He could always call up a shade or two of course, but the trouble with embodied memories was that they never had anything new to say. He supposed he could try harder to connect with his neighbors, but he just wasn't the dance-naked-at-solstice type.

Kirby wandered back to the window, and looked down at the tar-paper roof of Rachel Ward's home. He wondered what it looked like inside; probably very Norman Rockwell, with needlepoint samplers on the walls and lace doilies on the tables, he decided, and undoubtedly much smaller than his own.

Janus had emphasized that he deserved his luxury, but deep inside Kirby Foster was a child of the sixties. For all his commercial success he had never left the communal ideal of from each according to their ability; to each according to their needs behind him.

Hell, if nothing else, he owed her an apology.

****

He reduced his age to a gap-toothed nine years as he came up her walk the next morning. There was a massive cast-iron knocker on the door; he lifted it, and let it slap itself down with a heavy metallic thud. Several seconds passed before the door opened. Rachel Ward was dressed in a flannel bathrobe, her long silver hair caught up in a kerchief. "Humph. What do you want?"

Kirby took his baseball cap off, and held it in front of himself in both hands. "Pleath ma'am, I jutht wanted to thay I'm thorry for running over you yethterday." Damn. He'd forgotten how badly losing his front teeth had exaggerated his childhood lisp. He hadn't planned on overplaying the winsomeness card so completely.

To his relief, she bought it. "Well, just don't let it happen again."

"I won't ma'am, but I'd like to do thumthing to make up for it. Do you have any choreth you need done?"

She rolled the idea behind her pale gray eyes for a moment. "Well, I suppose the yard needs tending. Do you have a lawnmower?"

"Thure." Damn it, he should have known it would be yard work. Karma truly was a bitch.

****

It was a warm morning, as they all were; by the time he finished running his father's old push-mower around, and clipping the hedges, he'd worked up a serious sweat. He was pleasantly surprised when Rachel Ward emerged from her house, dressed in a faded floral print sun dress, and holding a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She looked over his efforts with a stern eye, and nodded approval. "Good work. Why don't you take a break for a while?"

He joined her on a creaky wooden deck, sitting down on a straight-backed chair that had seen better days. The lemonade was first-rate, freshly squeezed and deliciously tart, chilled with random chunks of ice that Kirby suspected had never seen the inside of a modern refrigerator. "That's real good." His lisp had dropped away when he'd added a couple of extra years before tackling the lawn. "I'd forgotten how much better things taste when you're a kid."

She drew herself up primly in the seat. "I wouldn't know."

Gaah!Open mouth, insert foot! He searched for a way to correct the new gaffe. Hey, sure, why not? "How'd you like to try it for a while? My treat."

She paused with her lemonade half-way to her mouth. "Do you mean it?"

"Sure. I can afford it."

She set the glass back down on the tray. "Well . . . it has been a long time. . . ."

He held out his hand. She reached her own out, hesitant, and trembling slightly. He grasped it firmly, and said, "I authorize this transfer."

There was the same slight, ticklish tingle; then Rachel Ward's aged frame seemed to shimmer in the summer morning light, and she melted down into a half-size version of herself, an eleven-year-old girl, thin as a yardstick, all strawberry-blonde pigtails and denim coveralls, her right eye sporting a magnificent shiner. She shivered all over for a moment, then picked up the lemonade. A tentative sip turned into a greedy gulp that nearly emptied the glass. "Oh, golly, you're right; it is better this way."

Golly? She actually said "golly?" Kirby managed not to laugh out loud. "Glad you like it. Jeez, where'd you pick up the black eye?"

She touched her eye, wincing slightly. "Oh my. It must be. . . I was playing stickball on my eleventh birthday, and I missed catching a pop-fly." She grinned slightly. "I guess I was a bit of a tomboy."

Stickball? Holy crap, how old is she, anyway? "Hey, if the lawn's done good enough for you, why don't we go down to the park? There's always somebody batting the ball around."

"Oh, I couldn't; it wouldn't be ladylike."

"You're not a lady right now, you're a tomboy, remember?" It took only two minutes of persuasion and a second glass of lemonade to talk her into it. She was a lousy infielder, but one hell of a batter. It was nearly sunset by the time they got home. She thanked him solemnly for the afternoon's fun, and then resumed adulthood before closing her door behind her. But she seemed just slightly younger than she had before. Perhaps. Maybe.

****

"I've never had lay-zanya before," said Rachel, sniffing suspiciously at her first forkful of casserole. "My Pa'd thump me if he knew I was eating wop food." She twitched slightly, and blushed. "Excuse me, I mean Eye-talian." She placed the pasta in her mouth; the first bite was followed quickly by a second, and a third. "It's good."

"My mom makes the best in town." Kirby had called his mother's shade up the night before; lasagna always tasted better the second day. She had set the meal before the two twelve-year-olds on folding TV trays before retreating to the kitchen, where she was preparing fresh tollhouse cookies for dessert. It may have been chauvinistic, but Kirby was rather glad sometimes that his mom was part of the Better Homes and Gardens generation.

The pair dined by the flickering light of the Philco, which presented an endless stream of re-runs. Re-runs, that is, to Kirby; to Rachel, who had never been introduced to the wonders of Sky King or Rocky Jones: Space Ranger, they were a fresh wonderment. "It's like havin' a movin' picture show in your house," she mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.

"I've got a color set upstairs; want to check it out?" He'd love to see her reaction to Star Trek.

Rachel frowned. "Best not. Sooner or later, you'll be heading on. I don't want to get too used to these sorts of things just to have to give them up later." She stood, brushed cookie crumbs off her lap, focused for a moment, and aged up to somewhere in her middle forties. "It's time I headed home for the night. Thank your mother for me?"

"Sure. Hey, we're still on for the Saturday matinee, right?" A complete classic serial, twelve episodes back-to-back, plus cartoons and short subjects. Some parts of the afterlife, Kirby felt, were well worth dying for.

"Of course." She came close to smiling. "Might as well enjoy the good times while they last."

****

"Marco!" screamed Rachel, her eyes tightly closed.

"Polo!” Kirby responded, pushing himself off the pool wall just in time to avoid Rachel's grasping hand. For someone who had never heard of this game before today, she had a wicked sense of echolocation.

"Marco!"

"Polo!" He grabbed the pool ladder, scrambling out onto the deck as silently as he could; he circled around, and was ready to slide back in as far from her as feasible, when she did the unexpected.

"Fish out of water!"

"Damn it!" He hated being "it." An escape route presented itself via the all-weather electric clock hanging on the side of the garage. "Whoops, I've got to get ready for Mr. Janus; it's rent time in twenty minutes."

"Chicken," she replied, "Buck, buck buck!" He helped her onto the deck, where she dried off with a fluffy towel. "Thanks again for the swim suit."

"No problem." The concept of special clothes for swimming had caught Rachel flat-footed; in her day, back at the swimmin' hole, you either skinny-dipped, or wore an old nightshirt. "See you tomorrow for breakfast? Mom's making waffles."

