Grantville Gazette Volume 33

King of the Road

Written by John Zeek

Spring 1635

Johan Frey enjoyed the breeze coming through the open window. The cool evening air seemed to wash away his cares. The city watch office was overly warm and Watch Captain Rolf Nestmann tended to mutter when he read; Johan found that annoying. Since the captain had a full week's correspondence to plow through, Johan was looking for any excuse to get out of the office. None had presented itself, so he stood and looked out the window.

The sounds from the parade ground in front of the headquarters drew his attention. Ensign Andreas Guenther and Feldwebel Buettner were trying to train a half company of the Suhl Militia in field maneuvers. In Johan's opinion this was a waste of time. The militia was by definition a defense force for fighting from a city and Guenther and Buettner were barely trained themselves. Take the militia out of their city and they would melt like snow in the heat of battle. He had seen trained professional companies melt in battle too many times. But Captain Nestmann had dreams of reviving his glory and was in charge of militia training, so the militia trained in field maneuvers. Trained with pike and musket tactics, not the tactics offered by their new bayoneted rifles loaded with minié balls—a total waste of time.

His attention was drawn to the other side of the square where a party of the SoTF mounted constabulary was forming up to leave on patrol. Now there was a really professional force. He sometimes wished he had taken the offered commission in the constabulary, instead of following Nestmann back to Suhl.

"Damn," Nestmann commented. "Do you believe the amount of paper they expect me to read?" Johan turned to see the captain scowling at the stack on his desk. Since he had Johan's attention the captain continued, "Johan, think back to when we were first starting out in the army business. Did Mansfeld ever use this much paper? He did not. I can remember whole battle plans scratched out on the ground in front of his tent. And Hoffmann—did he ever send any written orders? Bah! Now look at the mass of paper they send me, and most of it is about militia—not even real troops."

While he nodded in commiseration, Johan thought back. Yes, Graf Ernst von Mansfeld had rarely issued written orders but his commands had been basically simple, "Charge" being his favorite, and in the end he had lost.

Johan found it hard to think of Hoffmann as an example of an adequate commander. The man had lacked military knowledge, was lazy, and, more importantly, he was unlucky.

Luck was, in Johan's opinion, more important than skill. Of course, in the end even Graf Mansfeld's remarkable luck hadn't been enough; he had died from a simple cold left untreated.

Johan fingered the lump on his leg, the result of the wound he had received at the "Battle of the Crapper." Even his own luck hadn't saved him. Two inches to the left and it would have missed. Of course, an inch to the right and he would have lost the leg, so maybe his luck was still there. But now he was a city watchman, tax collector and only a part-time soldier. Ah, luck.

"Look at this." The captain was holding a paper out. "You know him better than I do, so I want you to find him. Take young Guenther with you. I want to see him here first thing in the morning. Oh, and do not tell him why I want him. Let him sweat."

Johan quickly read the order. The first thought to go through his mind was: He isn't going to like this.

****

The Waffengasse at midnight wasn't as dark as the inside of a black cat, but in Anse Hatfield's opinion it came close. The style of building with the upper stories larger than the first meant there was only a narrow patch of sky visible between the shops. This late at night most of the lamps and torches in front of the few open taverns had gone out or been snuffed. Besides the Waffengasse—Weapon Alley, Anse translated in his mind—was just a passageway for delivering parts to the three gun shops that bordered it, so no taverns and no lights.

Normally Anse would have avoided the alley and used the inside stairs in the gun shop he managed for Ruben Blumroder, but it was late and he hated to wake Horst Guenther and his family who had taken over Ruben's residence in the back of the shop. So he had to use the alley to get to the outside stairs to his third floor room. Anse's plans were suddenly changed when he saw a suggestion of movement in the mouth of the alley. His instincts and the slight scraping he heard told him that there were men waiting in the alley.

Anse's hand slid under the tail of his jacket to the automatic pistol in the small of his back. Suhl generally had less street crime than most German cities, probably because of the number of gunsmiths who carried their own products, but there were always some fools swimming in the gene pool. Anse was silently cursing Gaylynn Reardon; she had convinced him that his .45 spoiled the hang of his clothing, so he was only carrying that damn toy he had borrowed from Pat.

A familiar voice from the alley caused him to relax. "Herr Hatfield, your neighbors are going to be upset if you wake them with gunfire."

"I'll just tell them I shot at a tax collector. Hello, Johan."

"Oh a hit, a solid hit, Make a light, Guenther. Let the man see who he is jesting with."

As soon as the lamp was un-hooded, Anse saw that Johan Frey had another watchman with him. Both were wearing the yellow and red armbands that were the only uniform of the watch when on duty.

Johan walked over and peered at Anse. "You did have your hand on a pistol, didn't you? I had a bet with young Guenther that you were not unarmed."

With some reluctance Anse displayed the Walther PPK that was his only firearm. "It's only a .32. Frau Reardon thought a larger gun spoiled my clothing. And since I was having dinner with them tonight, well . . ."

"Just so, one must keep the hostess happy, especially if you want to be invited back," Johan said with a smile, then turned to his companion. "And, Guenther, you will note it is an up-time pistol, more than one shot. You owe me a beer."

"Herr Frey, it is only a toy," Guenther muttered.

Privately Anse agreed, but it was his toy. "Eight shots, Guenther. I'd like to see a wheel-lock match that."

"A beer, Guenther," Frey insisted. "But since it is just a small pistol, I'll buy the sausages." Guenther looked far from satisfied, but knew better than to argue with his superior.

In the flickering light Anse recognized him as Andreas Guenther, a journeyman gunsmith who worked for Pat Johnson when he wasn't a watchman or serving in the militia. He was a busy young man, and he was the son of Oswald Guenther, another gun maker. Besides he was a cousin of Horst, who was hopefully sleeping peacefully inside the gun shop.

"Come by when we're testing barrels tomorrow and I'll let you try out this toy, Andreas." It would be worth a few cartridges to impress the boy's father.

"Stand there, Guenther. I want a word with Herr Hatfield in private," Johan said as he put his hand on Anse's shoulder to lead him away from the alley.

When the two were out of earshot, Johan asked, "Anse, do you know a man named Anton Cronenburger?"

Anse's response was quick. "Yes, I know him; I doubt there are two men with that name. He is the chief hunter for Arnstadt."

"Actually there are three Anton Cronenburgers. The chief hunter, his father who was chief hunter before him and his son. But the man I am talking about is the current chief hunter. He presented an interesting idea to the city council. And your name was mentioned."

"Positively I hope? I am petitioning for Suhl citizenship."

"Very positive. The council wants you to manage a project for the city. And citizenship should come with it, but you have to join the militia."

Anse didn't have a happy look on his face, "I really don't want to go back into the army, not that I could with the wounds I took at Ahrensbök, but the militia might be all right, depending on exactly how the town council defines 'able-bodied.' Just what is the project?"

"Captain Nestmann has given me a direct order not to tell you. He wants to be mysterious."

Anse smiled. Nestmann was an overly officious clown and Anse knew Johan agreed with him. But he had to admit that Nestmann was a brave clown. He had been one of the few officers in Hoffman's mercenary company at the Battle of the Crapper who hadn't panicked.

"Well, I won't ask you to disobey a direct order, Johan. So when does he want to see me?"

"First thing in the morning and I can tell you it is a mechanical project involving trucks." Then he raised his voice and called to Guenther, "Andreas, use your light and escort Herr Hatfield to his quarters. It is dark in that alley."

****

When Anse arrived at the watch headquarters the next morning, it looked like a miniature truck parade had just arrived. There were five old Chevy S-10s or their GMC equivalent, three Blazers, and a lone Chevy Monza sedan. It was a little hard to tell the make and model of the trucks since all had been stripped of chrome trim and painted primer gray. All but two of the trucks had trailers hitched behind and one of those was towing the Monza. The sedan was the only vehicle still sporting its original paint, but it was spotted with primer and one front fender was clearly a replacement.

Anse watched as the drivers of the trucks gathered near the front of the Monza. Then he recognized the driver of the first truck. Anse thought of ducking into a nearby shop and being late for his appointment, but the familiar and unwanted figure of G.C. Cooper turned and saw him. "Hi, Hatfield," Cooper called. "I made it earlier than planned. Here's your trucks."

What the hell? was the first thing that went through Anse's mind? His trucks?

Cooper continued. "I got your mail in my truck. Let me get the guys organized and I'll get it."

Anse decided to wait for answers.

"Yes, Hatfield, they are your trucks." Anse turned and found Rolf Nestmann standing beside him. "And you are late."

"The parade got in the way. And what do you mean, 'my trucks'?"

Nestmann had a smile on his face as he answered. "Ach, the city council has decided, after a suggestion by a number of the villages' and towns' heads, to provide a better transportation service for the foodstuff and raw materials purchased from the villages and the materials Suhl ships out."

He waved at the trucks. "Only the most modern means will be good enough. So the council purchased these trucks in Grantville. Since you are an experienced transportation officer, they also asked for you."

"But . . ."

"You are going to say that you are too busy," Nestmann interrupted. "But we both know that is not true. Your work for Blumroder is just to let you get citizenship in Suhl. Oh, and to let you play at finding gunrunners. I do read my mail."

Anse was amazed. If Nestmann was onto his plans, who else knew? Who had told Nestmann?

Nestmann turned toward the headquarters. "Come inside. It is noisy out here; and there are too many ears." Anse followed the captain to his office. Only then did Nestmann continue. "How much easier would your job of hunting gun runners be if you had the official backing of the Suhl city watch commander?" The captain pointed to himself.

Anse could only nod in agreement.

"So this is a godsend to both of us. You get to do your hunting, and I get an experienced man to run the new trucking company for the city. Why they want the trucks to be under the watch, I don't understand. But it is official. As you up-timers would say a 'done deal.'"

"But . . ."

"Official I said and official I meant. Here are your orders, signed by General Jackson no less. And General Jackson included a personal letter."

Nestmann handed over the orders and a sealed envelope. Not a twice folded sealed with wax sheet as was usual but a real up-time envelope. The return address of the mining company had been marked out, but it was still noticeable. Anse tore open the letter first. Inside was a note scrawled in Jackson's handwriting.

Hatfield, your request for disability retirement just crossed my desk. In a one word answer: Denied. But you're out of TacRail.

I could throw out a bunch of words about you being too valuable to lose, but you and I would both know it's bullshit. The fact is, we need you. So, like a willing horse you get to run another mile. Besides they like you in Suhl; I don't like you. You cut too many corners and you run your mouth too much, but I can trust you to get a job done. And this job is important.

The government, read Ed and Becky, want to spread Grantville's technology around to all of Thuringia-Franconia, so Suhl is getting a fleet of trucks to ship their products.

We both know that trucks, even little trucks like these, could be used as a weapon and a force multiplier, so watch those trucks. I don't want some idiot putting armor on them. Don't let Nestmann get any ideas. They are for transport only.

I am sending you G.C. Cooper as a mechanic. Keep him sober. He has some good men with him to help you train drivers and set up a repair garage. They should be there in a couple of days with the trucks.

I threw you a bone to keep you happy; you are now a lieutenant, in mechanical support.

The repair garage is the key to this project, so do a good job on it. I might want a way to send the APCs down into Franconia in an emergency and they need some support in place.

Have fun in Suhl, and watch those trucks. I don't want them used to do any empire building.

Frank Jackson

Putting the letter aside, Anse quickly read the orders; it looked like Jackson had covered all the bases. He was denied disability retirement, removed from TacRail, commissioned a second lieutenant, transferred to Suhl, promoted to first lieutenant and loaned to the Suhl city council as a technical expert. All in one set of confusing orders, signed by Frank Jackson personally. He had even been denied travel expenses. The asshole.

Nestmann had been waiting impatiently while Anse read, "So, Lieutenant Hatfield, you are now under my command and my orders are to build a transport company."

Anse could almost see the wheels in Nestmann's head turning. He was planning something.

What could Anse do? He responded, "Yes, sir." All the while thinking, What an asshole. He makes a pair with Jackson.

****

Johan Frey was enjoying himself. This was the most satisfying thing he had seen since he came back to Suhl. G.C. Cooper, who appeared to be in charge of the up-time trucks, was trying to direct their drivers to park the trucks closer to the headquarters and relieve the blockage in the street. But his German was so poor that they could pretend to misunderstand him. Cooper was yelling and clearly getting more frustrated by the minute. The many Suhl merchants in the crowd were helping the situation by loud comments about the blocked street that Cooper, from the look on his face, had to understand. Frey knew he should step in, but no, not to help Cooper.

Just then his dilemma was solved by the arrival of a squad of watchmen reporting for the day duty. With a smile Frey ordered, "Wachtmeister Meusser, clear this mess." Frey walked into the headquarters with an even broader smile; Hans Meusser spoke no English, was dumb as a rock and had a rather short temper. That should make Cooper's day even worse.

Just as he entered the outer office he saw Captain Nestmann and Anse Hatfield coming out of the captain's office. Nestmann looked happy and Hatfield looked like a man going to his execution.

"Ah, Johan, just in time," Nestmann called. "I want you to take our newest addition, Lieutenant Hatfield here, over to the stable that the city has picked for a garage. And make sure that mess in the street is cleared. I could hear it in my office."

Nestmann turned to Hatfield. "Lieutenant, I will want a copy of your new unit's roster in my office as soon as possible. The city council wants to start transporting materials within the month."

The look Anse gave the captain's back as he walked away was worth the trouble Johan knew he was going to have with this project. Being Nestmann's second-in-command meant he did most of the captain's dirty jobs.

He waved Anse to a stop near the door but out of hearing distance of the watchman at the desk. "Careful, my friend. You are not one of Nestmann's favorite people. Since you were once the garrison commander here, he blames you for the fact that there are no troops other than militia for him to command."

"Old news, Johan. Where is this stable, and what mess in the street?"

Johan just waved through the open door. In the street the trucks were neatly parked, opening up one third of the street to traffic. But in the middle of the street, G.C. Cooper and Hans Meusser were standing nose to nose, and each was yelling in his own language. This was entertaining to the passing merchants and to the truck drivers who were leaning against the trucks. "Your man Cooper and my Wachtmeister seem to be having a difference of opinion."

Johan and Anse yelled almost at the same time.

"Hans, back to work, you're setting a poor example for your men."

"Cooper, step back and apologize to the watchman. He's a local cop."

****

Two hours later Johan was quietly amazed. Anse had been all business and had gotten G.C. Cooper and the seven men with him settled in the sleeping rooms over the stable. The four truck drivers who were going back to Grantville were already on their way home in the little car called a Monza, odd name. The stable itself had been swept and now housed the eight trucks and six trailers. Now they were sitting in Blumroder's gun shop where Hatfield was quietly reading his mail.

When Anse smiled at the letter he was reading, Johan had to ask, "Good news?"

"Yes, it's from Leonore. I told you about her. Her assignment to the school at Magdeburg has been continued, so she's not going to be in a combat posting."

"Just out of curiosity, what was in the long box you got?"

"Ah," Anse's smile got even wider, "it's a replacement for the rifle I lost at Ahrensbök. Hank worries about me, so he sent me a new toy."

Anse suddenly looked serious. "You're full of questions today, Johan. How about answering one of mine. What's the problem between you and G.C. Cooper? I know why I don't like him, but what is it with you?"

Johan was slightly embarrassed; this was too close to getting personal. "You remember where and when we first met?"

"Sure, just after the Battle of the Crapper. I was picking up wounded and loaded you in my truck; took you to the medical center."

"That is correct, and do you remember who was with you?"

Comprehension showed on Anse's face. "I was stuck with G.C. Cooper. But you didn't understand English then."

Johan laughed. "It is not hard to understand when a man sticks a gun in your face. He wanted me to walk to the Medical Center. You stopped him and loaded me in the truck. I thank you for my leg."

"No, it wasn't that bad of a wound." Anse waved the matter away. "And you still want to get back at G.C.—is that going to be a problem for me to deal with? I can send him back to Grantville with the next shipment of guns going to the army. He's not that good a mechanic."

"No, you need him, so keep him. Besides he's not under my command. He is yours, but keep him away from me."

****

Anse stared at the completed roster. Out in the new garage, he could hear Cooper trying to instruct two likely volunteers in the care and feeding of the General Motors four-cylinder engine. Ignoring the volunteers—Cooper would probably scare them off anyway—he had barely a squad of men: Cooper, considered a corporal but really a civilian in uniform, the three trained drivers, two barely trained mechanics, and two mechanic trainees. All trained by G.C. Cooper. Anse wished he had kept the four drivers who were on their way back to Grantville, but they weren't assigned to Suhl. Still, he had built a rail crew from less. He longed for just one man he could trust.