"It's a date." She reverted to her adult form as she left the gate. She looked to be in her late twenties today. He adjusted his own age up to his mid-thirties, manifesting jeans, sneakers, and a Hawaiian shirt in the process, and then set up a pitcher of martinis in the kitchen while he waited for Janus' arrival. The Hornet pulled up to the curb right on schedule, but the look on the Rental Agent's face told Kirby that he wasn't in the mood for an early cocktail hour.

Janus stormed in without so much as a "Hello," and set his laptop up on the living room coffee table. "Somebody's been screwing around with your account."

"Say what?"

The computer screen displayed side-by-side comparison charts. "The left is your income versus expenses for last month. The right is this month. Your outflow has increased by more than a thousand percent in the last thirty days."

"That's—kind of unlikely." Kirby felt a nasty chill of suspicion creeping up his spine. "Outside of buying some presents, I haven't touched the account at all."

"Presents? For who?"

"For my next-door neighbor."

"Rachel Ward?” Janus winced. “Can you describe them?"

Kirby began listing the various age-adjustments, amusement-park visits, and matinee double-features, at least those of them he could recall. Janus tracked each on the laptop. "That only accounts for about fifteen percent of the additional outlay—or it should." He pointed at a column of figures. "Tell me, did you give the transfer to her directly, or did you use the forwarding system?"

"Forwarding system?" There were few things Kirby Foster hated as much as feeling stupid in retrospect.

"Didn't my receptionist give you the pamphlet package when you arrived?" Janus slapped himself on the forehead. "Zeus Pater, no wonder you didn't know how to pay your rent. Outside of official service providers, you never transfer karma without either using the forwarding system, or specifying the precise amount. What you've been doing is the equivalent of signing a restaurant credit card slip without putting an amount onto the tip or total lines; she's been writing in whatever she felt like, and pocketing the difference."

"I don't believe it." Except that he did. What he meant was I don't want to believe it.

"Blast it! I knew I should have warned you about her, client confidentiality code be damned."

Correction: there was nothing Kirby foster hated as much as feeling stupid in retrospect. "So, this isn't the first time she's done this?"

Janus laughed bitterly. "She's got red tags all over her file, a real professional eye for the soft touches—nothing personal." His eyes grew suddenly bright, and he pounced on his keyboard. "She's outsmarted herself this time, though. It’s been a lot of years since she last pulled this trick; she’s got no idea how fast modern billing software works—and this month's book-keeping cycle doesn't close out until five o'clock today." He punched a few more keys, and pressed "Enter". "There; I've returned all your transactions to the base amount; you're stuck with that, but the excess karma reverts to your account—and she gets stuck with the service fee." He grinned like a shark. "At five o'clock she'll have a negative account balance—and that's an automatic ticket back to Earth."

Kirby fought to keep the frown off his face. "Kind of harsh, but I guess she deserves it. No way for her to get out of it now, huh?"

Janus chortled. "Not unless somebody gives her an extra hundred karma units in the next twenty minutes." He slapped his hands together. "Damn, I feel like celebrating. You got anything to drink around here?"

Kirby nodded. "Sure, I've got martinis set up on the top floor. Make yourself comfortable, I'll bring them down." He was out of the side door and through the backyard gate in ten seconds.

He hammered the knocker on Rachel's locked front door, to no response. Circling to the back yard, he found her, still a woman in her twenties, working in her garden patch, wearing that same faded floral print sun dress.

"Hello, Rachel."

She started, leaping to her feet and turning to face him in a single move, her face pale. "I'm sorry; just don't—" She paused, and her face went red with anger. "You're not—who the hell are you?"

It suddenly struck Kirby that, in the entire month they had been friends—in the month that she had pretended to be his friend—Rachel had never seen him in an adult body, except for that first, stunned moment on the street. "It's me, Rachel. It's Kirby."

"Oh—oh, of course." The anger faded, and she smiled. "Well, it's a little late in the day for playtime right now. . . ."

"I agree," he said. "Playtime's over. Why did you steal from me, Rachel?"

Her eyes went wide. "What? Why I don't know what you mean—"

He shook his head tiredly. "There's no time for the innocent act. Janus knows, Rachel, he knows all of it."

"Janus!" She spat the name. "You're goin' to believe that two-faced liar instead of me?"

"What I believe or don't believe isn't the point. What matters is that you've got less than twenty minutes to persuade me you're worth trusting again. So tell me; why did you steal from me? Damn it, I was happy to share."

Fury rode across her features. "Share, oh yeah, share your lucky breaks, you and your fancy home, and your fancy tell-a-vision box, and your fancy Eye-talian food. You got no idea what it's like growin' up like I do, you and your happy little momma and daddy!" This time she actually did spit. "Well, you can take it all, and go runnin' back and be a baby again; I'm stayin' right here!"

"No, you're not." His blood was running hot now. "Janus took back what you stole. You're account's about to go into the red, and then you get your skinny ass booted back to Earth."

Her face paled once again. "No—no, I can't. Kirby, please, there's got to be something you can do; I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She shimmered, and reduced to ten years old, the same pigtails and coveralls, and the same magnificent shiner. "Please Kirby, didn't we have fun?"

"Fun time's over." He sneered. "And you need to watch your details if you want to be convincing; the black eye was on the right side before."

She touched her swollen left eye, and winced. "You—you don't know anything! I can't go back, I just can’t. Please Kirby, I'll do anything—" A wild look flew across her face, and she shifted forward into a sixteen-year old, the faded floral dress now bright and pretty, strawberry blonde hair flowing long and loose, the pipe-stem frame suddenly ripe with the promise of womanhood. "Please, I mean it, anything! Just help me—"

"Jesus Christ! What kind of sick twist do you think I am?" He shook his head, feeling a rich disgust rising within him. "How many others have you taken this way, huh?" His eyes lit on the back door of her house. He strode over, flung the door wide, and stamped his way in. "How much swag have you got hidden away in here, any . . . way?"

The first thing that hit him was the stench, a thick mixture of mildew and wood-rot, not enhanced in the least by the pot of cabbage bubbling away on an ancient wood-burning stove. The sink, piled deep with unwashed plates, had a single hand-pump. As he had surmised, there was no refrigerator, just an old-fashioned ice-box whose enamel had long ago worn off, revealing bare, rusted metal. There were stacks of ancient newspapers piled in every corner, and a ragged mop sitting in scummy water in a tin bucket.

Rachel rushed in after him. "No, get out! You can't be here!"

Kirby felt his stern resolve vanish. "Rachel—I'm sorry. I didn't know—"

"You still don't," she whispered. "Damn it, I'm too young, too rattled, can't never think to switch when he’s—just get out before he—”

She was interrupted by a voice from the next room, which bellowed "Rachel Girl?" 'Zat yew?"