When it got silent out in the garage, he knew he was about to get a visitor. Sure enough, Cooper's head appeared in the doorway. "Those two guys decided they didn't want to be truck drivers, Anse. I'm going to break for lunch."

Anse felt like tearing out what remained of his hair. "Cooper, sit down. We need to talk about those trucks."

Cooper sat, but looked defensive. "Anse, those are good trucks. I picked them myself. They all have 'Iron Duke' engines that I personally converted to run on either gas or ethanol. They're smoking so much because I ran them on straight gas on the way down here. So the mixture was too rich. The Blazers are all four wheel drive and I put overload springs on every thing. They're damn good trucks, to be as old as they are."

Anse knew Cooper was trying to feed him a snow job. The trucks were near worn-out wrecks he had foisted off on the Suhl men in Grantville who didn't know any better.

"Spare parts, what about that? This isn't a one shot deal. We have to operate for years."

Cooper actually smiled. "Four of those trailers were loaded with spares, and I have four complete engines. The other two trailers are loaded with tools. Shoot, man, I can build an 'Iron Duke' if you give me a block."

Anse had heard enough. "Not by yourself, and you're chasing off volunteers. Those last two were Hans Heyelmann and Sigmund Klett. Klett's daddy is Cornelius Klett, the gun maker and city councilman. Heyelmann is related to the Ambergers, again noted gun makers and councilmen. They were hand picked by their families to learn to drive. Look, G.C., this is for real, not some guys hanging around your garage waiting to be impressed. What happens when I am forced to send you back to Grantville as unsuitable to work with the locals?"

"I get to sleep in my own bed and eat at my own table. Anse, I don't like it here. The only thing these Germans have got is good beer, and Frank Jackson made me swear off anything but small beer while I was out of Grantville."

Anse realized he was stuck. If he sent Cooper home he was just doing what the man wanted. He knew Cooper was not above screwing up on purpose just to go home. If he tried to punish Cooper by turning him over to the Suhl authorities, there would be a stink in Grantville. He doubted it would be covered up like the Horton mess. So what to do? Then the answer came like a flash of light. Well, more of a memory, from years ago. What had been the name of that plan that was just starting when he left Vietnam . . . "Vietnamization," that was it.

"Cooper, I have a plan. How long will it take you to bring your two so-called trained mechanics up to speed where they can work on an engine without you looking over their shoulder? Make them your replacement as chief mechanic, but two of them."

"Six weeks, but make it two months just to be sure."

Anse though for a moment, "Okay, give me your best while you're here and get them up to snuff, and I'll send you home in three months. I'm adding a month to give you wiggle room. Is it a deal?

"Well, three months is a long time."

"Or I could tell the Suhl city council that you cheated them and that the trucks are all over twelve years old. What happens then is up to them. They haven't hanged anyone for the last couple of months and it's been years since they burnt anyone at the stake, so the population might want a spectacle."

"Ah . . . three months should be plenty of time. I'll even get those spare engines overhauled and ready to pop in, just in case."

Anse smiled. "Oh, you better start calling me Lieutenant or sir from now on. We wouldn't want your men to get into bad habits."

Three weeks later

Anse watched Sigmund Klett drive the pick-up around the city square. Not bad. He'd have to send young Klett on a road trip to be sure, but it looked like he had his sixth driver. After the truck came to a stop, Klett and his trainer got out. Anse walked over. "Looking good, Klett."

He then turned to Eudo Berenger, the trainer, "What do you think Eudo? Is Klett here ready for a trip to Arnstadt to pick up a cargo of wheat?"

"Yes, Chief, if it's the three truck convoy we talked about last night. I'll put him in the middle spot with just a truck and I'll take the lead with a Blazer and the trailer and put Achille in the back with the other truck and trailer."

Anse smiled. Eudo had got his lines just right. Klett had to think this was spontaneous praise.

"Now that sounds like a plan, Eudo." Anse clapped Klett on the shoulder. "You're ready, Sigmund. Do a good job and you're full-fledged driver."

Anse was positively grinning when he walked into the garage. Achille Berenger, Eudo's brother and another driver, was showing driver trainee Heyelmann how to check the oil in the Blazer near the door. Hans Heyelmann would do his over-the-road check-drive this afternoon. The shop area was neat and clean; Cooper was actually pushing a broom, or had his trainees doing it. Over in the back, Christoph Bach, one of the trained mechanics, had two trainees putting an engine on the test stand that the Reardon Bolt Factory had put together from a picture in an up-time hot rod magazine. There were even two of Reardon's machine operators taking measurements of various bolts and nuts to make replacements. Everything was going smoothly.

"The captain is in your office, Chief," Achille called when he saw Anse.

Hell, too smoothly.

When Anse walked into his office, Rolf Nestmann was seated behind the table that served as a desk. "Hatfield, I want to ask you about something." Nestmann pulled two pictures obviously trimmed from an up-time magazine from his belt pouch and dropped them on the desk. Anse could see they were color photos of pick-up trucks with machine guns mounted in the bed. Shit.

"Tell me, Herr Hatfield what is to stop you from making these 'Technicals' on our trucks?"

Anse stared at the pictures. The truck in the first picture had a heavy machine gun and the second had an anti-aircraft gun. This was worse than what Jackson had feared. Nestmann was starting to plan big. The only use for armed vehicles here in Suhl was to push the little villages around. Time to piss on the embers before the fire flared. "It's not possible, Captain. We don't have a machine gun. And besides, the trucks in the pictures are three-ton trucks. Ours are half-ton, so they're too small.".

"But we could put a little cannon, say a swivel gun, in the back of a truck?"

Anse pointed to the pictures. "What's the reload time on your little cannon? That A-A gun can fire over a thousand times a minute. Besides, even a swivel gun has too much recoil. All changing a truck would do is take it out of the transport business."

Nestmann was visibly deflating. "But the picture . . ."

"Not possible. Now I could make some removable seats to put in a truck bed and you could load maybe eight men in the back, facing out. Of course without the seats you can get ten or twelve men in there."

Nestmann's hand came up to stroke his chin, "Lieutenant, I will go to the council and ask for one of your pick-up trucks to be reserved for militia use. Oh, and one of the Blazers would make an excellent vehicle to patrol outside the city. So make it two trucks and start your men on building those seats. I will send you two men to train as drivers for them." With that pronouncement the captain strutted out of the office.

Anse thought a minute; then he walked into the garage. "Trainee Heyelmann, we're going to have to delay your check-ride for a couple of days. Captain Nestmann needs two of our trucks, so we're going to reorganize. You might want to mention that to your uncle." That should set the captain's plans back just a little. Heyelmann's uncle was on the council.

****

Johan Frey, standing in his usual spot by the window, spotted Nestmann walking across the street toward the headquarters. He didn't look happy. This was going to be another bad day. Sure enough, the captain slammed the office door and stomped over to his desk. "The city council has denied my request for two of those silly trucks. They even had the gall to threaten my position as head of the city watch. Councilmen Klett and Amberger actually questioned the amount of time I have the militia training."

Johan worked hard at hiding his smile. "Well, Captain, I can understand their position. The militia is charged with protecting the city, not defending the whole of Suhl County; that's why we have a radio to call for the army. And the men do have other jobs."

"Frey, don't argue with me. You are very close to being removed from the watch. You have spent too much time in Hatfield's company. He argues with me and his attitude is rubbing off on you."

Johan's temper flared, but he controlled it. "Rolf, I'll let the threat go since we have been friends for a long time. But it is my right—no, my duty as your second—to offer advice and to tell you when you are wrong. And this time you are wrong. The city fathers of Suhl don't want a pocket army. They want a city watch commander who commands the city watch. You spend too much time plotting in this office. Go out and talk to the merchants and gun makers in the taverns. They'll tell you about the troubles they had with the former garrison. Talk to the journeymen and apprentices. They'll tell you even more. And yes, most of them will sing Hatfield's praises. So maybe that attitude is one you should get. We are not an army. They pay us to stop street crime and collect taxes, not to ride around on decorated horses and lead men to burn peaceful villages. That's over and done with. No more."

Johan stepped back from the desk and tried to get his breathing under control. "If you want me out of the watch, say so and I'll go back to work in my father's leather shop. I can still make boots. You can even say it is because of my wounded leg and I won't say a word to deny it."

Nestmann had the grace to look taken aback. "Johan, Johan my old friend, I sincerely apologize. This city is driving me crazy. Besides, I need you. You're too good with the men to lose. But you're missing the main chance we have here. Using the city militia we can build the core of a military company. With a hundred good loyal men we can recruit a professional force and get back in the game. I have received letters from some of our former companions. The supporters of the pope are hiring troops. We start to build on the younger, wilder men in the militia. Then recruit up to strength out in the county and on the way south. By the time we get to Italy, we'll have a regiment second to none. Think about it, Johan . . . Italy, warm weather, beautiful women and wealth just lying around to be taken."

Johan had to ask, "And Herr Hatfield's trucks? Were you planning on 'borrowing' the trucks for this Italian trip?"

Nestmann had a sly look. "No. I have made arrangements to acquire larger trucks. Hatfield's man, Cooper, is very greedy and has found me two. They are what he calls F-150s. Much larger trucks. They will be perfect to build this." Nestmann pulled two pictures from his pouch.

Johan didn't even glance at the pictures. His fingers slipped under the strip of cloth that formed the armband below his shoulder. With a hard tug the cloth ripped. The arm band fluttered as he threw it on the desk. "Without me, Rolf. You'll have to do it without me. I have had enough of burning villages and more than enough of rape and pillage." He turned and walked to the office door. As a parting shot he added, "Stay off the street of the leather workers with your recruiting. If I see you close to my father's shop, it would be too tempting a target."

The echo of the slamming door was the only sound in the office for a while.

****

Anse was surprised at the quiet. Normally the garage was a rather noisy place, but when he walked in that morning he was greeted with silence.

Marcel Noel, his number one driver, hurried over to explain, "Chief, there's a delegation from the city council in your office. They showed up just minutes ago, and I told them you were on your way."

Anse was surprised by the crowd in his office. Three councilmen filled the chairs. Each of them must have brought a secretary with him, since there were other men standing. It was an odd group. Near the window he saw Jorg Hennel, head of the CoC in Suhl. What was he doing with a bunch of stuffed shirts like the councilmen and their flunkies?

Besides that, the three councilmen were an odd combination. Cornelius Klett and Rudolph Amberger were seated at the ends of the desk. Together they were known as a driving force behind modernization here in Suhl and had sponsored the purchase of the trucks. But between them was Matthias Schwengfeld, whom every one in Suhl called "The Rock" because he was opposed to any change. To make it even odder, the three councilmen were dressed in their best and were holding their symbols of office.

Schwengfeld started the meeting, "Herr Hatfield, my colleagues and myself find ourselves in an odd position. You are here from the SoTF National Guard, but you are effectively employed by the City of Suhl as a member of the city watch. But that service is reserved for citizens of the city, so, in effect, you and we are violating the laws of the city."

His soliloquy was interrupted by Amberger. "Get to it, Matthias. We do not have all day."

"Yes, it is going to be a busy day," Schwengfeld agreed. He dropped a parchment on the table. "Herr Hatfield, we decided to do something we discussed last year. Because of your service to the city, and other factors, you have been made a full citizen of the city of Suhl. Here is your Patent of Citizenship. You are also appointed as an advisor to the council. As such, you and your trucking service are no longer under the command of the city watch, but directly under the council and the Bürgermeister. In the future, Herr Hatfield, you will report to me."

"Well said, Matthias. Now are we done?" Amberger interrupted again.

"Yes, I believe so." Schwengfeld was apparently not used to being interrupted and seemed flustered.

"Then we have an appointment across the street." Amberger and Councilman Klett pushed away from the desk and they and their secretaries rushed out.

Schwengfeld waved to the empty chairs. "Sit down, Herr Hatfield, talk with an old man." He turned to Jorg, "Join us, Hennel. You need to hear this."

When Anse and Jorg were seated, Schwengfeld nodded to his secretary. "Wait outside, Heinz. This is just unofficial talk between friends.

"Herr Hatfield, you are wondering why Jorg is here? He is my unofficial advisor. I see I surprised you."

Anse was surprised, but he thought he had hidden it. "Well, sir, you do have a reputation as being against change and Jorg is all about changing society."

"Indeed he is. We have had many fascinating conversations, arguments really. Jorg is my nephew and while he is the black sheep of the family, he is still family."

"Grand-nephew actually," Jorg put in.

The old man smiled fondly. "Yes, that is right, grand-nephew. Your mother was the daughter of my second wife's brother."

Anse went from surprised to amazed. Jorg as the offshoot of a merchant family was hard to believe.

Schwengfeld pulled Anse's attention back. "You were worried about Captain Nestmann and his intentions, I believe?" When Anse nodded the old man continued, "And I wager you were planning a solution. You Americans always want quick solutions. What you never knew and what Rolf Nestmann forgot is that Suhl is a small city, a family city. We take care of our own. The city watch has always been a place of employment for less skilled younger sons and cousins. The council knew his plans as soon as he tried to recruit his first soldier."

"So Nestmann was planning on going mercenary again?"

"But of course. Why else train the militia so much? He was looking for soldiers. When you found out, or more importantly, when the authorities in Magdeburg found out, he would have been arrested. The time for mercenary armies has passed, thankfully. His arrest would have embarrassed the city of Suhl, and the government of Thuringia-Franconia. We on the council had to come up with a solution."

"So what happens to Nestmann? Do you hang him or shoot him?" Jorg asked.

Schwengfeld fingered the parchment on the table, "Oh, we cannot have the city embarrassed by executing a watch commander. Besides the embarrassment, Rolf is related to Cornelius Klett, third cousin in fact. He is right now receiving a parchment much like this one. Thanking him for his service to the city and removing him from his troublesome duties with the city watch. I believe we voted a small sum of money to accompany it. He is also being sent to Ruben Blumroder as a military advisor and secretary in the capitol. Kicking him upstairs, the Americans call it."

"But . . ." Anse sputtered.

"No, Herr Hatfield, it is finished. See, we don't always need you Americans to solve our problems."

Schwengfeld pointed at Anse with a smile. "But since you are now a citizen of Suhl, I expect many hours of advice. Not that I'll follow it."

The Rock stood and walked toward the door. Then stopped and added, "Oh yes, there is one more thing. Tomorrow Johan Frey will be asked to take command of the city watch. A good man, Johan. His mother was related to my first wife."

After Matthias had left, Anse turned to Jorg. "That was a hell'va politician."

"Yes, I have two models I try to copy—him and Gretchen Richter."

Anse could only think, What a study in contrasts.

****

"Well, that went well," Johan muttered to himself as he walked into the street of the leather workers. His last coin had gone to pay the bill at the tavern for his room and board. Now he was both out of work and homeless. The shutters were open on the windows of Frey und Sohn Leather, letting the light from inside spill into the street. He had avoided his family since he had returned to Suhl, but now it was time to go home.

Hesitantly, he knocked on the door of the living quarters. The boy who answered was obviously one of his father's apprentices. Johan waved toward the dining area beyond, "Young man, would you be so kind as to ask Herr Frey, the elder, if he has a plate for the prodigal son?"

****

Transit

Written by James Copley

"Making Ideas into Reality Since 1975" — An Old Soldier

Hambühren, 5 miles west of Celle

Hans stopped just outside the door. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, and the sky was a great golden canvas with wispy streaks of pink clouds strewn across it like bits of cotton candy. It was a cool, crisp morning with the promise of a sweltering summer afternoon in store. The horses were standing in the courtyard of the small inn, indifferent to the hour.

This could not be said of their riders. With bleary eyes, and pillow creases still marking their faces, his two assistants, barely awake, moved to load the survey equipment onto the packhorses, while the inn's stable master finished preparing the saddles on the visitor's geldings.

The horses seemed to be watching a small dog scamper back and forth barking first at the kitchen window, then at the kitchen door. Its frantic efforts to be noticed were finally rewarded when the door opened and a well-used ham bone was tossed in its direction. The dog demonstrated remarkable agility by catching the bone and proudly bore its trophy into a corner of the stable to enjoy the largess.

This was all lost on the assistants, as they strapped down the last saddle bag. The precious transit was not trusted to the pack horses, but was mounted in a special harness behind the saddle on the master's gelding. Finished, they plopped down on the hard bench alongside the stable.

Hans watched and listened. He had always been fascinated by their interplay, and wondered how it could have possibly developed between the two demonstrably opposite personalities.

"So, Chaim." Andrew asked. "What, perchance, is going to happen today to ruin this beautiful morning. I'm sure you have spent all night determining the different ways we shall meet our end." Andrew re-started the years old game between the two friends.