The kitchen door swung open, and a pot-bellied, scraggly-bearded scarecrow of a man burst in, dressed in faded trousers held up by suspenders over the top half of long, woolen underwear. His hazy, shimmering outline revealed him to be a shade—but that didn't improve the smell of cheap rot-gut on his breath. "Dang it, girl, why ain't yew out workin' the truck garden like yer supposed to be?"

Pushing past Kirby he grabbed Rachel by one arm and threw her to the floor. "An' who's he? Yew bringin' strange men home now, yew little whore?" He spat at her. "If'n yew hadn't kilt yer ma' comin' out, this'd put her in her grave."

Rachel cowered before the awful memory. He raised one hand to strike her. Kirby grabbed it, trying to twist him down. The shade turned with the pull, and landed a round-house left on the point of Kirby's chin. Kirby went down, hard, rising to his knees only to find a pair of gnarled hands around his throat.

He can't kill me, Kirby thought; I'm already dead. But that didn't stop the pain in his lungs, the desperate, burning need to breathe that pounded in his temples. The grinning scarecrow-man laughed whiskey fumes in Kirby's face—

—And then his features went slack, as did his fingers around Kirby's neck. He let go; Kirby fell to the floor, gasping, and saw the ghost turn to face his daughter, who held a foot-long kitchen knife in her hand; a knife that dripped hazy, shimmering blood.

The shade crumpled, fading as it fell, and vanished into nothingness before it reached the uneven wooden slats of the floor. Rachel stared at the knife, her face expressionless, tears leaking from her pale, gray eyes. Then she turned the blade on herself. It did no damage, of course; the dead cannot die, as much as they might want to. She curled up into herself; sobbing, aging, changing back into the shrunken-apple doll of a woman Kirby had first met.

He crawled to her. "Rachel, take my hand, please." She remained curled; he pried her hand loose, forced it into his own. "I authorize this transfer; one hundred karma units." There was no tingle; he tried again. "One hundred karma units; I authorize this transfer." Nothing. "Damn it, I know what I'm doing now! I authorize this transfer!"

He was still trying long minutes later, when the kindly ones came to take her away.

****

He found Janus sitting comfortably on the living room couch, the pitcher of martinis from the kitchen on the coffee table before him. Janus raised his glass in a lazy salute. "I couldn't find the olives, but you mix a good drink."

"You manipulative bastard." Kirby dropped like a rag doll into his father's favorite recliner. "You played me like a tin whistle from the start."

Janus shrugged. "Don't sell yourself short; if you're an instrument, you're a Stratocaster, possibly even a Stradivarius. But you're right; I do know how to carry a tune."

Kirby closed his eyes in disgust and defeat. "I should have realized when I collided with her; it shouldn't have been able to happen. 'No accidents in the Summerland,' right?"

"I'll admit the timing was tricky; we had to track you starting down the hill, and make sure her mail was delivered at just right moment. But if you two hadn't connected then, we'd have managed it later. You were her ideal target, after all; a perfect blend of disposable income, naïveté and liberal guilt."

"Christ. Pour me one of those, will you?" Janus complied; Kirby drained the glass before continuing. "How many times has she been through the cycle?"

"Sorry, customer confidentiality . . ."

"Don’t pull that shit on me, you two-faced son-of-a-bitch! You made me your Judas goat. You owe me! How fucking long has she been caught in a suicide loop?"

Janus sighed deeply, slumping in his seat. "Sixty-seven cycles. Sixty-eight, if you count the one that starts tonight at midnight. They've already picked out the rat bastard who's going to be her old man this time." He shuddered, and drained his own glass. "We keep hoping she'll work her way out."

Kirby laughed, with no trace of humor. "Christ, what are the odds? Dead mother, abusive drunken father—Jesus! I thought those black eyes were faked! And all of it capped off neatly with a murder-suicide. She's been walking in that circle so long she's worn a hole in the floor, can't even be a kid again without making his memory too fresh to keep back. How the hell is she supposed to work her way out of that?"

"It can be done. You did."

Kirby thought about that. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" He placed his empty glass on the coffee table. "I want to go back, Janus. Back to Earth."

Black eyebrows rose. "This soon? Well, maybe it's a good idea, forgetting all this and feeding your interest income back into the base fund." He refilled his drink, and brought it to his lips. "I'll come over in the morning, and we'll work out the details—"

Kirby lifted a finger in interruption. "I want to go back tonight. And I want to go back with her."

Janus coughed gin all over the coffee table. "You're crazy! Tying your karma up with hers?"

"You said it happens all the time."

"Not on purpose! Not when the two cycles are so far out of synch! Think about it man, don't you want to be here when your wife arrives?"

"She's a strong woman; she'll get by. We'll hook up on the next go-round, maybe. But Rachel needs someone, or she'll be stuck spinning in place forever. I don't know what she did to deserve her first life in that hell-hole and I don't care; she needs a hand up."

"But—"

"It's my karma, Janus."

Janus sighed again, and surrendered. "Yeah, it is." He booted his laptop back up, and worked industriously for several minutes. Then he stood, straightening his tie. "Okay, it's all in place; you understand there's no guarantee you won't end up getting caught in the loop with her?"

"I'll take the chance." The edges of his lips twitched slightly. "Some things are too important to worry about."

Janus held out his right hand. "You know what to do."

Kirby nodded tightly, and clasped it. "I approve this transfer."

The previous transactions had been the tiny tingle of static shock one might get from rubbing their feet on carpet; this time lightning struck. Kirby's muscles went rigid, his back arching, his eyesight fading to a blue glow. At length, when the charge cut off, he fell to the floor.

It was Kirby Foster who fell to his knees. It was Sergeant James Madigan who rose, staring at his own hands in silent wonder. An instant later his form shimmered, and was replaced by a woman in a starched white nurse's uniform, her thin face hidden by a gauze mask. A heartbeat further, and her place was taken by a Cree warrior, a bloody war-hatchet still held in one hand, and then there stood a portly black woman, who barely registered on the eyes before becoming a tiny, incredibly aged Chinese matron. And now the transformations flickered and strobed, less than a blink between incarnations, drifting backwards in time to Rome, and Greece, Egypt and Sumer, finally pausing at the far end with a brutish figure more beast than man, who smiled with a mouthful of uneven teeth before once more becoming Kirby Foster, the same smile still curling his lips.

"You manipulative bastard!" There was something in the way Kirby said it this time that made it a compliment.

Janus pressed his hands together, palm-to-palm, and bowed deeply from the waist. "Congratulations on your promotion, Enlightened One."

Kirby laughed, a generous belly-whopper of a guffaw. "You sly, sneaky son-of-Olympus; just couldn't wait for me to wake up on my own, huh?"

Janus made an exaggerated shrug, both palms up. "It isn't every century we get a Bodhisattva so close to moving up to Buddha state; I figured, waste not, want not." He chuckled. "Returning to the wheel voluntarily; now that's what I call capital re-investment."

****

The newborn boy wiggled in the double-sized bassinette that he shared with his twin sister, his eyes shut tight against the light. His memories were still fuzzy around the edges—enlightened or not, there is a limit to how much knowledge a newborn brain can process—but he already knew who he was, and what his job would be.

A rough-edged male voice filled the room, at much too high a volume for a nursery. The newborn didn't understand the words—his language skills were one of the things that hadn't yet booted back up—but he knew it must be their new father; the tone carried the precise mix of anger and arrogance necessary to the role. Their mother, of course, would have died in childbirth, as per the pattern. The sound set his sister crying. Unlike him, she had carried no knowledge of self between lives—but it would be surprising indeed if a soul so long damned to repetition had not suffered a sense of déjà vu.

A newborn shouldn't have had the motor control to reach out and grasp his sister's tiny hand in his own, but he managed it. She quieted almost instantly. That's right. It's okay. You're not alone anymore. Relaxing, he let his body drag him down into a slumber deep and dreamless. There was no need to rush. They had, both of them, all the time in the world to get things right.

****

A Logic Named Clement (or Open the Pod Bay Doors, Hal)

Written by Bud Webster

His work has from the first been characterized by the complexity and compelling interest of the scientific (or at any rate scientifically literate) ideas which dominate each story. —John Clute, writing in The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction (St. Martin's 1993)

That's Hal Clement, all right. Even when I was a kid, we knew when we picked up a new Clement story or book that we were going to be challenged—those of us who weren't already science geeks, anyway.

Not that he was utterly abstruse, mind you. You had to know your stuff, or at least have access to a science teacher who didn't mind answering questions about "sci fi," but there was plenty of story in there to be had, even if the ideas were most important.

  Of course, this endeared him to John Campbell and the readers of Astounding/Analog (where most of his stories appeared) for years, but he never had trouble finding an audience wherever he went.

Several years ago, I was asked by a friend to speak to a group of middle-school faans who had decided to form a science fiction club at their school. I found them curious, enthusiastic, and eager to have anything new to read after finishing the most recent Harry Potter book. I read my own stories to them (set in their home town, which is the reason I was approached in the first place), answered their questions, and at the end, presented them with two grocery bags filled with old classic sf paperbacks: old Groff Conklin anthologies I had duplicates of, Asimov, Bradbury and Laumer collections, a few volumes of the Del Rey Best of . . . series, and whatever else I had around the house I thought they'd like (and wouldn't get them in trouble with their folks).

I still hear from some of them once in a while, and by far the author many of them are most grateful for having been introduced to is Hal Clement. Which is as it should have been; these were good, smart and clever kids, ready to delve into the ideas and concepts that Clement, a teacher himself, was keen to impart. It was a match made, well, if not in heaven then certainly above the plane of the ecliptic.

"Look," he explained it all to me once. "A writer is a man who makes his living writing. I make my living teaching. So I'm not a writer." —Lester del Rey, quoting the author in his introduction to The Best of Hal Clement (del Rey 1979)

That's a characteristically low-key self-appraisal, of course, and one could debate it all day, but why argue with the man? He knew his priorities, and his students and scouts came before publishers and editors with their eye-shades and cheap cigars. This is not to say that he didn't have a handle on how good he really was as a writer, however, as editor and publisher (sans shades and cigars) Warren Lapine recalls:

The most interesting thing I ever heard him say about his own writing was (and I'm paraphrasing here) that he (Harry) had an ego every bit as big as Isaac's (Asimov) and that he (Harry) was as good a writer as Isaac, but that Isaac had a much better press agent.

Harry Clement Stubbs was born in Somervile, Massachusetts on May 30, 1922. He got his B. S. in Astronomy from Harvard(!) when he was 21(!!), and four years later got his Masters in Education from Boston U. He also did grad work in chemistry.  

During WWII, he co-piloted B-24s for the Army Air Force, flying 33 combat missions in the ETO with the 8th. In the early 1950s he was recalled as a tech instructor at the special weapons school at Sandia. He taught science[i] at the Milton Academy in Cambridge, Mass. until his retirement, and if that wasn't enough, he was an avid scoutmaster the whole time.

In his spare time, he was the epitome of the hard-science sf writer, the one that all sf fans pointed to when asked who paid the most stringent attention to the laws of physics when writing about aliens, humans and other planets. In his spare time, I repeat. He did it better than anybody else at the time (and for a long time after), he was a telling and righteous influence on Sheffield, Asaro, Benford, and all the other hard-science writers who came after him, and he did all that when he wasn't teaching kids astronomy or chemistry or how to tie knots.

Do this for me. Look all the way down at the bottom of this article at the bibliography. Go ahead, I'll wait here and finish my root beer.

Did you notice something? I sure as hell did: as influential as Hal Clement was, as important as he was as a yarn-spinner, as much as his name was bandied about for, oh, five decades or so as one of the giants, he built it all on the basis of a little over fifty stories and about a dozen books. In his spare time. Doesn't that just suck?

No, it doesn't. It is, in fact, remarkable as hell. He was a remarkable individual, was Harry Clement Stubbs, and his work bears that out. He didn't cheat, he didn't fudge the numbers, and he didn't keep his eyes closed when he speculated. That wasn't what Clement was about, not at all. He was about making the story fit the science, not the other way around. Science was a suit he put on, it's what he was, and if the story had to work around the physics, it didn't work at all. Oh, he got it wrong once in a rare while, but when he did, you can bet that every pro in a labcoat had it wrong at the time, too. Nonetheless, science was never the trimmings in a Clement story, it was the whole turkey.

He sold his first story to—as should surprise none of you reading this—John Campbell's Astounding. "Proof" appeared in the June, 1942 issue, and if it didn't quite raise a fuss, it was the camel's nose, and Astounding was the tent. How could Campbell have possibly resisted a story featuring aliens who lived inside a star:

They had evolved far down near the solar core, where pressures and temperatures were such that matter existed in the "collapsed" state characteristic of the entire mass of white dwarf stars. . . . The race had evolved to the point where no material appendages were needed. Projected beams and fields of force were their limbs, powered by the annihilation of some of their own neutron substance.

  O, my little droogies, your faithful narrator would love to have been a fly on the wall of the Street and Smith offices that afternoon. Of his fifty-plus stories, no fewer than twenty appeared in Astounding/Analog, with his last story gracing the pages of the January 2000 issue. That's a span of 58 years, a record few can even come close to.

Hal Clement's second story, "Impediment," was a carefully thought out account of the landing of a space ship near the Arctic Circle and its discovery by one man. . . . The story was interesting on an intellectual level, as are all Clement's later works, but cold emotionally. —Alva Rogers, in A Requiem for Astounding (Advent 1964)

Therein lies the focus of much of the criticism of Clement's writing, from the beginning right up until the end. Clement had the reputation for being the Mr. Spock of (real) science fiction, eschewing sentiment and emotions and stressing ideas over character. Well, yeah, but science is all about ideas, is it not? It's when you bring people into the mix that science gets all screwed up and messy and before you know it there are giant flying robots knocking off banks and cackling madmen in lab coats firing funny-colored rays at World Capitols and making Superman choose between London and Lois Lane. Right?