Chaim cracked his eyes open against the morning glare and glanced over at Andrew. "Just for you, you little gutter-snipe, I will apply my boundless wit to the endless cosmos to produce for you . . . a prophecy." Andrew's eyes rolled as he prepared to receive his friend's sarcastic response.

"First, my friend, we will never smell the homey stench of our favorite London slums ever again. We shall lose our jobs within a fortnight. Our trust in this upstart German student will end in disaster after he is discovered hanging from the trellis outside some woman's window. Second, the duchess our little Hans has been cultivating will decide we are all guilty of malfeasance, and order our unjust imprisonment. Third, a giant horse will step on my foot crushing it completely flat, and the owner of said horse will blame me for the horse losing a shoe, at which point my nose will fall off and my hair will turn bright blue." His deadpan voice rose to a crescendo as he finished with the description of his hair. "And finally, after all is said and done, a pretty girl will come looking for you, just for the opportunity to wipe that silly grin off your face!" He raised his arms in the air as he declaimed, "We're doomed!"

The horses skittered away from the loud outburst, losing any interest they may have had in a small four-legged animal. The two-legged variety were proving more dangerous. Hans overheard the stable master as he glanced at the two foreigners and shook his head, muttering to himself; "Dummkopfs, there is no need to frighten the horses."

Andrew eyed his friend, "You have had entirely too much time on your hands lately, my friend. Which movie was that one from?"

"Mine!" Chaim's face crinkled with myriad laugh lines as he grinned back at his companion. "The one I will someday write about our adventures together."

Hans turned away at the sound of the loud guffaws coming from his assistants. "Well, at least someone's having fun this morning," he muttered.

At this point, his presence was discovered by the laughing japesters. "And there is the star of my future comedy!" Chaim said.

Hans could hardly disagree. The hair on the back and one side of his head had been shaved partially away giving him a mop of ridiculous looking, misshapen mange, poorly covered by the hat sitting gingerly to the other side. A new bandage had been applied to the place where he had been bashed and bloodied.

He was sure his assistant thought he looked rather like Bozo the clown on one of the Grantville TV screens that Chaim found so fascinating.

"At least I managed to shave this morning, and my clothes and boots are clean. I've saved that much of my dignity even if I do look like a Grantville TV buffoon." He rolled his eyes at his own sorrowful attempt at levity.

He had a massive headache left over from being thumped on the head. When he paid the innkeeper, he discovered he was liable for the bar tab his former bodyguards had run up. This news, while not surprising, was decidedly galling, and hadn't helped his mood. The mercenary escort hired to protect him had instead gotten drunk and turned the local tavern into a shooting gallery. While it earned the idiots a quick trip to the gaol, Hans was not entirely satisfied with the outcome. On the other hand, astonishingly, an agent for Duchess Anna Eleanor had already arranged for the damages to be covered, and while it certainly made a difference in the dent the entire episode made in his purse, he wondered at the motivation. Why would a duchess worry about a surveyor's expenses?

"Good morning, sir!" "How's the head?" His assistants asked as they moved to greet their erstwhile employer. "Are we ready to go, sir?" "Where we going, Boss?"

"One at a time! And quieter, please!" Hans grimaced a bit at the mild pain their volume had produced. "We're going nowhere until our guards arrive, and then we will still have to wait for the representative from the manor." The new guards, having replaced the mercenaries at the order of the duchess after the mercenaries in question had been arrested, were in the direct service of the duke. One of them had family living in the village, which prompted them to choose to stay there instead of at the inn.

At that moment, a pair of horses rounded the corner. Thinking that it was the arrival of new guards, Hans turned to berate them on their tardiness. "Wh—"

Oops . . .

Dorotee and her father's retainer, Hermann, appeared from behind the adjacent building, with a third horse and rider following behind. Dorotee wore the same riding jacket he had seen before, but today she wore a divided riding skirt and billowing underskirts. She had a blue and gold ribbon wound artfully through and around her braids, keeping most of her hair up and away from her neck. Secured with another ribbon, a light blue sunhat hung from her neck, swinging along her back as her mount swayed to a stop. Wisps of hair floated like a halo around her head, sparkling in the morning light.

He was stunned . . . This time, even though taken by surprise by her sudden appearance, he took the time to truly study her. Her flaxen hair was a perfect match to the blue and gold that made up her dress and ribbons. The colors flowed across the glossy black coat of the mare, their silken sheen giving the illusion of liquid metal. Her eyes were a dusky hazel which seemed to change with every fleeting thought. And her skin was lightly tanned from time spent on her beloved horse. To say he thought her beautiful was an understatement.

His paralyzed mind retreated to his concept of the divine for a suitable reference. He whispered, "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu . . . "

His assistants glanced back at Hans. "Oh, yeah," Andrew said, "the boy is definitely smitten. Send for a priest, he needs the extreme unction! The man is taken away with love and shall surely die ere the sun comes up tomorrow."

"That or Lust has taken him already." Chaim whispered.

"Ooof!" Andrew landed a solid elbow in his friend's ribs and he gasped for air. Chaim nearly collapsed from the ensuing laughter.

****

As she pulled on the reins, halting her mount at the entrance, Dorotee stared at the laughing assistant. Recognizing him as the one who had retreated at her father's approach on the day of "the incident," she dismissed him as irrelevant and refocused her attention upon the master surveyor. His face seemed frozen in the same manner as in their first encounter, although this time it gave her a flutter of something she had never felt before. Sadly, it also reminded her that she was here as a representative of the family and that there was business to conduct. Hermann and Marie, her mother's designated chaperones for today's activities, were an additional reminder of her duties as they pulled even with her.

Her mother had designated Hermann as the primary representative, but admonished her daughter that even knowing the devout loyalty of their retainer, care should be taken to ensure that all the terms of the duchess' negotiation be carried out. While Dorotee had no concerns about Hermann's abilities on that score, she understood her mother's intended message. If you fail to watch out for your own interests, don't be surprised when your interests are compromised by those around you. Even Hermann could make mistakes, in other words. She intended to monitor the proceedings carefully.

Marie's presence, on the other hand, was a bit more of a mystery to Dorotee. While she suspected that most of the reasons for her mother's insistence upon Marie's going along was simply that of a trusted female companion for propriety's sake, she couldn't help the nagging feeling that there was more than one agenda being advanced by her being there.

The master surveyor finally seemed to break out of his trance, noticing the laughter coming from his assistant. Uttering a quick admonishment that managed to stifle the laughter to mere chuckles, he approached her horse, sweeping off his hat and doing a surprisingly good approximation of a courtly bow.

"Good morning, gnaedige Frau! We are nearly finished with our preparations, and await your command!" His performance was marred, however, for when he made his sweeping gesture, the unholy mess that was his hair became fully visible to everyone.

Chaim again went into paroxysms of laughter and even Dorotee could not hold back a giggle at the ridiculous state of Hans' hair. He straightened abruptly and jammed his hat back on his head, wincing as his bandage shifted. His face blazed bright red in embarrassment.

Dorotee took pity on him. Fixing his assistants with a piercing glare, she dismounted and moved toward him, striding with a purpose born of experience. Hermann, realizing what was coming, quickly followed suit, grabbing the reins of Dorotee's abandoned horse and handing both sets to the stable master, who moved quickly to take them.

"Turn around, please." For a moment Hans froze in place. "Come, come, I'm not going to hurt you. Now turn around so I can look at it." He turned reluctantly, glancing at his assistants in trepidation. She pulled off his hat, handing it off to Hermann, and proceeded to remove his bandages, being careful to minimize his discomfort. She cringed in sympathy but was undeterred at the sight of the ugly gash along the back of his head. The disgusted look she gave her retainer bounced off him with no effect.

Dorotee closely examined the wound for infection, sighing with relief at finding none. She motioned to Marie, waving her forward with one hand while she reached toward Hermann, retrieving the hat.

"Well, this is a right mess you have here. I'm certain that is no bandage I put there." She turned to Marie, who had dismounted, and rattled off her instructions. "Go inside and have water boiled, and have the innkeeper find some clean cloth, you know the type we need, and scissors."

Hermann interrupted. "Lady Dorotee, I'm sure that Master Blum is well able to take care of himself."

"Considering you are the one who put that crease in his head, I believe you have absolutely no room to talk at this point!"

Hans kept silent, for which Dorotee was grateful, as she didn't need to have any distractions when dealing with Hermann's obstinacy. While her father commanded his instant obedience, with her, he was quite a bit harder to order around.

"He is going to get a new bandage put on, and that is that." She shoved a bemused looking Hans toward the entrance of the inn, forcing Hermann to follow if he wanted to continue arguing. The surveyor's assistants moved to follow, but were held by a glare from the retainer. Dorotee maneuvered her new patient into the common room of the inn, and plunked him down on one of the benches.

"I do not want to watch our surveyor keel over just because no one thought to properly care for his wounds."

To this, Hermann voiced no reply. He simply applied his baleful stare at the object of the conversation, triggering yet another round of chuckles from the assistants, who by now had moved to observe the action from one of the open windows.

While waiting on bandages to be prepared, she decided it would be an ideal time to brief the surveyor on his new tasks.

"You are aware of your obligations, I am told?" She stood above him busying her hands by brushing his remaining hair away from the wound.

"Ah . . . Yes." Hans began to recite the tasks that had been conveyed to him via the duke's sealed message. "I am to survey and prepare the plans for a resupply way station, with the location for such to be chosen by your family, with the additional caveat that it is to be in a stable area, easily built upon, with immediate access to both Hambühren and the new road.

"Speaking of which, have you considered yet where your first choice might be?"

By now, Marie had arrived with the bandages that had been requested. With a sideways glance toward Hermann, she began to lay out the materials for Dorotee. Hans tried glancing at the array only to have his head jerked back around by a quick flip of Dorotee's hand.

"Hold still, or this will hurt." Dorotee reached down with the precut lengths of cloth, dipping it briefly into the near boiling water. After letting it cool for a few moments, she quickly applied it to the gash on Hans' head, drawing a flinch. "Hold still!"

She heard him hiss as she finished placing the sterilized pieces of cloth onto his scalp. As they began to dry from the heat, she wrapped the wound in the rest of the cloth, making sure to cover the open sides of the dressing with the tails as she had been taught by the up-time trained nurse who had helped during the aftermath of the French raid on the oil fields. She tied off the ends with a loose square knot and tucked the remnants into the sides.

Examining her handiwork, she looked to Hermann, motioning for him to inspect her work, as he had done in times past. Though still glaring at her patient, he acquiesced, passing judgment upon her first aid skills, producing a satisfied grunt.

Hermann turned back to her, this time with considerably more insistence. "Are we quite finished? It is past time that we should be on the road."

"Of course, I'm finished," she replied with a hint of a self- satisfied smile.

Hans rose from his seat, and began placing his hat back upon his head, only to have it snatched away from him by Dorotee.

"I'll not have you destroying my work in mere minutes! You will have to do without this for at least today!"

"I thank you for your care." He began to stare at her again, only to give a slight shake of his head, like a horse shaking off a fly, and returned his attention to Hermann. "I agree, sir, it is definitely time we should be going."

As they exited the inn, Hans' two assistants could be heard arguing over something, but with Hans' quick command they mounted their horses, leaving off whatever they had been discussing. Hermann and Marie soon followed suit.

Dorotee sent a grateful look toward Marie before mounting her own steed and they headed south out of the village.

Just south of Hambühren, 5 miles west of Celle

Chaim rode close beside his partner's horse, leaning over to whisper "What's your bet, now?"

Andrew glanced back at Hans with a calculating look. "Three months. It'll take that long just for him to gather the courage to ask her father. And that presupposes that he can get past Stone Face back there."

Chaim gave his own appraisal. "I say no more than two months. In less time than that he'll be hanging from her trellis." His eyes traveled from Hans to the girl. "Or she'll be hanging from his! Did you see the looks she gave him at the inn? I thought he was going to burn up on the spot, with the heat from her eyes. That was no act of a spurned woman! Like as not, soon she'll be stringing the bait. I wonder if he realizes she fancies him. He's dense enough sometimes to put a brick wall to shame."

"Aye, he is that!" Andrew chuckled. "If only he were as smart with women as he is with mathematics. It's too bad she's not an equation. He'd be able to make her sit upside down and dance in circles!"

Chaim gave his friend a knowing look. He had observed their master's lack of experience with women several times over the last few months.

Andrew returned the look. They both burst into laughter recalling the last disastrous encounter Hans had endured, involving a serving wench in Celle who had unaccountably taken a liking to the shy surveyor. To say that he was unsuccessful in maintaining her interest was an understatement. His comparison of her to the Pythagorean Theorem simply put the icing on the cake, as the up-timers put it.

****

As the survey stakes hove into view, the party began to loosen into its constituent parts. The assistants rode toward the road survey stakes and dismounted, beginning to unload their equipment. Hans oversaw this activity while giving the surrounding area a quick once over. Hermann had indicated a long but narrow area adjacent to the road, but had not given any particular preference to exactly where to start.

Hans watched him confer with Dorotee as she established herself under a nearby oak set in a small clearing in the center of the proposed way station. With her hair gently blowing in the wind, she seemed a picture of tranquility. Hans was drawn to the fact that she had pulled out a book to pass the time. It was too far for him to determine what kind of book, but in his mind, any book was better than no book. Books were the window to the world.

He began his survey work, quickly deciding that the first thing to be surveyed was a central stable and livestock area, offset from the main road along a bypass, which he imagined would have attached blacksmith and farrier's shop, with a pair of inns at either end of the way station. His mind began to build the station in his imagination. It was a satisfying but time consuming task, taking up most of the day. Several times, he conferred with Hermann, ensuring that the plans he was making were within the bounds of the agreement. Hans was surprised to learn that Hermann was a former Jägermeister, and that he heartily approved of Hans' decision to work around the trees in the area as much as possible. Nearing the completion of his task, he prepared to give his presentation to Hermann. Hans returned to the meadow where Dorotee had arranged herself, then he paused, gazing about, taking in the myriad details surrounding him in an all-encompassing gestalt.

He turned in place, allowing his eyes to match up his inner vision with the untouched reality. The picture before him stopped him in his tracks. A sudden spark of inspiration snapped across his synapses.

The image of Dorotee, sitting under the oak tree and reading a book jumped from the back of his eyes to the front of his thoughts. He sat down right where he was and drew a sketch of her leaning against the tree. In his mind he added a circular bench around the trunk, with flowers and a gravel path leading up to and surrounding the tree. It was one of his better sketches. In the drawing, escaped wisps of her braided hair were shown blowing gently in the breeze. Her dress was playfully twitched to and fro by the wind's gentle fingers and the branches seemed to embrace her in a loving, tender fashion, playing along the edges of her shoulders like a lover's arms.

Then a clearly frustrated Dorotee slammed her book closed and dumped it back into the saddlebag. Wondering what the book might contain that would cause such rancor; Hans began walking toward her, signaling to his assistants to begin packing their equipment.

Her eyes seemed to lock onto him as he approached, although with her current mood he wondered at his courage in approaching her. Her hazel eyes had shaded to gray, seeming to match her dire expression. Coming within comfortable speaking distance, he slowed, suddenly unsure of himself as her mood seemed to sour from bad to worse.

"Yes?" she queried sharply. "What is it?"

"A thousand pardons, gnaedige Frau. I simply wondered what might be troubling you. I noticed that you were reading earlier, but seemed upset at what you had seen."

"It's my mother. She wants me to learn this idiotic new math that is being taught to children in Grantville. I don't understand it! How can you solve something that already has been solved, and why would you mix letters and numbers in math? I don't see how to solve for x when it has no numerical value?"

Hans brightened up considerably at the mention of his favorite subject. "Ah . . . if I may explain . . . x is not a letter when it is used in math, it is simply a placeholder in an equation, used to represent a number. When you are solving for x, you are simply determining what x should be for the equation to work."

Dorotee raised her eyebrows at this revelation, but quickly deflated again. "How do you make the equation 'work'? It has an answer on the other side of the equal sign already! I don't understand!"

Hans smiled at her, pulling his drafting notes out of his knapsack, flipping to a blank section. He quickly scribbled on the sheet and showed her the page.

456 - 342 =

"This is the kind of question you are used to seeing, correct?" Dorotee nodded. "Okay, now look again." He made an additional notation and held it out again.

456 - 342 = x

"This is called an equation because the idea is the values are equal on both sides of the sign. When you are doing normal arithmetic, you are really doing this."

Dorotee's eyebrows furrowed in thought. Hans pointed at the x on the paper. "For this one, in order to solve for x we simply subtract three hundred forty two from four hundred fifty six."

"Well, that's simply one hundred and fourteen." Dorotee focused on this new perspective with a sharpened gaze. "What about when there's numbers and letters on both sides?" Hans scribbled franticly on the paper, excited to be showing someone algebra for the first time. He showed her the new set of notation.