Okay, I'm exaggerating for effect. Clement's characters are perfectly acceptable as characters; just don't expect them to cry or rave or even laugh more than is necessary to get the point across. In his world, characters exist to serve the idea, not the other way around. Damon Knight noted this in his examination of Clement's best (and best-known) story, Mission of Gravity:

[Clement's] failings are a certain emotional blandness—no Clement character ever gets excited—and a low romantic quotient: where [Raymond] Gallun's monsters are alien and humanly sympathetic at the same time . . . Clement's often fail to convince simply because they're too human: more so, in fact, than some of the human characters.

Nevertheless, Knight doesn't stint his praise for the book, calling it ". . . the most back-breaking job of research ever undertaken to buttress a science fiction story. Moreover," he continues, "the result is worth the trouble." And boy-howdy, is it ever. This is the one book that is invariably mentioned whenever fans get together with other fans and talk about hard sf. When articles on the topic are written, or panels/workshops on hard science fiction are conducted by faans and pros alike, Mission of Gravity is the one title that is either praised or castigated as the ultimate case in point.

Allow me to elaborate on that Rogers quote above, if you will. As I write this, Mary (my harshest critic and Boon Companion, Feeder of Cats and Painter on Fabrics) has read over the first draft of this little piece and has admonished me for my apparent dispassion towards my Subject. As is usually the case, she is correct, but don't tell her I said that or I'll never hear the end of it, okay?  

But she's right, I'm not terribly passionate about Clement's work, for all that I've read it over and over throughout the years and eagerly grabbed stories and books I didn't already have for my personal library. There's a reason for this.

Let me be absolutely clear about it: Hal Clement is not a writer who engages the emotions. To the contrary, Clement's work appeals almost entirely to the intellect. Is this a bad thing? I think not, for many good reasons, but here's the best—Wonder is as much an object of the mind as it is the heart, perhaps more so. I'm not talking about the wonder of a rainbow here, but the Wonder of what makes that rainbow appear where before there was none.

There are plenty of very fine writers who address the emotions, in one way or another or to one degree or another. Harlan Ellison, Zenna Henderson, Edgar Pangborn, and Barry Malzberg are only a bare few whose works tweak, tap or tear at the heart. They excel at it, and their work is effective and affecting.

Hal Clement didn't play that. His interest was not in pulling strings or pushing buttons (well, not emotional ones anyway) but in taking hold of the mind and shaking it until that mind is a quivering lump of Wow! To that end, he created worlds and people—human and otherwise—who exemplify the very best of science fiction, accent on the first word. This is not an easy thing to do.

I'm no scientist, I can tell you that: when I write a story that includes a specific bit of physics or chemistry or astronomy, I get out my phone list or e-mail address book and start asking those who know better than I. I am in awe of those who don't need to do that, and trust me, Harry Clement Stubbs was awesome. He had his speculative ducks in a row before he ever put paper in his typewriter, and it really does show.

Mesklin, the planet on which Mission of Gravity takes place, is the original Discworld.[ii] During its formation, it spun so fast that the sphere flattened, and as a result, gravity is just all outta whack; a gentle three times Earth normal at the equator, but a he-man challenging 700g at the poles. Talk about needing orthotics.

Clement figured out all the accessories for a planet like this, from weather patterns to how life would have evolved (intelligent centipedes), and I can tell you for certain that he enjoyed every single minute of it. Believe me, there are those of us for whom research is an evening's entertainment, whether its figuring out the biota of an alien planet or studying up on those who do.

It is a wonderful book, and by that I mean one filled with wonder, not just a terrific read. A landmark in the field, its impact on those who read it and loved it stretches far beyond the bookstore or library shelves and further on into aerospace technology and even NASA. In a way, it really does represent science fiction just the way the Know-Nothings think it does when they point at it. They're right, of course, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Mission wasn't his first book, though. Before that came Needle and Iceworld. The former came about as a result of a statement John Campbell made to Clement in hopes that the author would do just what he did: write a story to prove him wrong.

Campbell, let's face it, had all kinds of ideas for his own stories, and until he took over the reins of Astounding back in 1937 he did pretty well with them. Being an editor, unfortunately, means that your own career as a writer has to suffer to one degree or another, and Campbell's screeched almost to a halt; he published little fiction after taking over the Astounding post, and that in other magazines.

But there were all these ideas he had, see, and if he couldn't write 'em he sure as hell didn't see why somebody else couldn't. So, he would frequently toss an outrageous question or comment to one of "his" writers, and they quickly learned that he loved to be proven wrong, especially in his own magazine[iii].

Ergo, Needle. In a letter to the author dated April 12, 1953[iv], Campbell said, "Once upon a time I told you 'Science Fiction detective stories don't work—you can't write a good one.' So you proved that I was wrong in that, and wrote Needle."

High praise, nicht wahr? Of course, even higher praise followed in the form of checks from every editor he submitted to (in his spare time), so that even if he still listed "educator" on his QV, his hobby was plenty lucrative.

As an educator, kids were important to Clement. It shows in his writing: the protagonist of his first novel, Needle, is a teen-aged boy working with an alien symbiote detective to track down another symbiote, wherever on Earth it is, hence, a needle in an Earthstack; Close to Critical offers an Earthican robot on a heavy-gravity planet called Tenebra raising native children Earthishly, and his rescue of human children who have crashed there. Don't think that these are kids' stories, although kids can certainly enjoy them. Like another educator/writer, Zenna Henderson, Clement was writing about children, not down to them. They were important in his life, ergo they were present in his fiction.

A significant percentage of his short fiction has been anthologized and/or collected over the years, seven stories alone between 1951 and '54. One of these, "Critical Factor," was commissioned by Frederik Pohl for his Star Science Fiction original anthologies and appeared in the second volume of that inestimable series in 1953. This was not the last time Clement would contribute an original story to an anthology, either. Twenty-three years later he would give Judy-Lynn del Rey "Stuck With It" for the second volume of her inestimable series, Stellar.

Both stories bear the clear and unmistakable imprint of our beloved science teacher, for all that they don't bear resemblances to each other elsewise. Each has a primary concept used as a pivotal element around which Clement weaves his story, and both show the author's keen talent at presenting, and then (cleverly) solving, a problem based on that concept.

Sounds cold and rigid, don't it? Well, it isn't. Clement might have been all about the science, but he was also all about the story. Anybody can take an idea and hang words on it with a beginning, middle and end[v] and call it a "story," but it takes a real storyteller to do it right.  