4x - 10 = x + 5

"Now to solve for x, we must think about this 'equation' in terms of equality. We want to isolate the x on one side so we must eliminate the numbers accompanying it. But! Whatever we do on one side, we must also do on the other."

Hans finally sat, relaxing from his uncomfortable perch. He plumped down onto a convenient tree root next to her. He continued to write, but this time showing her as he drew in the next step.

"Easiest thing to do would be to remove the five, so we will then 'add' a minus five to both sides of the equal sign."

Dorotee interrupted with a start. "But why not simply subtract it?" Hans shook his head.

"It doesn't matter now, but in higher math, there is no such thing as subtraction, only adding together positive and negative numbers . . . "

Hans continued his instructions for several minutes, walking her though the basic process of the solution, answering questions, and pointing out common errors. Proceeding from basic algebra and the Pythagorean Theorem to polynomials and quadratics, he continued in his ad-hoc instruction. She leaned closer, her eyes wide with wonder. Dorotee seemed fascinated by the information, as if a whole new existence was opening before her eyes.

Hans was so engrossed in his teaching; he failed to notice the time. The sun began to set over the horizon and reading the book became harder and harder.

Suddenly, he was interrupted in mid sentence by a long shadow crossing in front of the faded light. He glanced up in startlement to find Dorotee's mother, Margarete, standing there watching them. He sprang from his seat next to Dorotee, almost knocking her over in his haste to create some distance between them.

"My apologies! I did not mean to presume." Surprise tinged with fear in his voice as he hurriedly gave greeting to Margarete. Finally noticing the time, he began to apologize once more, only to be interrupted by Dorotee.

"Mother, you would not believe the things this book holds on its pages!" She cried. "It's like it's from another world, but it all makes sense!"

Seeing the significance of her mother's raised eyebrow, she quickly came to Hans' defense. "He was helping me to understand the 'equations,' that's all," she stated primly. Butter would, apparently, not melt in her mouth.

Her mother gave her a look that said "We'll talk later" and turned back to address Hans. "I trust you have some progress to show us at dinner tonight?"

Hans was dumbstruck. He had expected to be fired instantly. Instead, by implication, he was being invited to sup at their table! What strange world had he fallen into? Were the angels of heaven going to blow their trumpets?

Again, Dorotee came to his rescue. "He has been working diligently, Mother. I requested his assistance after it became apparent that he would be able to explain this new math to me. He has been a great help! I could not imagine understanding these new 'equations' without his patient instruction."

"Very well. I had expected to see you at sunset, Master Surveyor, but it seems that we all will be a tad late to dinner tonight. I'm sure you have a few things to tidy up first. We shall expect you in about two hours. Is this acceptable?"

The direct question finally broke him from his trance, which seemed to be becoming a regular state of mind for him since meeting this family.

"Oh, of course!" He jittered around in place for a moment before realizing that his sketchbook was in Dorotee's hands. Hesitantly, he moved toward her, hoping that she could read his mind so he could speak as little as possible. Talking to women had gotten him in more trouble in recent months than anything else, so he almost feared to say anything. Fortunately she figured out what he needed and he was spared having to speak again.

At the Harenberg Manorhouse

The meal was proceeding smoothly enough, considering the circumstances. Herr Harenberg was silent for most of the meal, only responding in grunts to the questions and comments of his wife. Hans, he completely ignored. On the other hand, Margarete had plenty to say, both about his drawings of the plans and the new math he had spent the afternoon teaching Dorotee.

Dorotee as well had many things to say. Her ideas and commentary about the possible uses of algebra were astounding to him, considering she had only learned of their existence earlier that day. He watched in amazement as she reached a conclusion about one of the applications of the Pythagorean Theorem, discovering completely on her own that it could be used to determine distance. She didn't quite know how it would be done, but knowing that A²+B²=C² gave her the clue that led to a quick discussion of geometry and trigonometry. Before he realized, he was hired on the spot as a temporary tutor, earning him a steady glare from her father.

However, after a sharp glance from his wife, Otto turned back to his meal, again ignoring the dinner guest. Clearly there had been some words said, and Hans was certain that he had been the subject of the discussion. Needing more than ever to be on his best behavior, he managed to hold his tongue better than usual, speaking for the most part only when spoken to.

His meekness seemed to satisfy Herr Harenberg that he was harmless enough. His wife, on the other hand, appeared to want something different.

After dinner, they retired to the sitting room where the servants had laid out a bottle of port wine, hot tea and some small deserts. Dorotee and her mother sat together in a low couch and began to lay out his drawings onto the table in front of them. They commented back and forth about the different facilities, occasionally asking Hans for clarification. Otto remained silent and foreboding, as if daring Hans to step out of line.

"Why is it that you have two separate inns? I would think that one would be satisfactory for here, and putting just one in the center seems like a better use of space than having one on either end."

"Yes, ma'am. However, there is one thing I have learned about inns from my travels. If one enters the town to find the inn, by the time you get to there, you are already halfway through the town. Moreover, Celle is only a few miles further down the road. Better then to tempt one to stay at the inn as soon as they reach the way station, when they are tired from the journey and just looking for a place to stay as opposed to being halfway through town and realizing how short the rest of their journey truly is. Also, giving the illusion of longer travels beyond helps nudge them in our direction. There is of course an ulterior motive to all of this, which was my true reason for locating them there. The stables and livestock yard are located off the center of the way station, and they are going to smell. I prefer to smell flowers and a healthy breeze in the morning instead of manure. The rest of the reasons I figured out later, justifying my choice to myself." Hans gave a self-depreciating laugh.

The discussion between mother and daughter grew heated for a time, but there seemed to be no true consensus yet. Suddenly both of them stopped, staring at the sketchbook. Hans looked over, trying to see what they were both looking at, hoping that he hadn't left any of his scribbled notes from the road survey in his sketchbook.

"My word! How beautiful!" Margarete exclaimed.

Dorotee looked up from the sheet of paper they were examining, eyes wide, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. Silently she passed him the sketchbook, still open to the page in question.

It showed the sketch he had drawn of Dorotee while she was sitting under the oak tree. It's flowing curves and gentle shading contrasted jarringly against the stark straight lines of the surveyor's notes. Seen now in the gentle light of the lanterns and fireplace, it seemed to come alive, the flickering flames giving the illusion of movement to the delicate design of pencil on paper. One could almost see the wind playing gently with Dorotee's hair. The look of absorption on her face gave her a peaceful demeanor. Fluttering around her, oak leaves were painstakingly and exquisitely depicted.

Her eyes brimming with moisture, Dorotee turned to her mother. "Mutti . . . " She shook her head in disbelief. "That can't be me!" She fled the room; her footsteps echoed hurriedly up the stairs, and a final thump marked the end of her retreat as the door to her chambers swung closed.

Hans was mortified. Somehow his drawing had upset her horribly. Everything was going wrong again! That damned demon Murphy had struck again, and he silently cursed the day he decided to become a surveyor.

"I . . . I . . . I'm so, so sorry! I will go now . . . " he stammered, scrabbling for his notes. He was stopped by a large hand placed on top of his own. He froze, looking up in terror as the glowering bulk of Otto von Harenberg loomed over him.

"Hold, boy . . . " His voice was deep and gravelly, forceful, but not aggressive. "Let me see that." He reached out and plucked the sketchbook from Hans' unresisting fingers. He turned the pages, slowly and deliberately examining each diagram and picture, reading the notes given with them, until he reached the sketch. Holding it to the light, he stared into the picture as if memorizing every line. Hans quailed in fear as, for a seemingly endless moment, a frown came upon his face. It was replaced finally by something Hans had never before seen on Otto von Harenberg . . .

A smile. Not a very big one, and in truth, it could very well have been his imagination. Almost certainly was a figment of his hyperactive hindbrain, which the people in Grantville stated was the home of terror, the fight or flight reflex. It was only a small raising of the edges of his lips. Hardly anything at all.

Hans could only look on anxiously as Herr Harenberg turned to his wife. "He does good work. And I find no fault with his ethics." He handed her the sketchbook, nodding to her as he gathered up his wineglass and made for the door. "You were right, Margarete. You were right . . ." With this final cryptic statement, he opened the door and stepped down the hallway and up the stairs, moving slowly. His tread was heavy, as if a great weight had settled onto his shoulders during the few strides to the stairway.

Hans stared after the departing noble for nearly a minute before a polite cough reminded him that he was still not alone. No longer terrified, but immensely confused, he turned back to Margarete, several questions burning in his mind.

"I truly am sorry I made her cry. I'm not sure what I did, though."

A gentle smile washed away some of his apprehension. "It's not every day one is handed a masterpiece where one's self is the subject matter." Margarete rose from her chair, motioning him toward the foyer.

"But it was just a sketch! Not a work of art! Seeing her there is what gave me the idea of a park instead of a town square! " He got up quickly, gathering the rest of his notes, and stuffed them into his portfolio.

"In that case, dear boy, you are truly underestimating your own worth." She opened the front door and he stepped through, glancing back at the stairs as she spoke. She followed his eyes as they tracked upwards.

"Good night, Master Surveyor. We shall meet again in the morning."

With that she closed the door. Hans wandered back to Hambühren's inn, his feet hardly touching the ground. He was halfway back to the inn when he stopped in his tracks . . .

They still have my sketchbook!

****

A few weeks later, Dorotee stared out the window, drinking in the night sky with its flickering stars and gentle gusts of wind. Behind her, framed in expensive glass, the sketch hung in splendor amid paintings and childhood fancies leftover from her youth. The candle, flickering in the breeze from the open window, gave off a sepulchral light, barely illuminating the room beyond its immediate environs. The starlit sky shone upon the low brush and meadows outside like a blanket of shimmering dust, not quite visible to the eyes. The moon was a mere sliver of its normal self, hazing over occasionally as ghostly wisps of clouds occluded its meager glow.

In some ways, the sky matched her mood. Hans had been to dinner again, as he had every week since the first, this time with construction plans and suggestions on how to attract renters and merchants. His time was being increasingly monopolized by her father. While this came to her as something of a relief, considering the rocky beginnings of their relationship, it also meant that he had less time to spend teaching her and talking with her. He also brought with him a letter from the Duchess Anna Eleanor, which according to her mother, included a promise of investment and patronage. This seemed to Dorotee a giant boost for the potential success of her father's way station, which, in turn, would cause her father to spend even more of Hans' time on the project.

Though she realized that the idea had originated with her mother, her father had certainly opened his mind to the concept, especially now that he had the free services of a highly trained surveyor at his disposal. She had overheard him stating that it was almost like having the Royal Architect doing all the design work for them. Hans, of course, stinted at nothing in providing the absolute best work he could, going far beyond the limits of the original negotiation.

In all honesty, it was not the way station that held her attention when Hans came to visit. He was always unfailingly polite and courteous, sometime to extremes, but there was another side to him that she was beginning to catch glimpses of.

When he was tutoring her in mathematics, he seemed to be an entirely different person, no longer shy and unassuming, but confident. Always gentle in his corrections, nonetheless he drilled her relentlessly, ensuring that a certain method was solidly ingrained in her memory before moving on to the next. That confidence showed through in his work as well, demonstrating to her that there was much more to Hans than a simple servant or merchant. Here was genius, floating just beneath the surface, supporting the passion and joy he held for his chosen fields. It was contagious, infecting her with the same passion, the same drive, and the same desires. Oh, if only she had the same opportunities!

Her world had undergone a paradigm shift. No longer were her thoughts solely concerned with her next outing, her next lesson, or her next meal. Suddenly her mind was filled with an image so profound it overwhelmed her. She imagined herself, sitting, reading a book as she had done countless times with her mother. This time, however, her mother was not her companion, and the location was not her mother's solar.

The memory surged upward from the depths of her mind, flooding away nearly every other thought. She saw herself, sitting at the base of an oak tree. Beside her, writing in his sketchbook, was Hans, a look of concentration and determination locked on his face as he produced wonders on paper. Never before had such images occurred to her. Their power was almost overwhelming, nearly turning her normally analytical mind to something resembling porridge.

A knock sounded on the door to her room, and after composing herself for a moment, she was surprised to find her father on the other side of the doorway. His eyes were solemn, seeming to carry a great weight. He strode ponderously inside, taking a seat on the room's only chair, leaving Dorotee to sit on the edge of her bed.

"Your mother showed the young man to the door. I trust that your reaction the first time we had him here was not because you hated him . . ." His eyebrow quirked upward in a query as he spoke, to which she quickly responded with a shake of her head. "I thought not."

A long pause followed as he seemed to gather his thoughts. Dorotee waited patiently for him to begin, realizing that whatever he had to say meant a great deal to him. His eyes wandered the room, as if taking into memory everything he was seeing.

"Your mother has taken a liking to this young man." He glanced up at her for a moment before continuing. "As have you, I suspect."

Dorotee was astounded to hear her father discussing Hans so openly. Normally, whenever any young man was mentioned, he glowered and growled, saying nothing but meaning everything.

He took a deep breath and focused back on her, his eyes drilling into her, as if he could see into her soul.

"Your mother has discussed it with me, and apparently also discussed it with the duchess. They are in agreement, and while I am a little reluctant to place so much trust in this young man's abilities, his work ethic is good, and he has good deportment. He has much better sense and tact than your half-brother in fact, which is, admittedly, not hard to do these days. His employment with the duchess will see him in good stead in the future, and I am ashamed to admit, I was wrong about him. He is not nearly the uncultured ruffian I first took him to be."

Dorotee's head swam with much confusion and a hint of exultation. She had to be sure! "Discussed what, father?"

"Eh?"

"What did my mother and the duchess discuss?" Dorotee was near bursting with anticipation.

"Your marriage, of course! What did you think we were discussing?"

Dorotee leaped from her seat and ran to her father, enveloping him in a fearless embrace. Hesitantly, his arms wrapped around her as well.

"If he asks for your hand, I will not tell him no, though it pains me to think that my youngest daughter might one day marry and leave this place, her home and mine."

"Thank you, Vatti! I love you."

Otto's eyes widened at that bare statement of affection. So rarely do parents receive such unbidden messages from their teen-aged daughters that for a moment he was paralyzed with indecision. As the paralysis faded, his arms tightened on his daughter's shoulders, returning her affection a thousand fold.

"I love you too, dear. I love you very, very much. And I have always wanted the best for you, in all things." He drew back from her embrace, regaining some of his composure. "Though if he is as hesitant in other things as he is in conversation, I dare say the deed will never be done!"

Dorotee chuckled. "Leave that to me, Vatti! He'll never know what hit him!"

Otto's laughter chased her through the hall as she raced for the stairs to talk to her mother.

The Ducal Palace, Celle

Hans fidgeted with his waistcoat as Chaim opened the door, then waggled his eyebrows. Andrew was helping arrange the last of his formal evening-wear.

"There's a huge crowd out there! The duchess is holding court right now, but I'm sure that will not last for long. Are you ready, Hans?"

Hans gave his assistant/new business partner as withering a look as he could manage, although it looked more like a grimace with the green color that was beginning to appear around his eyes. A whimper was all the response he could muster to his erstwhile employee's gentle teasing.

Showing a bit of mercy, Chaim relented. "Don't worry, Hans! You'll do fine. Just remember your lines, don't lock your knees, and try not to faint like you did that one time in the foyer!"

Finally, at Andrew's signal, Hans gathered himself and stepped bravely into the next room. As he left, he overheard Chaim accosting Andrew.

"I told you he'd make it! Two months, nearly to the day, now pay up!"

****

The monsignor watched as the duchess finally joined her husband at the front of the groom's procession in front of the Gasthaus. While he normally disapproved of the kind of matchmaking the duchess was becoming famous for, he considered this time to be one of the rare exceptions to his rule that love should find its own way. The couple whose wedding he was witnessing seemed to him a near perfect match, both in mind and in manner. The boy's intellect was at times astounding, but erratic and needed a steadying hand, while the entirely too pragmatic girl on the other side of the coin was finally beginning to discover the wonder and joy that little bouts of impracticality can bring.

In all honesty, he had been astounded at the request for him to witness this marriage, coming as it had from the Cardinal-Protector of the USE. It had been nearly fifty years since a Catholic clergyman had been truly welcomed in this staunchly Lutheran area. After having met Cardinal Mazzare in Rome, he had developed a deep respect for the man's intellect and compassion. He had even come so far as to consider the cardinal one of his friends. The monsignor had spent many a night acting as attendant to discussions held in His Holiness, Pope Urban's sitting room, listening to the constant challenging and debating of the merits and demerits of Cardinal Mazzare's books among those who comprised His Holiness's inner circle.