Clement worked well with others on a social level, but only collaborated once in his career. In 1956, the magazine Satellite appeared with the promise of ". . . a complete science fiction novel in every issue," much as Startling had done a decade and change before. Sam Merwin, Jr., edited the first two (digest) issues, then left. Before he did, however, he added some 10k words to a story Clement wrote entirely from an alien viewpoint by inserting alternating chapters from a human perspective. It was published in the February, 1957 issue as "Planet for Plunder." As sf historian and critic Mike Ashley writes in his utterly necessary Transformations: Vol. 2, History of the Science Fiction Magazine, 1950–70 (Liverpool University Press 2005):

Clement was asked if he could pad the story out to novel length. Clement had neither the time nor the desire to do so but, with his agreement, the story was revised. . . . It was never published in book form in this version, but the original novella, "Planetfall," was eventually printed in Robert Hoskins' anthology Strange Tomorrows in 1972.

Ashley doesn't hesitate to cast a critical eye over the unfortunate result of this "collaboration," either, saying it ". . . added nothing new to the story and virtually killed it for the way Clement had planned and plotted it. In fact it's an object lesson in how to ruin a good story."

In the last years of his life, Clement suffered from diabetes. I recall a panel at a local convention[vi] in 2002 at which he sat to be interviewed by another writer/historian, Paul Dellinger, and myself. At one point, as the afternoon went on, Clement began repeating himself, slurring his words and misunderstanding questions. He caught our expressions, reached into his pocket and unfolded a bag of plain M&Ms. Carefully counting out a precise number of the little candies, he popped them into his mouth and chewed. Within moments, he was sharp again, energetic and right on top of us.

It was a typically Clementian thing to do, of course. He could never stand being fuzzy or confused, either in his writing or his daily life, and his interface with the world had to be just so. That he was "medicating" himself with candy-coated chocolate that melts in your mouth (not in your hand) instead of prescription drugs was just another clue to his meticulous approach to everything, fiction included. Why spend money on pills you can barely pronounce when you can get the same effect from shopping at any 7-11 candy aisle?

"Meticulous," he says. . . . Paul and I asked him a number of process-oriented questions that afternoon, and he remembers a comment Clement made which clearly exemplifies his habitual pains-taking, one I had since forgotten:

He did stories by writing scenes on index cards, and only when he had sufficient numbers of those would he begin actually writing the story.

Between 1994 and 1999, he wrote six stories for the DNA magazine Harsh Mistress (later Absolute Magnitude). HM/AM was, for the duration of its publication, a periodical that bubbled just under the level of its principal competitors, each issue threatening to burst through the floor and out-sell the older and more established markets. So, how did it rate an almost regular appearance by one of the Major League Hall of Famers? Editor and publisher Warren Lapine met Clement at Not Just Another Con in 1993, found him to be (as usual) very approachable, and, er, approached him:

At that point our first issue wasn't even out, but I asked him if we could get a story from him. He gave a noncommittal answer and I figured that was that. A few months later I was at another convention. . . . I was literally telling a new would-be writer that he could not just hand me a manuscript at a con and expect me to consider it when Harry walked up to me and said, "Here's the story you asked for," and handed it to me on a five-inch floppy. I, of course, said "Thank you!" and then amended what I had been saying to the new writer to, "You can't hand me a manuscript at a con and expect me to consider it unless you're Hal Clement. . . ."

That story was "Sortie," and it appeared sixteen years after his previous one. Why so long? Well, first of all, it wasn't as if Clement didn't have other things to do; recall, if you will, that his career as an author was pursued in his spare time. Lapine asked him why he'd stopped, and ". . . he told me it was because people had stopped asking him for stories." Unwilling to let that one go, and because "Sortie" was deliberately unresolved, Lapine urged him to write a sequel to tie up loose ends. Clement replied that he could do that, but that it might take three or four stories. "I was okay with that," Lapine says, "I told him 'Of course' and he wrote three more stories that ended up as the novel Half Life."

Harry Clement Stubbs left us on October 29th, 2003, at the age of eighty-three. He went quietly in his sleep, and perhaps he's somewhere still dreaming, file cards in hand and papers to be corrected stacked neatly by his elbow. The body of work he left behind isn't as extensive as many, but it's as rich and intricate as any. He left a large footprint on the Terra, and unlike all too many of his colleagues, his stories read as well now as they ever did. Warren Lapine praises him highly, saying "Harry was the nicest and easiest person I've ever worked with. I can't remember a single tense moment with him . . . I don't think he ever said an unkind word about anyone."

He was a fascinating man to talk to, filled with stories and facts, and above all, Ideas. His absence leaves a void that can never be filled by another.

Bibliography of Hal Clement

(As usual, this bibliography is as complete as I can make it given my resources, and is limited to first publications except where the same story was published under two or more titles. Also as usual, I welcome all corrections and additions; c'mon, folks, keep me honest.)

Short Stories

"Proof"—June 1942 Astounding

"Impediment"—August 1942 Astounding

"Probability Zero: Avenue of Escape"—November 1942 Astounding

"Attitude"—September 1943 Astounding

"Technical Error"—January 1944 Astounding

"Trojan Fall"—June 1944 Astounding

"Uncommon Sense"—September 1945 Astounding [Laird Cunningham]

"Cold Front"—July 1946 Astounding

"Assumption Unjustified"—October 1946 Astounding

"Answer"—April 1947 Astounding

"Fireproof"—March 1949 Astounding

"Needle"—serial, May, June 1949 Astounding [Robert Kinnaird]

"Iceworld"—October-December 1951 Astounding

"Halo"—October 1952 Galaxy

"Critical Factor"—in Star Science Fiction Stories No. 2, ed. Frederik Pohl, Ballantine 55, 1953

"Mission of Gravity"—serial, April-July 1953 Astounding [Mesklin]

"Ground"—December 1953 Science Fiction Adventures

"Dust Rag"—September 1956 Astounding

"Planet for Plunder"—February 1957 Satellite (with Sam Merwin, Jr.)

"Close to Critical"—serial, May-July 1958 Astounding [Easy Rich]

"The Lunar Lichen"—February 1960 Future

"Sunspot"—November 1960 Analog

"The Green World"—May 1963 If

"Hot Planet"—August 1963 Galaxy

"Raindrop"—May 1965 If

"The Foundling Stars"—August 1966 If

"The Mechanic"—September 1966 Analog

"Ocean on Top"—serial, October-December 1967 If

"Bulge"—September 1968 If

"Star Light"—serial, June-September 1970 Analog [Mesklin; Easy Rich]

"Lecture Demonstration"—in Astounding: John W. Campbell Memorial Anthology, ed. Harry Harrison, Random House 1973

"The Logical Life"—in Stellar 1, ed. Judy-Lynn del Rey, Ballantine

"Mistaken for Granted"—January/February 1974 Worlds of If

"Longline"—in Faster Than Light, ed. George Zebrowski and Jack Dann, Harper & Row 1976

"A Question of Guilt"—in The Year's Best Horror Stories IV, ed. Gerald W. Page, DAW 1976

"Stuck With It"—in Stellar 2, ed. Judy-Lynn del Rey, Ballantine 1976

"Seasoning"—September/October 1978 Asimov's [Medea]