Although the monsignor could not truly be considered a member of that most rarefied of groups, he had been welcome to observe and, occasionally, be brought into the conversation by the ever-engaging priest from the future, who was invariably at the center of those lofty discussions. It ultimately proved both educational and daunting. The core foundations of his belief, already eroded by the constant political upheaval inherent in Vatican life, took what seemed a terminal blow from the revelations of the future that Cardinal Mazzare brought into the mix.

Considering the war's effect on this area of Germany, he was frankly astounded that the Catholic church could have made such inroads in the face of steadfast Lutheran resistance, even under the inspired leadership of Cardinal Mazzare. He had initially balked upon receiving the Cardinal's missive. On the other hand, when one receives a request from a cardinal, one is obliged to accommodate said request if at all possible. And amazingly, it had been no onerous task. The townspeople, while guarded and less than entirely welcoming, were far from hostile. It had not hurt the situation that the young Catholic man who needed his counsel was a likeable sort and well connected to the local nobility.

In fact, the boy showed much promise. The streets on either side of the church door were crowded it seemed, with nearly everyone the young man had met in the last few years. Besides the duke and duchess, several of his fellow students and even a smattering of his teachers from the Imperial College were present. This also included the dean of Grantville's technical college, the head of the school where he had studied modern surveying, and with whose recommendation he had obtained employment from the duke and duchess of Kalenberg. His brother and sister-in-law held pride of place near the front. According to the tales overheard from their corner of the gathering, his older brother had always teased him, saying that he wouldn't dare miss this day, as it would be the vindication of all the times that his brother had saved him from bullies, proving that he was destined for greatness. The monsignor chuckled to himself as he considered the happy rivalry he had with his own brother, remembering similar phrases being touted about after his investiture ceremony as a monsignor within the Sistine Chapel.

The bride's procession represented a substantial crowd as well. With several dozen of her family members in town for her sister's long-awaited wedding only two weeks prior, it seemed to most that the sensible course was to simply stay for the second one as well. Considering how long the dowry negotiations had taken for the first, few could believe how quickly the bride's father had capitulated for the second.

But most agreed; it was a love match. There would be no stopping the tide, no matter what his desires on the matter, especially knowing the girl in question. Better to surrender with dignity than go down with bitterness.

Coming from the right side of the church, Hans moved toward the center of the stairs leading to the church entrance, Chaim and Andrew following behind, both of them in matching finery on loan from some friends they had made in town. As they passed the monsignor, Hans paused, again thanking the Catholic clergyman for his attendance in what normally would be a very hostile environment for one of his faith. The monsignor looked back bemusedly, his prayer book, a precious up-time printed volume given him by Cardinal Mazzare himself, held lovingly in his hands, a smile on his face. He gave greetings to the obviously nervous young groom, reassuring him that things would work out just fine.

The bride's arrival was heralded by a small girl-child carefully placing flower petals onto the path with all the exquisite care her three years could manage. The monsignor heard a murmur of awe arise from the congregation as the vision of an angel came into view.

The bride wore a simple but immaculately designed, fashionable new dress, beautifully hand embroidered with pearls and a wealth of lace. A wreath of roses, along with various grains and other symbolic items, adorned her hair. Carried gently in her hands was a prayer book.

The father of the bride stepped slowly at his daughter's side. With quiet dignity, and a bit of reluctance common to all fathers, he escorted his offspring to her future partner. Onlookers stared unabashedly at the blushing bride as she passed.

The bride and groom met in front of the church, turning together toward the church, gingerly alighting upon the steps.

As they approached their destination, the monsignor suddenly recognized the roses as belonging to the same vines that had been presented as a gift to the duchess several months ago by Lady Margarete. He had known that the duchess had received the prized roses, but had not realized that they had grown so much.

No doubt, he mused, as people began to comprehend how much the duchess had involved herself in this young woman's wedding, speculation would rise as to the reason. Assuredly, the bride's future social calendar would be full to bursting within weeks, but hopefully, not before the honeymoon was over.

The monsignor watched the groom gaze at his intended with a dumbstruck expression. A whisper of sound escaped Hans' lips, traveling softly to the clergyman's ears.

"Unglaublich, einfach unglaublich!"

Simply unbelievable, indeed! He smiled at the thought. The duchess had outdone herself this time. He would have to congratulate her on a masterful endeavor.

Finally, the bride arrived before her family's minister, a man, it was said, of impeccable morality and tact, and transferred to the arm of her prospective mate. Her father kissed her forehead and turned to shake Hans' hand. It seemed that a certain mutual respect had grown between them, which was all to the good.

What a joy to be seeing this! His hands moved of their own accord in following the Lutheran minister's benediction in the ancient blessing of the ages.

"In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti . . . " he whispered, as he listened to the Lutheran minister's exhortation to the couple about their duties to each other and to the community. He glanced down at his prayer book one last time before focusing his attention upon the wedding before him. Looking down, he saw the dedication hand written on the blank folio of the book.

"Go with God, my friend —Fr. Larry Mazzare"

So be it . . . If His Holiness was of a mind to follow in the footsteps of a future church as represented by such a man, it might be that such evils as once threatened this world's future might never come to pass. The monsignor's eyes misted in joy as he reached an epiphany, at long last understanding the absolute faith and hope represented by a future guided to peace by one man's conviction that all faiths were valid. In so doing, one validated one's own faith as being true to the Word of God.

The monsignor crossed himself, offering a silent prayer of thanks to a God he now knew was real, despite years of living in the intensely politically charged world of High Church politics. Decades of self-doubt and recrimination washed away in a surging wave of peace.

"We are gathered here to witness the wedding vows of Hans and Dorotee . . . "

****

Black Gold

Written by Jeff Corwith and Kerryn Offord

Gerhard Grave's residence, Wietze, February 1634

Christian Grave used one of the new-fangled forks (three prongs rather than the Italian two-pronged variant) to lift a portion of medium-rare beef to his mouth. The taste of the well-cooked meat flooded his mouth as he started to chew.

"So, Christian, what do you think of my well-boring company now that you've spent a few months working on my rigs?"

Christian hastily chewed his mouthful of beef enough to swallow it. He cast a glare across the overloaded dining table as he swallowed. It was just like his Uncle Gerhard to wait until he had his mouth full before asking his question. Christian took a sip of beer while he considered his answer.

"I'm grateful for the chance to learn the business from the perspective of the workers, Uncle. But for these new machines from our American partners it appears to differ little from other forms of common labor. All in all, I cannot believe it is a suitable occupation for one so closely related to the von Lengerkens of Osnabrück."

"Ah, nephew, of course it isn't suitable for such as we, but this common labor makes us an uncommonly good profit. We invoice the Americans as if all our workers are masters of their craft, but we only pay the journeymen the journeyman's portion they deserve. Then, to cap it off, the Americans insist on paying us an additional ten percent for 'overhead.' A better arrangement I couldn't devise."

"Surely you don't pay the Americans a journeyman's wage?" Christian demanded, worried that his uncle might be doing something that could upset the Americans.

"No, that's the beautiful part of this," Gerhard answered, "The Americans are all under contract to Herr Underwood's oil company, and they pay their wages. We only deal with the rig workers."

Christian took another sip of beer. This sounded almost too good to be true, but maybe there were ways to profit even more. "If we were to provide some of the management positions, wouldn't we be able to increase our profit even further?"

His uncle beamed. "I see you've definitely inherited the family head for business. Perhaps the Americans can be convinced that we could better provide one or two of the positions . . . Hmm . . . which job do you suggest you take?"

Christian nearly sprayed out the beer in his mouth. He hadn't expected his uncle to seize on the idea quite so quickly. It had, after all, just been a passing thought. It would be just like the old so-and-so to time the dropping of that question deliberately, without any real interest in his answer. However, Uncle Gerhard looked as sincere as he'd ever seen him look. Not that that was necessarily an indication of sincerity, but it wouldn't hurt to give a properly thought out response. He stared past his uncle, letting his mind wander a little, then he had it. Perfect. "Uncle Gerhard, you have three rigs. Each rig runs pretty smoothly by itself, but the Americans insist they need a 'drilling superintendent' to coordinate between the three. It seems to me that Herr Willcocks doesn't do much other than go from rig to rig bothering the drillers with his concerns about procedures, and 'good housekeeping.' We could help both ourselves and the drillers by letting Herr Willcocks retire to his home and garden back in Grantville. I, of course, would make a most excellent 'drilling superintendent.'"

East of Wietze—The University of Helmstedt oil lease

Ulrich Rohrbach heard the heavy footsteps climbing the stairs to the rig and glanced over in time see David Willcocks, the drilling superintendent, step onto the drilling rig floor. "How are you today, David?"

"Growing old sucks," David muttered loud enough to be heard as he gently massaged his knees. "Why the hell did I have to insist on having the drill rig floor being on a raised platform? If I'd let Underwood have his way I wouldn't have to climb these steps to the rig floor all the time."

Ulrich smiled. He'd heard this refrain often enough in the past to know to ignore it. David had insisted on having the drill rig floor on a raised platform because the alternative would be to put the wellhead valves in a deep cellar where asphyxiating gas could collect. Besides, who would want to excavate a cellar in the winter when the ground was frozen? Even Herr Underwood had finally accepted the necessity. "Your knees still bothering you?"

David snorted. "Still? At my age, sonny, there ain't much hope of them ever stopping bothering me. Enough about me. What's the progress?"

"We're almost on bottom with the new bit." Ulrich gestured toward Peter Welf, the rig's lead hand, who was controlling the descent of the drill bit.

Ulrich had been unconsciously glancing at the large dial fixed to one of the derrick legs above him every now and again as he talked. "Bottom," he called when instead of the small twitches that had occurred every time Peter slacked off on the brake and lowered more cable previously, this time there was a larger twitch, which from experience he knew meant the bit had touched bottom.

In response to Ulrich's call Peter pushed the brake lever down hard and clipped a chain to hold it in place.

With the drill bit finally at the bottom of the well, the two floor hands clamped the heavy rope cable to the massive lever of the walking beam which would raise and lower the drill bit as it pounded its way deeper.

David drew Ulrich away from the drill crew. "I'm impressed, Ulrich. No shouting or swearing."

Ulrich grinned. "Oh, there's plenty of yelling and screaming when something goes wrong."

"Well, you don't need me hovering about while you work, so I'll be on my way over to Rig Two to see how they're doing."

Ulrich winced at the sight of the pain that flashed across his friend's face as David took the first step down from the drill rig floor.

David paused with one foot on the drill rig floor and one on the first step and turned. "Ulrich, when Bernd relieves you, could you drop over to Rig Two?"

"Would this have anything to do with this terrible drilling cable that's afflicting them? You should hear them complain; you'd think it was a device of torture rather than a 'gift' from Herr Underwood."

David chuckled. "Well, it is what I want you to look at, and it is giving Two an unholy time. I'd like you to run the rig for a while, just long enough to get your opinion on what it feels like. You're the best driller we have and I want to know if it's the steel cable Underwood got or just Segelcke not getting proper harmony between the line and the bit."

Ulrich swallowed. He knew he was good at what he did, but for David to call him "the best" was praise indeed, especially from a man not overly given to handing out praise. He stood straighter. "I would be honored to assist you, David."

****

While Ulrich ran the rig David listened to the lead driller complain about the steel cable with which he was trying to drill.

"It just doesn't feel right!" Johann Segelcke protested. "And we've broken off the cable three times on this well." He held up a length of unraveled cable. "This twisted steel is supposed to be stronger than hemp rope? Then why does it break so much? We've never broken off the hemp."

David sighed. Johann Segelcke was the last person he'd have selected to try out anything new, but Gerhard Grave had decided that this rig would get the steel cable Quentin Underwood had so graciously obtained from under the Navy's nose. "Well Johann, I'd gladly take this entire spool off your hands and send it to Magdeburg, but Herr Underwood went to great lengths to obtain this for us, and we have no choice but to use it. Besides, why complain? Drilling or fishing, the work still pays the same."

"Ha!" snorted Johann. "Tell that to my rig hands. Fishing is harder work than normal drilling. It's frustrating to be drilling a well backwards, where your depth at the end of the day is less than that at the beginning." He wrung his hands. "I beg you, please rid us of this affliction."

"I'll wait to see what Ulrich thinks. If nothing else we can leave it lying around on the wharf. Maybe the river pirates will take it."

David and Johann smiled. They both understood that the only river pirates likely to visit Wietze were the Navy as they delivered the supply barges.

****

It hadn't rained for several days, blessing David and Ulrich with a relatively mud-free walk from Rig Two to the tent that served as an office for David and the site geologist. A lone figure appeared at the tent opening and stood waiting for them. Even clad in overalls and hardhat Ulrich had no difficulty identifying the site geologist. "Fräulein Koudsi," he mumbled, still unaccustomed to young women attired in workman's clothing.

"Ann, how're we doing?" David asked.

"Prospect Five's hit gypsum," Ann reported.

"Mist!" Ulrich swore. Then he realized what he'd said and blushed as he met Fräulein Koudsi's eyes. "Your pardon, Fräulein."

She smiled back. "No pardon necessary, Herr Rohrbach, I've heard plenty worse." She turned to David. "When Prospect Two hit gypsum we went on to hit salt. In my opinion Prospect Five is going to do the same."

David scratched his head. "I've seen wells where we found the oil pool just below a gypsum cap. Are you certain this just means we'll find the salt again?"

"I can't be absolutely certain, but the chances are very slim that it could be otherwise."

David paused to think before making a decision. "This site was chosen by Underwood, and he'll have my hide if I just give up on it. We'll keep drilling until either we hit oil . . ."

"Or we hit salt," Ann finished for him. "Oh well, it can't be helped. At least I'll get more ammunition for my case to move the drilling locations away from the regular grid Underwood's had us drilling." Ann sighed. "Enough about my troubles, what's the story with the steel cable on Rig Two?"

The Oil Facility, Wednesday

Ann Koudsi knocked on the door of the chemical engineering hut and entered without waiting for an invitation. Across the room, at a desk positioned to get the best benefit of the sunlight coming through the window, Lori Drahuta sat working on a drafting board.

"Hi," Ann called out. "You interested in visiting the market?"

Lori turned from her work and smiled at Ann. "You came all this way just to ask me if I want to go shopping? I'm impressed."

Ann giggled. Currently she was working on prospects on the other side of Wietze, in the University of Helmstedt lease. It would have meant walking through Wietze to meet Lori before walking back to Wietze, a round trip of over three miles. "I had to present a progress report to Herr Grave."

"Problems?"

Ann sighed. "I don't like Herr Grave's nephew. He's . . ." Words failed her, so she just shrugged, hoping Lori understood what she meant.

"There's something about him I just can't like either," Lori agreed.

"That and the way he keeps hinting that he could do wonders for one's career." Ann shuddered at the memory of her most recent encounter with the man. "The trouble is his uncle is trying to get David to retire so he can take over his job."

"Can Christian do David's job?" Lori asked.

Ann snorted. "He wishes. A couple of months as a roustabout and he thinks he knows everything."

"Well, if Annie Laurie has anything to say about it, David's going to die in harness."

"Yeah, Grandma always said there was nothing more trouble than a retired husband cluttering the house," Ann agreed without much enthusiasm.

"Right. So if David's unlikely to retire, what're you worried about?"

Ann sighed as she remembered the Graves' reaction to her latest progress report. "If he doesn't retire soon they'll find another way to get rid of him."

"So what kind of ammunition did you just hand Herr Grave?"

Ann glared at her roommate. Even after just a few weeks Lori knew her too well. "David's insisted on continuing with Prospect Five."

"And your report says you disagreed?"

"Yeah, we've hit gypsum at about the same depth as Prospect Two did, and Prospect Two was dry."

"So why's David still drilling?" Lori asked, the confusion obvious on her face.

"Because sometime back up-time he'd worked on wells that have gone through gypsum to hit oil."

"Is there any chance of that?"

Ann shook her head. "Not this time. I think Prospect Five is right on top of a salt dome, and all we're going to hit is salt."

"So where would you rather be drilling?"

"Don't get me started." Ann sighed. "At least the prospects Rigs Two and Three are drilling have a chance of hitting the same reservoirs as Prospects Three and Four hit."

"And those two are our only producers so far. It's a pity the oil we're drawing from them is so low in the lighter fractions. We'd get more gasoline if those fractions were higher."

Ann shrugged. "There's not much we can do about that. If it's not there it's not there. What are you working on that's so important you had to come in on market day?"

Lori glanced at the drawing on her drafting board. "USE Steel has asked if we can recover the bitumen from the fuel oil we've been dumping."

"Dumping? You can't be serious? What about pollution?" Ann was outraged.

Lori held up her hands. "Easy, girl, by dumping I mean we've been dumping it from the separation pots after we've extracted the lighter fractions. We've actually been sending anything we don't use ourselves down river to Bremen, where they're using it as an alternative to peat."

Ann relaxed a little. She'd read that in the early days of the original oil industry kerosene had been the only product of any value, and they really had literally dumped everything else. "So what does USE Steel want with the bitumen?"

"They want to use it in the production of fancy refractory bricks for blast furnaces," Lori explained. "They use them as insulation between the molten steel and the furnace, like fire brick, but at much higher temperatures."

"So what has USE Steel been using until now?"

"They've been using bitumen from coal tar to make them, but since Underwood and Hartmann's little problem in Magdeburg, well . . ."

Lori didn't have to finish the statement. The coal tar facility Quentin Underwood owned in partnership with the down-timer, Hartmann, had been badly damaged in an industrial accident last December and it still wasn't fully back on line. "They want an alternative supply. So can you do it? Can you separate the bitumen?"

Lori nodded. "Sure. It'll mean building another separating pot to process the fuel oils, but it'll improve the quality of the fuel oil we've been sending downriver and give USE Steel what they want."

"But it'll take time to get it built?" Ann asked.

"Everything takes time to build. Come on, let's go shopping."

****

Ann glanced around the oil facility while she waited for Lori to lock up. To the west was the dock on the River Aller. To the north was the River Wietze. Whereas the Aller was navigable to vessels up to fifteen tons as far as Celle, another fourteen or so miles up river, anyone'd be lucky to float a kid's paper boat on the Wietze. That dock was the only reason the oil facility—it would be too much of an overstatement to call it a refinery—was built so close to the river rather than closer to Wietze where everybody lived. It might have been an ideal location, if the ground hadn't been so wet. "This place is never going to be much more than a glorified moonshiner's camp."

Lori joined Ann in studying the cluster of single-stage separating pots and storage tanks that dominated the compound. "Hey, you've got to remember, they had to truck in everything and get the separators running as quickly as possible last year. That's why they're all only doing one fraction. It was a lot faster and easier to design them as separate pots than if we'd tried to design and build a proper fractional distillation tower."

"Do you have any idea what it would cost to build a proper one-hundred-and-fifty-foot tower in Wietze?" Ann demanded. "Unless you build right by the village you'll spend a fortune on foundations, not counting the cost of getting stuff to and from the site." She shook her head. "That's the real problem. It's one thing to base your refining operations at Wietze when it's your only source of oil, but it's a lousy place to base a refinery to serve the other known oil fields in Germany."

"So where do you think they should build an oil refinery?"

"I'd favor building a refinery at Hamburg. Not just because the city is on the Elbe, which means shipping is a lot easier, but also because the World Atlas indicates there's at least two oil fields close by. And in the long term, if we import oil from overseas, it has the advantage of being a good port with room to expand."

Lori nodded. "You've convinced me, but any thoughts of building there are moot as long as Hamburg isn't part of the USE."

Ann nodded silently and started walking. Soon they passed the guard at the entry to the earth fieldworks that were being built around the oil facility. Ann spared a look at the men and women working the near-frozen earth. "Now that's another waste of time."

"Building a defensive wall around the oil facility? Or the presence of the garrison?"

"Both. It's all so unnecessary," Ann said. "Who's going to attack us?"

"Ann, the government might be able to strip gasoline from the gas back in Grantville, but we're the only source of the diesel Admiral Simpson needs if he's going to get his ironclads into the Baltic to relieve the siege at Luebeck."

Ann sighed. "Well, I guess one good thing has come from having the garrison sent here. It's only because the village could never feed so many people that the duke who controls the territory granted the village the privilege of having a weekly market."

Lori turned to Ann in horror. "You mean there was no weekly market last year? However did you manage?"

Ann grinned. "Burke's catalog and despairing letters home begging for care packages."

Gerhard Grave's office at the Oil facility

The writing was on the wall. David could see it clearly. He glanced at the girl shuffling uncomfortably as she stood by the window. The kid looked embarrassed; but hell, she had to protect her own job, and he had gone against her advice.

"Herr Willcocks, we are still waiting to hear your explanation as to why you chose to ignore the geologist's expert advice and continue drilling even after she advised you that the prospect would be dry," Gerhard Grave demanded.

David saw a wince pass across Ann Koudsi's face at that comment. No way was she an expert on oil geology, and he credited her with knowing that, but then, Gerhard wasn't really interested in explanations. He obviously had some kind of personal agenda. "Back up-time I've drilled plenty of wells where we found oil under gypsum, I thought it was possible we might get lucky." Immediately after the word left his mouth David could have bitten his tongue.

"Lucky? Luckeeeee?" The second time Gerhard said it he managed to really drag out the last syllable.

Oh well, David thought, it looks like I'm out of here. But maybe I can make things a bit easier for Ann and the crew. "We've been drilling according to a grid Quentin Underwood drew up without asking any of his geologists. We need all the luck we can get to strike oil if we stick to it."

He sent Ann a quick smile before turning back to the Graves. From the looks on their faces he was pretty sure he was about to get the chop.

Gerhard lounged back in his chair and stared through David. "Herr Willcocks, this company cannot afford to waste time and resources drilling dry prospects. This is not the first time you've taken it upon yourself to take unfortunate risks. For that reason we must regretfully let you go. My secretary will provide you with your severance papers."

David snorted. He passed a contemptuous look over the Graves before turning and walking out of the office. As he expected, Grave's secretary had his severance papers already prepared. Clearly the meeting had been a farce. The decision had already been made before it started. "Who's the new drilling super?" he asked the secretary.

The young man sent a shifty glance toward the door to Gerhard Grave's before stepping closer and whispering, "Christian Grave."

"Figures," David muttered. He waved his papers and smiled. "You know how to get in touch with me when he screws the pooch."

The secretary nodded and David left the office. He was sure Ann was going to want to apologize for getting him into trouble, so he picked a sunlit spot to wait for her.

Five minutes later he saw Ann leave Grave's office and run down the steps before looking around. David pushed off from the maintenance shed he'd been leaning against and waved. "Over here, Ann."

She trotted over. "I'm sorry, David."

David laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't let it worry you, girl. They were out to get me. You're the one who needs the sympathy. Guess who's the new rig super."

Ann grimaced. "Christian?"

"So you'd worked that out already?" David smiled at the glare she sent him for that sally.

"They've hardly kept it a secret that they wanted to get rid of you. I'm just sorry it was something I said that gave them the ammunition."

"Nah, don't blame yourself. You were right. We probably shouldn't have kept drilling on Prospect Five after you reported we'd hit gypsum, but that's where Underwood told us to drill, and I wasn't going to give up until it was proven dry." He turned Ann toward Wietze. "Come on; let's go tell everyone the good news."

Ann shook her head in disbelief. "David, your sense of humor is sooo bad."

"You don't think Annie Laurie's going to be pleased to have me around the house full time?" David smiled at Ann to let her know he was joking.

"She is so not going to like having you underfoot," Ann agreed.

"Yeah, well, I shouldn't be underfoot for long. Segelcke's still having trouble with that wire cable and Prospect Six is getting pretty deep. Next time it breaks who's going to fish it out?" He thumped his chest. "Me, of course, but this time I won't be on salary. No sirree, they're going to have to pay me 'special consultant's rates' if they want me to fish it out for them."

"Ulrich might be able to fish it out," Ann suggested.

"Hey, girl, I know you're hot for the guy, but he's not as good as me." David waited for the flush of color that had flooded Ann's face to peak before he added the punch line. "He likes you too."

Ann shot a red-faced glare at David before stalking off.

Two weeks later

The loud shouting drew Ann out of the site tent. She immediately looked south, toward Rig Two. Just as David had predicted, they'd continued to have problems with the wire cable. So far they'd managed to recover the bit each time, but they were taking longer as the well got deeper. She ducked back into the tent to get her notes on Prospect Six before grabbing a hardhat, earmuffs, and jacket before heading for the rig to see what was happening.

She arrived on the rig floor to find Johann Segelcke's crew swinging the walking beam out of the way to clear access to the wellhead. That meant they'd probably broken the cable again. She glanced at the depth counter beside Johann—it read 836 feet. Ann didn't need to check her notes to know they'd only managed to drill a few more feet since the cable last broke.

"The same?" she called out to Johann.

"Ja!" Johann nodded. "We broke off of the bit yet again. Now I must ask for your pardon, but I have to get this crap wire out of the well so we can fish for the bit."

Johann slammed the winch into gear and started winding up the cable. He barely waited for the donkey engine to take the load before he thrust the throttle to high. Ann winced at the anger and frustration those simple actions signaled. Without the weight of the drill tools, the pulleys were literally humming as the cable was wound in. Ann could see that the cable was winding erratically onto the drum, but Johann didn't seem to care.

"Shouldn't you slow down?" Ann shouted over the noise.

Johann glared at her and shook his head.

Ann was about to say more, but the sudden dawning horror on Johann's face signaled that something was wrong.

"Loose cable!" he yelled before he threw himself over the rail.

Ann went the only direction she could, out the door, backward. She landed on the banister and slid most of the way before falling heavily to the ground. She looked up to see Johann crawling out of the space below the rig floor. "What. . . . What the hell happened?"

"The cable, it's always broken right at the bit. This time it parted halfway up the hole."

Ann rolled to her feet and followed Johann back up the steps to the rig floor. She stayed back while Johann ventured in and shut down the engine. Without power the winch drum stopped spinning and the loud slap of the cable end on the wooden floor stopped.

Johann glanced down the borehole and grimaced. "We won't be needing the overshot tool to retrieve the bit this time," he joked wryly. "I don't know how we're to get this hell-formed cable out of the well at all."

"David would know," Ann suggested.

Johann shot a glance her way before shaking his head. He walked to the stairs and called down to one of the roughnecks who'd rushed over. "Hans, go over to One and ask Ulrich to come."

Hans nodded and hurried off toward Ulrich's rig.

****

Ulrich listened to Hans in horror. "A loose cable? How did that happen?" he roared. He shook his head. "Never mind. What's the damage? Anybody hurt?"

Hans struggled to keep up with Ulrich's questions. "No damage. Herr Segelcke hurt his knee when he jumped clear, and the geologist . . ."

"What?" Ulrich demanded. "Ann was on the rig when the cable broke?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he ran down the stairs and sprinted toward Johann's rig.

He found Ann looking somewhat disheveled, but apparently unhurt. He wrapped his arms around her to reassure himself that she was all right. She responded with an embarrassed smile and stared over his shoulder.

Ulrich looked over his shoulder to see a crestfallen Johann and two of his roughnecks standing uneasily looking at him. "So, Johann, what happened?"

"It was that cable. It nearly killed us this time," Johann responded shakily.

"I see that," Ulrich said. "But what happened before that? What caused this?" Ulrich waved his arm in the direction of the rig floor.

"The cable broke, except this time . . . this time the cable broke halfway up the well instead of at the bit as it had every time before."

"But how could that happen? The new procedures David laid down should have made that impossible."

"Ah. Well," Johann responded carefully, "Herr Drilling Superintendent Grave gave me new procedures. He said that Herr Willcocks was being an old woman insisting we slow down. He also gave us an improved attachment of the cable to the drilling tools so that it wouldn't break so much."

"You let that pretender re-build your rope socket?" Ulrich demanded. "What kind of idiot are you? If the cable breaks, we want it to break at the bit! That's why David would clip a few strands when he re-headed: just so this wouldn't happen."

"It's not as if I had a choice, Ulrich. Herr Drilling Superintendent Graves gave a direct order."

Johann's insistence on Christian Grave's full title all the time finally registered with Ulrich, and then he understood why he was so diligent in toeing the company line. Like the rest of the down-timers on the rigs, he was from around Wietze; and, like the rest of them, he'd been nothing more than an unskilled farm laborer before being employed, first as a roughneck, and then, as he gained experience and the demand for drillers grew, he'd been made driller on Rig Two. All the oil workers were on good money—easily four times what they'd been getting as farm laborers, but as a driller he was earning even more. More than enough to marry and raise a family; and Johann's new wife was due to give birth to their first child soon. He had a family to feed, and he wasn't willing to put his well-paying job at risk.

"David said it'd only be a matter of time before Christian put his foot in it," Ann whispered.

Ulrich suddenly became aware of the warm bundle cuddling against him. He looked down into Ann's face. "The fool's done more than put his foot in it. You could have been killed." He swallowed at the realization of how close he'd come to losing Ann and turned back to Johann. "Get your crew to spool off all of the cable you had in the well. I want to personally examine it for damage before trying to fish the broken end out of the well." He glared Johann and his roughnecks down before continuing. "Now, if you don't mind, I want to have a private word with Fräulein Koudsi."

Three days later

Ulrich pulled aside the flap to the geologist's tent and walked in to slump onto the bench seat across the camp table from Ann. He leaned a weary-looking head on his arms and smiled ruefully at her. "Graves isn't going to be satisfied until he's sent us all to our graves."

"What's he done now?" Ann asked sympathetically.

"'You're not working fast enough,'" Ulrich mimicked. "The biggest piece we fished out was eighteen feet long, and that was on the first attempt. Since then we've recovered several shorter pieces of cable, but it all adds up to less than fifty feet of the more than four hundred that Johann lost. So far today we've recovered nothing." He sighed wearily. "Our only hope of recovering the bit is to convince the Graves to call in David."

"That's not going to happen. It would be the same as admitting they were wrong to dismiss him," Ann said. "If you can't get the bit out without David's help I think they'll just use it as another reason to abandon the university's lease."

"David's not going to be happy if you're right. He was kind of cherishing the opportunity to tell Gerhard Graves 'I told you so.'"

Ann smiled weakly. "I think he was more interested in getting rich charging them consultant's rates. I wonder what he'll do instead."

Quentin Underwood's Magdeburg office

Professor Dr. Johannes Wissel rested his hands on Quentin Underwood's desk and stared hard at the man responsible for his problems. "Herr Underwood, the University would like an explanation as to why you have stopped drilling on our lease."

Quentin leant back in his chair and stared directly into Johannes' eyes. "Because we've drilled four prospects in your lease area, and they've all come up dry. I've only got three rigs, and I've decided to move them back to the west of Wietze where we've already got a couple of producers.

"The university had an agreement with you to explore our lease," Johannes protested.

"Sure you did. And we explored your lease. But after four dry holes I reckon we're wasting our time. Besides, the government's pushing me to ramp up production of fuel. That means I need productive wells, and that means drilling where I know there's oil."

"But Herr Willcocks insists there is oil in our lease," Johannes almost shouted

Quentin snorted. "David Willcocks is an old woman. He's a seventy-year-old ex-roustabout who was only made superintendent of drilling because he was the most experienced guy we had for the job, and he's been canned."

"Canned?" Johannes stumbled over the word. Surely he couldn't mean . . .

"Fired, let go, downsized," Quentin explained.

That wasn't the meaning Johannes had expected. "Why? Surely if he's the best man for the job . . ." he stuttered to a halt when he saw the expression on Herr Underwood's face change.

The blood was rising in Quentin's face as he stared angrily at Johannes. "The prick was canned for wasting money continuing a hole long after the geologist told him it was going to hit salt dome. He knows stuff-all about geology, let alone oil geology, and he should have listened to the expert."

"But what do we do about the university's lease?" Johannes pleaded.

Quentin shrugged. "You can do what the hell you like, but I'm not going to waste effort drilling your lease when I know there's oil west of the village, around the surface seeps."

"We have a contract . . ."

"That contract only says nobody else can drill in the lease during its lifetime," Quentin said. "It doesn't say we have to drill."

Johannes stood and glared at Quentin. What he said was true, but, "After the deprivations of Tilly's men the university needs the funds it would earn from oil royalties."

"My heart bleeds," Quentin replied sarcastically. "You only get royalties if we extract economic quantities of oil, and with four attempts we didn't even find traces of oil." He paused and sat forward in his chair. "Hell, I'll be generous. Talk to the lawyers and buy back the residue of the lease. Then you can do what you like. Hell, you can even employ Willcocks to drill your lease if you want to."

Johannes stood back from the desk. He was angry. Angry that Herr Underwood wouldn't drill in the University of Helmstedt's lease, and angry that the university would have to buy back the right to drill their lease. He took an executive decision. "The University of Helmstedt graciously accepts your offer." He stared at Quentin for nearly thirty seconds. "The university's lawyers will be in touch with your lawyers," he announced before turning and walking out of the office.

A tavern in Wietze

Ulrich felt as though people were staring at him as he stood at the bar waiting for his beer to be drawn from the keg. After paying for it he took the mug and finally turned to see if he was being paranoid or not. He wasn't. There were four men seated at a table, three of whom were openly staring at him. He stared back at them for a moment before raising his mug to salute them, then he took that first luxurious swallow of beer after a hard day's work.