"Sortie"—Spring/Summer 1994 Harsh Mistress

"Settlement"—Fall/Winter 1994 Absolute Magnitude

"Seismic Sidetrack"—Spring 1995 Absolute Magnitude

"Simile"—Summer 1995 Absolute Magnitude

"Oh, Natural"—Spring 1998 Absolute Magnitude

"Exchange Rate"—Winter 1999 Absolute Magnitude

"Under"—January 2000 Analog [Mesklin]

Articles and Essays

"Whirligig World"—June 1953 Astounding

"Gravity Insufficient"—November 1961 Analog

"Atoms and Opinions"—Galileo #2 1976

"Introduction to 'Proof'"—Spring 1977 Unearth

"Science"—(column) Winter 1977—Winter 1979 Unearth

"Red World 2"—Galileo #11 1979

"On the Tenth of Apollo 11"—July 1979 Galileo

"Voyager 2"—November 1979 Galileo

"Pretty Pictures"—Event Horizon #2 1980

"The Home System"—October 1986 Aboriginal SF

"Essay: Whatever Happened to the Science in Science Fiction?"—September 1993 Science Fiction Age

"Only Once"—Spring 1994 Fractal

"Ardent Thuria, Chilly Cluros: Seeing, and Seeing From, Low Orbiting Satellites" —Fall 1994 Mindsparks

Novels and Collections

Needle—Doubleday 1950; also as From Outer Space, Avon T175, 1957

Iceworld—Gnome Press 1953; Lancer 75-128, 1967

Mission of Gravity—Doubleday 1954; Galaxy Novel 33, 1958; Pyramid F786, 1962

Ranger Boys in Space—Page 1956 (YA)

Cycle of Fire—Ballantine (hc), 200 (pb), 1957 (simultaneous publication)

Close to Critical—Ballantine U2215, 1964

Natives of Space—Ballantine U2235, 1965 (collects three novellas)

Small Changes—Doubleday 1969; also as Space Lash, Dell 8039, 1969

Star Light—Ballantine BB 2361, 1971

Ocean On Top—DAW 57, 1973

Through the Eye of a Needle—Ballantine 25850, 1978

The Best of Hal Clement—Del Rey 27689, 1979

The Nitrogen Fix—Ace 1980

Intuit—NESFA Press 1987 (for Boskone, limited to 820 copies)

StillRiver—Del Rey 1987

Half Life—Tor 1999

The Essential Hal Clement, Vol. 1: Trio for Sliderule and Typewriter—NESFA Press 1999

The Essential Hal Clement, Vol. 2: Music of Many Spheres—NESFA Press 2000

The Essential Hal Clement, Vol. 3: Variations On a Theme By Sir Isaac Newton—NESFA Press 2000

Heavy Planet—Tor 2002 (Mesklin)

Noise—Tor 2003

Anthology

First Flights to the Moon—Doubleday 1970 (Note: The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction [compiled by John Clute and Peter Nichols, St. Martin's 1993] indicates that this is a non-fiction anthology, but it is all fiction.)

---

[i] Can you imagine your science teacher writing science fiction? How cool is that? I don't know about you, cowboy, but I'd have been over the moon about it. Nyuk-nyuk.

[ii] I honestly have no idea if Sir Terry Pratchett had read Mission before he wrote Strata, his first novel about a flat planet (and unconnected with the Discworld books), but he may very well have done.

[iii] Except about psionics, Dianetics, and the Dean Drive. He got really cranky about those.

[iv] This is the same year that Asimov's response to that statement, The Caves of Steel, was published. In another magazine. Hey, Campbell didn't always get his way.

[v] Urk. Considering some of the workshops I've been in over the years, perhaps that statement is a bit of a stretch.

[vi] SheVaCon, held in Roanoke, Virginia. Clement was a frequent guest.

****

Lost Worlds

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Eric Flint has kindly moved my column, Notes From The Buffer Zone, here from its home at the late lamented Jim Baen’s Universe here. I started writing the column when I realized that writers of my generation rarely blogged or wrote columns for anyone. Writers older than me had regular columns, and writers younger than me blogged. But writers who got their start in the 1980s were seriously unrepresented in the science fiction essay world—wherever it has migrated to.

I’m not sure exactly why that is. I also noted that very few women had sf columns either. For example, none of the long-form reviewers at the one of the field’s premiere magazines, Locus Magazine, is female. The female reviewers are relegated to “short reviews.” I don’t think any of this shows a gender-bias. I think that no woman has volunteered for the heavy lifting that a regular long-form (2-5,000 words) requires.

(This situation has changed since I wrote my first Buffer Zone column two years ago. The rise of IO9 and other online publications is helping the gender imbalance considerably.)

Anyway, I called the column “Notes From The Buffer Zone” because I felt that I straddled generations as a writer—I’m turning 50 this year, but (weirdly) I’ve been part of the sf field for more than 25 years. (Writers don’t usually start as young as I did)—and I was the only female columnist at Jim Baen’s Universe. I didn’t write about women’s issues, per se (I never felt that being female relegates me to writing only about female things [whatever that means]), but I did want to bring a new perspective.

I plan to continue that perspective here. In my three-month hiatus, I found I missed writing a regular column. I feel like these pieces are on-going long discussions with other sf fans, and I missed that communication.

During the time off, I read a book of essays by Michael Chabon, author of the Hugo- and Nebula-award winning The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, and the Pulitzer Prize winning The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay. If you had told me fifteen years ago that I would summarize an author’s career like that, I would have said no chance. But the literary mainstream has become more accessible to genre fiction, and genre fiction has opened its mind a bit to “outsiders” even if they’re really not outsiders at all.

I highly recommend the book of essays, titled Maps & Legends: Reading And Writing Along The Borderlands, both from a writer’s perspective (it’s always fun to read another writer’s process) and from a reader’s perspective. Michael Chabon is three years younger than me, and also belongs to the cusp generation that I mentioned above.

We were, I think, the last generation to be indoctrinated in the “differences” between “good” and “bad” fiction. Or maybe, we were the last generation to believe it.

Chabon and I approached our indoctrination in different ways. I decided that I could never be good enough to be a “literary” writer. First of all, the rewriting alone—years of it—was more than my limited attention span could handle. Secondly, I read the great books assigned in my then-husband’s English classes (I was a history major) as well as the modern “literary classics” and found two things: 1) the great books were mostly genre fiction; and 2) modern “literary classics” were damn dull. I blamed my limited attention span. I couldn’t stomach one hundred pages of navel contemplation, no matter how well written.

I abandoned any hope of Pulitzers, Nobels, American Book Awards, and recognition by the “right people” long before I ever learned how to write a beautiful sentence. And—oh—maybe more importantly, I enjoyed my genre fiction readings. I slogged through the modern “literary classics.” I stayed away from English Departments primarily so that I wouldn’t get criticized for my choice of reading material, although I always took a creative writing class, just to keep my hand in.

According to his official biography, Chabon wrote his first novel, The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, to fulfill his masters requirement at the University of California-Irvine. Which means that he went whole-hog into the English Lit side of the world, and willingly drank the Kool Aid.

He started as an sf and mystery reader, adored comic books, and once envisioned that he’d be a genre writer.

“As a young man, an English major, and a regular participant in undergraduate fiction-writing workshops,” he wrote, “I was taught—or perhaps in fairness it would be more accurate to say I learned—that science fiction was not serious fiction, that a writer of mystery novels might be loved but not revered, that if I meant to get serious about the art of fiction I might set a novel in Pittsburgh but never on Pluto.”

He writes about this and much more in an essay called “Imaginary Homelands.” The essay is, in a sense, about finding his way back from that attitude. He actually calls himself “lost” in that time period. Eventually he started using genre tropes to great effect: The Yiddish Policeman’s Union is an alternate history novel with a mystery embedded in it. The book, while winning sf’s top awards, also got nominated for mystery’s top awards, and Chabon came (or sent a speech) to the various awards ceremonies, filled with respect and awe at the honors.

Contrast that with the response one sf award got years before (I like to think it was the Hugo, but it might have been the Nebula) from a well known literary writer whose work was nominated—sheer horror. And in one of the Best American Mystery volumes from several years ago, a writer wrote of his terror at being called a “mystery” writer. The horror! The horror! Genre contaminating “good” fiction.

It is because of people like Michael Chabon and Jonathon Lethem on the literary side of the equation (although I have trouble writing about Lethem that way since he got his start in sf [I bought his first-ever short story for Pulphouse: The Hardback Magazine]), and writers like Peter Straub and Stephen King on the genre side of the equation that the boundaries stopped being so clear-cut. King, for example, had an English degree and was teaching high school English when he sold his first novel. He too had a love for genre, but felt a little dirty writing it, because genre was, as Chabon writes in “Imaginary Homelands,” “transgressive fiction” (as if the fiction had “transgressed” somehow—his line).

Another change happened as our generation grew older, following in the heels of the hardcore baby boomers. (Chabon and I are baby boomers by definition only—since the boom supposedly extends to birth year 1964. In actuality, it's our older siblings [and in a few cases, our parents] who were true baby boomers.) The hardcore baby boomers weren’t willing to give up their enthusiasms just because they had reached a certain age.

The rallying cry of their generation—“Don’t trust anyone over thirty”—caused them an existential crisis as they passed thirty, and their answer, as a group, was to remain “young” and “hip,” and not become “squares” like their parents were.

In some ways, that worked. If you look at pictures of our parents—born in the teens and twenties—when they were forty, fifty, sixty, they looked both old and settled. If you look at baby boomers as they crossed into those ages, they looked a decade younger than their actual age, and dressed like their kids.

Which leads to another thought, also promoted by a Chabon essay in the same volume, this one titled “Kids’ Stuff.” That essay, initially written as the keynote address for the 2004 Eisner Awards Ceremony (for comic books, for those of you who haven’t added that particular fandom into your repertoire), discusses the decline of comic book sales, which Chabon directly attributes to the lack of comics for children.

When we were young, comics came in a variety of types—from the Disney comics for young kids to more mature comics for older kids. It was my generation in the late 80s that decided comic books needed to be relevant and challenging so that they could contend in the literary world as they rightly should.

Chabon restated his thesis in the middle of the essay like this: “To recap—Days when comics were aimed at kids: huge sales. Days when comics were aimed at adults: not so huge sales and declining.”

He wasn’t arguing that comics should dumb themselves down. He was arguing that comics also needed an entry level, so that kids could start reading them again. (The essay was written in 2004. I think change is on the horizon with the tablet notebooks—particularly the iPad, which will allow comic creators to appeal to a broad range of audience without needing the backing of a major comic publisher.)

His premise got me thinking, not just about comics and kids, or books and kids, but about indoctrination in general. Back when we were all told that literary fiction was good fiction and genre fiction was bad fiction, we were also told that comic books would rot our brains and certain TV shows were bad for us. My mother, like so many other mothers, tossed out my comic books—sometimes before I finished reading them—and my father wouldn’t allow that sci-fi garbage on his precious television set. My English teachers confiscated more than one romance novel from me, and I almost lost my flute teacher because she caught me reading “filth” in her house and worse, passing it along to her daughter.

Kids had a culture all their own, and it had the benefit of being somewhat forbidden. It wasn’t for another thirty years that the rallying cry of “I’d rather have them read [insert your favorite genre here] than nothing at all” became common. Back when we were growing up, what we read or saw could warp us for life.

The adults were right about that. My poor father, before he died, read sf because his daughter wrote it. As adults, my generation and the older baby boomers, clung to our comic books and our genre TV shows, our favorite novels and our own personal superheroes. Except for a small subset of us (most in ivory towers), we stopped judging fiction as “transgressive” and started enjoying all forms of storytelling.

But I got to wondering—what did that leave our kids? And their kids? Did they have something that was just theirs, that was “filth” or “forbidden”? I asked on Twitter. No one had an answer. I asked on Facebook. Again, no answer. I asked friends of all ages. No answer—except for one timid “manga?” from an adult. The next day, I read that manga was considered passé by most high school students. (I have no idea if that’s true.)

I’m not sure if it’s an important loss to have these segregated boundaries. I’m inclined to say it isn’t a loss at all. After all, I read YA and middle grade books with the same enjoyment as any adult novel, genre or not. I’m looking forward to getting web comics on my iPad (which I’ll get any day now). I like being able to talk to someone not yet twenty about common interests—whether it’s a novel, a movie, or a game.

I also know that I’m thrilled to see genre boundaries break. Romance fiction now explores science fictional ideas. Back when I wrote my first novel, I chose sf/f because romance wouldn’t consider anything set in a made-up world. Mainstream novels like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road get discussed seriously, even though it’s a post-apocalypse story. Kids’ books, like Neil Gaiman’s brilliant The Graveyard Book, gets rewarded by the Newberry Committee as serious literature, even though the novel is horrific, set in a graveyard, and is filled with ghosts.

It’s a better world than the one I grew up in, but it’s a very different world. And some of us, raised in the old world but struggling to survive in the new, carry those trained boundaries within us. I’m glad that writers like Chabon have learned to break the shackles of literary expectation. I’m convinced that in a few years, those shackles will simply be a memory.

But I am curious about that lost private world of childhood. It was a shared world when we were growing up—trading comic books, passing forbidden novels around the lunchroom at school. I just don’t know if that’s an important formative experience—or if it’s one we can all do without.

****

Table of Contents

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Introduction to the Universe Annex

Nor the Moon By Night

The Boat

Blaise Pascal and the Adders of Apraphul

A Tale of Two Alberts

A Study in Redheads

Hair of the Dog Or The Continuing Adventures of Harry Lefferts

Historically Well Preserved

Northwest Passage, Part Five

No Ship for Tranquebar, Part Four

The Aqualator

The Multihull and the Mariner

Time for ReConStruction

Summerland Rentals

A Logic Named Clement (or Open the Pod Bay Doors, Hal)

Lost Worlds