One of the men made a "come here" motion with his hands. Ulrich pointed to himself. The man nodded and repeated his "come here" gesture. Ulrich made his way across the tavern to their table. "Yes?" he asked.

"Please, you are Ulrich Rohrbach?" Ulrich agreed that yes, that was who he was. "Please join us. We have a proposition to put to you."

As Ulrich sat the fourth man left the table. Ulrich settled into his chair and put down his mug. "Who was he?" he asked, gesturing to the retreating back.

"Just someone who offered to point you out. I am Professor Dr. Johannes Wissel, of the University of Helmstedt." He gestured to the younger man on his left. "This is Professor Dr. Joachim Wecke, also of the University of Helmstedt." He pointed to the other man, "and this is Professor Dr. Heinrich Schmerheim, representing Duke August von Lüneburg, Bishop of Ratzeburg." Johannes paused for breath. "We understand you run a drilling rig . . ." Johannes left the question hanging.

Ulrich nodded. "That's right. I'm the driller on Rig One."

"Good, good," Johannes nodded. "That's what we were told." He suddenly turned all his attention onto Ulrich. "How would you like to work for us?"

Ulrich stared at Johannes. "Work for you? Doing what?"

"Drilling for oil in the university's lease."

"The university's and Duke August's lease, Johannes," Heinrich Schmerheim interrupted.

"Yes, yes, of course, and Duke August's lease." Johannes turned his attention back to Ulrich. "We have reason to believe Herr Underwood was premature in pulling out of our lease and having purchased back the drilling rights we wish to start drilling as soon as possible."

Ulrich shook his head gently. "And what do you know about drilling for oil? I'm sorry, but I already have a job, and Herr Grave is not a man to react favorably to someone leaving his employ to work for the opposition." Ulrich emptied his mug and put his hands onto the table in readiness to stand.

"Herr Willcocks recommended that we employ you and your men to drill our wells. Of course, the university is short of money," Johannes paused to give Ulrich a regretful grimace. "Tilly's men destroyed so much while they were garrisoned in the area that we still haven't recovered, so we won't be able to pay you a lot. However, Herr Willcocks suggested that you and your men might be happy to accept lower pay in return for a share of any royalties paid on the wells you drill."

Ulrich managed not to jerk in reaction to the offer and immediately settled back in his chair. David had talked about the difference in possible income between "wildcatters" and regular drillers. Wildcatters drilled unexplored prospects for a share of the income, while regular drillers drilled in known producing areas and were paid so much per foot they drilled. Nobody drilled in an area known to have oil for a share of the revenue, but only because the people who owned the rights never made that kind of offer—except of course, when they couldn't afford to pay the regular rate. Which raised another point. "Can you afford to buy new casings?"

"Not really," Johannes said. "However, Herr Willcocks says he can recover the used ones from the existing wells in our lease area."

Ulrich whistled. So David had thrown in his lot with the university people. The Graves weren't going to be happy about that, which only made the university's offer more attractive. He looked at the three men watching him with interest. "Very well, I'm interested. I'll talk to the members of my crew. However, before any of us commit to drilling, first, David has to fish out those casings, because without them we can't drill, and you have to get David and Ann Koudsi, the geologist, to agree on where to drill." He smiled at the nodding heads. Chances were they didn't expect any problems, but then, they didn't know David and Ann like he did.

May 1634

The rig had long been dismantled and moved to the new drill site five hundred paces west of Prospect One and the only thing left to show that Prospect Six had once been a hive of activity was the wellhead casing sticking out of the ground. David Willcocks wished the boys luck, and they were going to need it. Ann Koudsi seemed pretty convinced that it was going to be another dry hole. He stood and contemplated the wellhead. Somewhere down there was a two thousand pound drill bit with about four hundred feet of wire cable attached. Ann thought they should continue drilling the prospect, even if she wasn't sure they'd find oil. She'd had a pretty convincing argument that with information from this well she could make a good prediction on where they should drill next.

"So you have convinced the university men to let you drill their lease," Gerhard Grave said from behind him.

David turned to face the Graves, uncle and nephew. They looked angry, but he wasn't overly worried. He might be twenty-odd years older than Gerhard and forty years older than Christian, but Gerhard was already going to fat, and Christian looked like, given half a chance, he'd follow. They were soft, made softer by too much good living and a sedentary lifestyle. Not like himself, he was fitter and healthier than he'd been at fifty. Besides, coming up behind the Graves, ready to come to his assistance, were Ulrich and Ann. "That's right."

"You are wasting your time. There is no oil here," Gerhard announced waving an arm to encompass the university lease.

David shook his head. "I think you're wrong. And so does Ann Kousdi." He looked past the Graves. "Hi, Ulrich, Ann, I was just telling these folk that we think there's oil under the university lease."

"You mean under the University of Helmstedt's and Duke August's lease," Ulrich corrected.

David shook his head at Ulrich. "You've been hanging round Professor Dr. Heinrich Schmerheim too much."

"He is very interested in what I do," Ulrich said.

"They all are. I've had Professor Dr. Johannes Wissel and Professor Dr. Joachim Wecke constantly asking me about oil geology," Ann said.

"Well, you might be able to finish Prospect Six, but without casings you'll never be able to drill another one," Gerhard Grave said smugly.

David looked toward the Graves. "Are you two still hanging around?" he asked with contempt. "Yeah, I bet you've tied up the suppliers so they can't sell us any. Never mind, we weren't planning on buying any. We're going to recover the casings from the abandoned holes and reuse them."

"You can't do that," Christian protested. "They belong to us."

David shook his head. "You should have read the contract the University signed with Underwood. They bought back the lease and any materials the drilling company had not removed by April thirtieth."

****

Quentin Underwood had arrived in Wietze only three days ago—although it seemed much longer—and, like an ostrich burying its head in the sand, Ann Koudsi was cowering in the geologist's field tent like the coward she was, convinced that as long as she couldn't see him, he wouldn't notice her.

She checked her watch. Unfortunately, it was time to venture out to check the drilling progress. She grabbed her notebook and pens, and some clean sample cans before leaving the tent for Rig One, which was the rig closest to the oil facility.

Ann hurried up the stairs into the sanctuary of the derrick tower pulling on her hard hat and earmuffs as she went. Inside she waved to Ulrich, who acknowledged her entry before returning his attention to the temper screw which was used to make fine adjustments in the depth of the drill bit. Every few strokes of the drilling assembly, he lowered the drill cable a small amount by pushing one of the four handles on the collar which adjusted the screw length. The Graves had punished Ulrich for being too friendly with David Willcocks by ordering him to drill using the remains of the wire cable Johann Segelcke had had so much difficulty with. She slipped alongside him to check the log book.

"So you're managing with the wire cable?" she asked.

Ulrich smiled. "It's a lot less forgiving, that is for certain. Your friend, Fräulein Drahuta said something about 'dynamic loads' and 'elasticity' of the cable. Eventually I got her to translate from her engineer-sprechen: The heavy bit gives a lot more shock to the cable than it would to the hemp rope. As long as we pay really close attention to the 'feel' of the drilling, we can make sure that the bit hits bottom before the cable tries to stop it short."

Ann nodded, "David said that you've the best 'feel' for the drilling out of anybody, even him."

Ulrich felt warmth rising to his face at the compliment from the pretty geologist. "Well, uh, yeah, he did. Even so, we've still broken off a time or two, thankfully right at the bit. We're getting better as we go."

"As you say, 'even so.' But the drilling log speaks for itself: This well is going down faster than any did before."

He nodded. "Yes. One part is that the drill doesn't slow down so much when we've a hole full of water. That made drilling through the shallow aquifers much faster—we were able to drill the surface hole in one batch, and then run the casing. That's much easier than having to stop drilling so we can under-ream and add on another casing joint every twenty or thirty feet."

"And the other part is that your assistant drillers are learning your touch." Ann responded with a smile.

Ulrich nodded vaguely. "Speaking of which, I 'feel' the bit starting to bog down in the cuttings. Time to bring her up." He directed his roughnecks to swing the walking beam clear and started the winch.

Ann noticed that Ulrich, unlike Johann, kept the speed down when he hauled up the bit. He reeled in the wire cable slower even than he used to reel in hemp rope. If this was babying the cable she could understand his belief that if the cable hadn't been damaged by Johann's abuse he might be well ahead in his drilling.

"We're being ed!"

Ann swung round, not sure that she'd heard right. A rig worker was at the top of the stairs waving his arm toward the southwest. She hurried over to see for herself. She could see men—soldiers and oil workers—running away from the oil facility.

Ulrich joined her, and they were quickly crowded from behind by the three roughnecks on the rig floor. They didn't have to push their way through, because Ann was off running.

She hadn't gone far before a hand caught hers and pulled her. "You're going the wrong way," Ulrich cried.

Ann pulled her earmuffs off with her free hand and swung them at Ulrich's hand until he released her. "I have to get my stuff from the tent," she said before running off.

She reached the tent with Ulrich close behind and dived in under the loosely tied flap.

Ulrich untied the flap ties and pulled the flap clear. "What the hell is so important?" he demanded as he alternated between glaring at Ann and looking at the flames starting to appear over the oil facility.

"This," she said holding up her backpack.

"Give it to me and let's get out of here." Ulrich pulled the backpack from Ann's hands and slung it over his shoulders as he shepherded her out of the tent. A glance in the distance had him grabbing her hand and dragging her toward the River Wietze.

Ann looked over her shoulder as Ulrich dragged her along. "Why the river?"

"Because they're cavalry. Horses won't like the boggy ground there."

They didn't stop running until they'd splashed across the Wietze. On the other side they slumped to the ground and hid among the bushes. From their place of sanctuary they watched the oil facility being destroyed.

****

Ulrich and Ann stood up and watched the raiders leave.

"They didn't hang around for long," Ann observed

Ulrich pointed to the plane circling high above the scene of devastation that had arrived a few minutes earlier. "Probably scared that could guide in reinforcements."

"Reinforcements?" Ann snorted. "All the garrison did was run."

Ulrich gently shook his head. Ann was normally so smart, but she didn't know anything about warfare. "Of course they ran. They didn't have any pikes, and without pikes they couldn't hold off cavalry."

"But surely the new rifles and bayonets . . ."

Ulrich shook his head. "They didn't have the new rifles. All they had were matchlocks. Come on, let's go and inspect the damage."

****

Ann kicked around the smoldering remains of what had, only a few minutes earlier, been her field office. She glanced over to Ulrich. "It's a good thing I grabbed my bag."

Ulrich unslung the backpack and passed it to her. "I'm sure there's nothing in here worth your life."

She grimaced as she checked the contents. He was just a man. He didn't have the same priorities a woman had. Yes, her handbag was still in there. She decided that maybe this wasn't the time to pull it out and check that everything in it was undamaged. Instead she felt around for her first aid kit and pulled that out. She offered it triumphantly to Ulrich.

He took it, but after finding he didn't have anywhere on his person to easily stow it, he gave it back. "You keep it for now. Let's go and check how everyone else has done."

Ann stowed the first aid kit away and shouldered her backpack as they walked toward the burning remains of Rig One.

They stared silently at the ruin as the rig's roughnecks turned up to inspect the damage. "Someone cut the cable," Ann observed.

Ulrich nodded grimly. "That means we'll need to fish it out."

"How much cable do you think is down there with it?" Ann asked.

Ulrich pointed at the cable remaining on the winch drum. "Too much, the Graves are going to have to let us call David in this time."

"Someone taking my name in vain?" David Willcocks asked from behind them.

Ann turned. "David!" Then she realized there was no smile on his face. "What's wrong?"

David dropped his head. "I can't find Annie Laurie."

Ann swallowed. David was looking for his wife. His wife who usually worked in the oil facility canteen. The same canteen that she could see burning in the distance. She reached out a hand. "Come on, Ulrich and I will help you look."

****

They found Annie Laurie huddled together with Zona Goodman and other members of the staff staring blankly at the remains of the canteen where they had used to work, watching men throw buckets of water at the blaze. Tears fell from Ann's eyes when David and his wife hugged each other. She brushed them from her eyes and looked away.

Ann started to take in the magnitude of the damage. The French hadn't just destroyed the canteen; they'd done their best to destroy everything within the oil facility compound. The air was full of stinking black smoke from the burning oil and the rubber tires on an up-time pickup truck. Everything was burning. The oil stockpiles, the stockpiles of empty barrels and barrel staves awaiting the cooper, and the buildings. The main office was burning, the canteen was burning, and . . . Ann froze in horror as she realized that the chemical engineering laboratory was also burning. "Has anybody seen Lori?" she demanded of the people around her.

"She's looking at the damage to the separator pots," someone called out.

Ann released a sigh of relief. That was so typical of Lori. She tugged Ulrich to his feet. "Come on, I want to check on Lori."

Lori was standing a safe distance from the flames staring miserably at what had been her pride and joy when Ann found her. She walked up and put her arms around Lori to comfort her.

"They killed then! The bastards killed my babies!"

Ann saw Lori's tears and hugged her closer. She looked around for Ulrich and indicated that he should pick up the jacket and bag at Lori's feet and follow them. Then she led her friend away.

****

It was two days before all the fires were out and a proper assessment of the damage could be made. By then Jerry Trainer had been flown in from Magdeburg, complete with a replacement radio, with the job of rebuilding the facility as quickly as possible. But Ann was aware that "quickly" was a relative term. The French had been complete in their destruction of the oil facility. Inside the compound nothing had been left standing, and anything that could burn had burnt.

You couldn't walk within the compound without stepping into a pool of oil from one or other of the destroyed oil storage tanks, and there were still traces of oil drifting down the River Aller. Wietze was not popular, as communities downriver depended on that water. Lori had wanted to put berms around each of the storage tanks to prevent just this from happening, but Quentin had overridden her, calling it an unnecessary expense.

Still, all was not lost. While the French might have totally destroyed the oil processing capability, they'd been less successful destroying the oil production capability. Two producing wells—the only two producing wells so far—had been drilled across the Wietze from the oil facility where the French hadn't penetrated. The two wells could produce, between them, about fifty barrels of heavy crude each day, for as long as the storage lasted. Unfortunately, the wood stave storage tank beside each rig only had a capacity of about thirty barrels, and they'd been forced to reduce the flow. But at least the wells hadn't been damaged, unlike the wells being drilled by the two destroyed rigs. A smile flashed across her face as she remembered the destroyed rigs.

"Well, at least someone's happy," Lori said from behind her. "Do you want to see what those French bastards did to my babies?"

Ann let Lori lead her to the cluster of tipped over separator pots. Everything was scared by fire and she couldn't help but notice the large rents and tears marring the separator pots. "Is that as bad as it looks?" she asked, pointing to the damage.

"Nah," Lori shook her head. "That's just a sheet metal outer casing to protect the insulation. Those pots are quarter-inch rolled plate. There might be a bump or two, but no real damage. No, the real damage is to the fittings. The Frenchies pinched anything in brass or copper, as well as taking or smashing all the gauges and fittings. We're going to have to replumb just about everything . . ."

Ann grinned. "But at least you won't have Quentin Underwood riding you to get everything up and running?"

"Yeah. Having Jerry in charge is going to make a lot of difference getting this place running again. But it's still going to take time."

"But you're going to be able to build in all your new improvements, aren't you?"

Lori shook her head ruefully. "Not if we're to get it up and running as quickly as possible. It's the same story as when the original facility was designed and built. Do a good enough job now to get the fuel flowing. That means using standard fittings rather than what we really need. As it is, it's going to be a pain trying to source suitable pumps and valves, let alone the instrumentation."

"So how long do you think it'll take?"

"Jerry thinks maybe two months to clean up the mess and rebuild the equipment, assuming no difficulties getting parts, but that's only half the equation. Then we have to get the workers back up to speed with the new system."

"How do you mean?" Ann asked.

Lori gestured to the cluster of damaged separator pots. "Running an operation as primitive as this is more an art than a science. Our most valuable resource is the experienced operators, but they're going to have to relearn how to set the flow rates, burner settings, and where to keep the liquid levels in the separator pot in order to make on-spec product with the replacement system."

"Surely you can make it the same?" Ann asked.

Lori shook her head and gestured to the burnt out remains of the central office block. "All the drawings were in there, and they've all been lost. Jerry's checking to see if Mr. Underwood kept copies of the drawings in his office in Magdeburg, but he doesn't hold out much hope." She looked ruefully at Ann. "I guess you're in much the same boat; all your drilling data would have been in the drilling office."

Ann was suddenly conscious of the weight of her backpack. She hadn't told anyone that she'd been keeping her own copy of the drilling data, but it hadn't been a really conscious decision. It was more a matter that nobody had asked. She decided to say nothing and let Lori make her own conclusions. Besides, maybe the Graves had managed to rescue the data before they joined the rout.

A few days later

David Willcocks was enjoying himself. Jerry Trainer had insisted that the prospects being drilled be restarted as soon as possible, and there was only one person capable of fishing out the bits the Frenchies cut loose. Him, David Willcocks. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the French because now he had the Graves by the short-and-curlies, and he was going to make them pay for having dismissed him. If he played his cards right he should earn enough to fund a drilling rig complete with donkey engine.

He stood back while Ulrich and the roughnecks carefully laid down the collection of fishing tools he'd had made by one of the blacksmiths attached to the garrison. He stared at the borehole a few moments before turning to Ulrich; "I think we should start with the confusion block."

Ulrich looked confused himself. "Confusion block? I don't know that tool."

"Sorry, it's just me getting stuck in the past," David apologized. "See that tool with the lump of lead on the end? Its proper name is impression block, because you run it down the hole and drop it onto the top of the fish to make an impression in the lead. Usually you can figure out what's sticking up; sometimes however, the impression makes no sense, so we nicknamed it the confusion block." He gestured at the collection of heavy iron bars. "I want you to build a string of two of the five-foot weight stems, the six foot spang jars, and then the impression block."

He stood aside while Ulrich directed his roughnecks to thread together the indicated tool string using three-foot long pipe wrenches to tighten each connection. When they finished he checked each part of the string personally before calling to Ulrich. "Take her down."

About twenty minutes later the string was hoisted back to the surface. David waited patiently—time was money, and the more time he took the more money the Graves would have to pay—while Ulrich and his roughnecks disconnected the 'confusion block' from the tool string and carried it to the tool bench. David looked at it and gave his thoughts. "See that single mark on the side? It looks like there's a sharp piece of metal laying on the side of the hole. That's why your rope-grab couldn't get anything. I think we'll try a different approach this time . . ."

… And so it went. Fishing was definitely an art, one which David had practiced many times before in his years servicing oil and gas wells in West Virginia uptime. Over the next few weeks, David had Ulrich's crew make hundreds of wireline runs into the well, using a dozen different tool combinations. Finally the impression block showed that they'd cleared out all the wire above the bit.

From this point Ulrich and his crew had the tools they needed. David had the roughnecks load his collection of fishing tools onto his heavy-freight wagon, then nodded to his hired teamsters, who set off to the next job.

David filled out the day's service ticket on his clipboard and passed it to Ulrich for his signature. "As soon as you recover the bit I can file for completion of the contract on this well," he told Ulrich. "And I can't wait to see Gerhard Grave's face when he realizes how much all the charges he'd agreed to pay before I started are going to cost him. Day-rate, tool rental, run charges, and completion bonus; it's all spelled out in the contract." He grinned.

Ulrich grinned in return. "And Prospect Eleven still to be cleared."

"Under the same contractual conditions too. The bastard is going to squirm."

The two men smiled at each other. Neither of them had much use for Gerhard Grave. "Well, hurry up and get that bit to the surface. We don't have all day," David said.

"Suddenly the man wants to hurry," Ulrich snorted. "You just want to present your bill before Herr Grave goes to lunch."

"And why not?" David demanded. "Any opportunity to give the Graves heartburn and indigestion should be seized upon."

July 1634

Ann wrapped her arms around her friend. "I'm going to miss you. Why do you have to go to Hamburg?"

Lori hugged Ann back. "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

Ann sighed. "Why can't they build your refinery here in Wietze?"

"You said it yourself ages ago. Wietze just isn't a great place for a refinery. And if we can find that oilfield east of Hamburg . . ." Lori looked hopefully at Ann. "Have you found anything out about it?"

"No." Ann shook her head. "The encyclopedias are pretty short on anything about oil in Germany. The only references are vague, like 'Hannover Basin' for salt domes. The best I've found is a bit about the 'Reitbrook salt dome,' which looks interesting, if I only knew where Reitbrook was."

"You'll find it," Lori suggested.

"Yeah, right. Meanwhile, what are you going to use for oil at your refinery in Hamburg?"

"Well, my employers have already started negotiations to buy all the fuel oil they can from Wietze."

"Isn't that going to be kinda expensive?"

"It'll cost about eighty-dollars a barrel to ship it to Hamburg, but thermal cracking should produce something like twenty-percent by volume lighter fractions from the fuel oil. We should be able to increase the value of every barrel of fuel oil we process by at least fifty percent."

Ann sighed. It sounded like the people in Hamburg were giving Lori free rein to develop her dreams. There was no way to hold her, and Ann knew she shouldn't even try. She hugged her once more and stood back. "Good luck in Hamburg."

Lori smiled and nodded. "Keep me informed on the progress of your well, and your relationship with Ulrich."

Ann felt warm. She wasn't actually sure how she felt about Ulrich. She liked him, but he was a down-timer, and his formal education wasn't much better than forth or fifth grade. She didn't think she was necessarily more intelligent than he was, but . . . "I don't think our relationship can go anywhere. He's a driller, and I'm a field geologist. I want to search for the next big find, and he's always going to be running a rig. We'd never be together."

"You could always try wildcatting," Lori suggested

Ann snorted. "Using what for money? A wildcatter needs a rig and a drill team, and plenty of money."

"Well, you'll just have to hope your well is a gusher."

"Her" well was the second well David was drilling in the university prospect. The first well had been P-6, which had, as she'd predicted, come up dry. However, it had given a lot of useful geologic information for her to suggest a new drilling location. "So far the best flow we've had is P-4 at twenty-eight barrels a day. Nobody's going to be able to finance wildcatting on the royalties from that kind of flow."

October 1634

"Fräulein Kousdi, the schlämmbock will be up in five minutes."

The voice bellowing through the flap of her tent jerked Ann awake. She rolled out of her cot with a groan. It seemed as if she'd only just lain down to sleep a few moments earlier.

"Fräulein Kousdi . . ."

"I'm awake," Ann called. Desperate to shake off the fog of insufficient sleep Ann splashed her face with the cold wash-water that had been sitting in the jug overnight. She pulled on her coveralls and boots before sticking her head out of the tent.

With the well approaching target depth, Ann just about lived on the rig. It meant she could study each load of drill cuttings and mud as soon they were brought to the surface, but the downside was she was getting very little sleep

When she worked for Quentin Underwood and the Graves she'd been content to work a more regular daytime shift, examining and logging the night's cuttings each morning. This well was different. For one thing, she had a stake in the well's success—an actual share of profits from any oil they discovered—but they had to make a discovery, of course.

The more important difference regarding this well was the fact that this location was one she'd chosen herself. Prior to coming to work for the university, Christian Grave had made it quite clear that he believed that because she was a female she shouldn't be allowed to have input on such important decisions. Working for David and the university was different. True, David had argued with her about drilling so close to the P-6 dry hole, but he had listened to her. Ultimately she'd won him over to her case. Now only time would tell if her choice of locations was wise.

Ann grabbed her hardhat and earmuffs off of the hook by the tent flap and headed for the rig floor. She climbed the steps to find a much too awake and cheerful looking Ulrich working the rig controls. His two rig hands stood by dutifully, ready to spring into action once the bailer came to the surface. Ulrich acknowledged her appearance with a nod and a smile, but was too engaged with the task at hand to do much more.

She saw the tell-tale flag, woven into the drilling cable fifty feet above the rope socket, come out of the borehole at the same moment that Ulrich throttled back the rig engine. Next came the rope socket and the large pipe, about thirty feet long, which was used to extract the cuttings and mud from the bottom of the wellbore.

The moment the bottom of the pipe cleared the wellbore Ulrich and his two roughnecks got to work in a well practiced rhythm. The two rig hands slid a protective cover over the hole in the rig floor, then shouldered the heavy pipe and swung it to the edge of the drilling floor. At the same moment Ulrich let out cable to set the bottom end of the schlämmbock down onto the cuttings table located a few feet below the rig floor. Ann watched the mud, water, and crushed rock gush out of the pipe when the dart valve at the bottom of the pipe was pushed open.

Ann was disappointed to not see any of the thick oil yet. With a heavy heart she took the first steps down from the rig deck. Then the smell hit her.

She gripped the hand rail and sniffed. "There's something here!" she called, suddenly excited and awake. "It's . . . it smells like a mix of shoe polish and paint thinner. It's stronger than we've ever had before!"

She ran down the steps to the sample table. Some portion of the liquid brought to the surface in the schlämmbock was a light oil. In the dark it was hard to discern the difference between the muddy water and the oil, so thin was the oil. She quickly scooped up some of the liquid before it could all drain out of the shallow basin that was her "cuttings table."

She looked up to see three interested faces looking over the rail on the drilling deck and waved her jar of oil. "We need to wake David. He'd never forgive us if we didn't."

Ulrich turned to the men beside him. "Forrest, run over and get David. Tell him . . ." He looked to Ann for help.

"That we've found sign of light oil," Ann called back.

"Understood, Fräulein," Forrest said before setting off.

"David's right, that boy runs everywhere, just like the movie character," Ann said.

Ann was sitting by the stairs outside the rig when she finally heard David's old pickup coming down the access track. When they came into view, she saw that Forrest (actually Friedrich Gump) was sitting proudly beside him, a wide grin on his face.

Ann and Ulrich met David when he stepped out of his truck. "You don't often fire that thing up." Ann commented.

"I'm getting soft in my old age," David said. "Besides, Forrest here suggested that I come as quickly as possible. I hope it wasn't just so that he could have his first truck ride."

Ann noticed the youth David insisted on calling Forrest was still beaming. "Forrest did well. We did want you as quickly as possible. Come on. We've got something to show you."

Ann led the way to the sample table under the drilling floor where she laid a chunk of oil stained sandstone in his hands. "It looks like we've drilled about five feet into this nice oil sand." She nudged for Ulrich to pass her the mason jar she'd almost filled with oil. She shook it to show it was much thinner than any oil they'd found previously before passing the jar over to David.

David opened the jar and sniffed. He almost purred. "It smells like money, and. . . . Oh Christ!" All color drained from David's face. "Quick. We have to kill all of the lanterns. Right goddam now!"

Ulrich and his crew sprang to action while David ran up onto the drill floor.

Ann was a bit shocked by the change in David's reaction. She followed him onto the drilling platform. Then she understood. "Oh. My. God! Light oil means there will be more gas, doesn't it?"

David nodded. "The last thing I want is to burn up my crew and our rig. Luckily I don't smell any gas yet; we can change some things around to make sure most of the gas vents downwind of the rig. We're lucky that it's only a few more hours until dawn. From this point forward we're going to be on daylight operations only, unless we're in a situation where we can't shut down for the night."

All the lanterns doused, Ulrich returned to where David and Ann were talking. "What now, David?"

"It's going to be daylight drilling from here on," David said. "I guess you two will have to find something to do to occupy your evenings."

In her current sleep-deprived state David's pointed comment flew right past Ann. "I don't think I can remember sleeping in a proper bed. Right now I think I'll find my cot and get what sleep I can before sunrise. See you then." Ann waved an unsteady hand at the two men before making her way back to her tent.

Ann was asleep moments after her head hit her pillow and she slept soundly until the morning birdsong penetrated her slumber. She rolled onto her back and listened. Intermixed with the birdsong was the sound of activity on the rig. It was time to get up. She rolled out of her cot and pulled on the previous night's damp and stinking coveralls, then her boots. Then she reached out for a tent pole and hauled her tired body to its feet. She grabbed her hardhat and earmuffs and pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the morning light.

The rig seemed to be overflowing with men. Then Ann realized that both the day and night crews were working on the wellhead valves and the surface piping; the diverter line, as David termed it. Young Forrest waved at her before hurrying to her side.

"For you, Fräulein Kousdi." The young man proffered a steaming mug of coffee. "Herr Willcocks broke out his special stock for the occasion."

"Ahh! Many thanks, Forrest." Ann savored the aromatic brew. Good coffee was indeed a treat these days. She strolled over to where David and Ulrich were supervising work on the wellhead valves. Their roughnecks were bolting some new type of valve atop the uppermost flange.

"A new wellhead valve?" Ann asked.

Ulrich turned at the sound of her voice. "It's another of David's creations; from when he was retired from drilling."

"Tinkering kept me out from under Annie Laurie feet while I waited for the call from the Graves," David explained. "It's just a modified gate valve I made. It uses blocks of rubber from old tires to form a collar we can tighten around the cable after the drilling tools are lowered in the well. That should stop any significant level of gas escaping into the rig—the rest should take the route of least resistance and flow out the open diverter piping." He gestured at the roughnecks who were connecting lengths of pipe between the wellhead and a bermed pit on the edge of their drilling location.

David turned his attention back to what the roughnecks were doing. "That looks like we're all ready. Leave the collar full open for now; we'll start tightening after Ulrich gets started into the well with the drilling bit." He turned to Ulrich. "Ready?"

"Let's get back to 'making hole,' as you long-time oil hands would say," an obviously excited Ulrich said.

Finally, Ann thought, back to drilling soon! Then she heard David's next instruction.

"Let's take it pretty slow going in the hole."

"Slowly?" she muttered.

"Yes, slowly," David said. "Ulrich is going to need to get the feel for the cable with the collar tightened." He turned back to Ulrich. "See if you notice a fluid level as you run in hole."

Ann waited expectantly while the bit was slowly lowered, and with anticipation as it neared the end of its eleven hundred foot journey.

"Bottom," Ulrich called. "I didn't feel anything."

"Bring her up a couple of hundred feet and go down again. Faster, this time," David instructed Ulrich.

"Bottom. I still didn't feel anything," Ulrich called out.

"Crap! It's an effing false alarm," Ann spat out.

"Don't you start doubting yourself just yet, young woman," David said. "We know there's oil down there. It's probably just that Ulrich here isn't fully used to the feel of his drill cable with the packing blocks pinching on it."

"David's right, Ann," Ulrich said. "And it's not like we work for Grave. Can you imagine how he'd be screaming at us by now?"

Ann grimaced at the thought of that self-proclaimed expert trying to make them work faster. "You're right. That little tyrant would be red as a beet by now." She smiled at the latter image.

David nodded. "Good girl. Now we need to get back to drilling."

Ulrich hastened to direct his roughnecks to connect the walking beam to the steel drilling cable. Moments later the rig echoed to the rhythmic pounding of the rock nearly a quarter mile below.

The day wore on. The excitement had quickly worn off as the routine of drilling set in, and the air of expectation died a little more with each trip with the schlämmbock returning the same result—some sand and silt, more of the thin oil, but no indications of flow.

With dusk fast approaching Ann noted that they'd drilled over thirty feet. The schlämmbock runs had brought up a lot of oil, but there was no sign that they had struck a real pay zone yet. While she could feel some satisfaction from finding some oil, it wasn't enough. The well might as well be dry. She stood, chewing on her lower lip, while she watched the crew shut down for the night.

"What's wrong, young lady?" David asked. .

She gestured to the stave wood tank where they'd been dumping the oil they'd been recovering. "What if this is all we get? A few barrels a day is an oil well. I guess I should be happy with that, but . . . Maybe we should have moved further away from Number Six."

"It's too early to worry," Ulrich said. "We've found oil-bearing sand at about the depth you'd expected. I'd say you're on the right track. Maybe we just need to keep drilling and we'll find some better quality sand. But what we all really need right now is a hearty meal and a good night's sleep. Things will look much better come morning."

"Okay, I guess."

****

A hot meal and full night of sleep later, Ann awoke, more rested and alert than she had been for weeks. She was still nervous about how the well would turn out, but vowed to keep her unease to herself—at least for a few more days of drilling. She had to remind herself that nothing went as quickly as you'd like on the drilling rig. There would still be a lot of waiting before they achieved their final results.

She met David and Ulrich at breakfast. Not much was said; it seemed they were all lost in their own private thoughts. It wasn't until they were walking toward the well that David broke the silence.

"I knew a young production foreman once, who was so superstitious about the well's production, he forbade any of us to talk about what the well might produce, or to even discuss the test results until the well had been producing for at least a week. He likened it to bringing up the possibility of your pitcher's no-hitter until after the end of the ninth inning."

Ulrich snorted. "That's nothing compared to the superstitions held by a lot of the old farmers—it's the same thing. You can't count your crops until they're sold, but then you can't count them for fear of ruining next year's harvest. Nothing's changed there, I see."

They were greeted at the rig by the armed guard left not just to protect the rig from anybody who might have evil intentions, not that Ann really believed the Graves would go that far, but also to make sure no man or beast disturbed anything that could release gas into the rig. "Good morning, Herr Willcocks, Herr Rohrbach, Fräulein Koudsi. All is secure, and the rest of your crew are waiting by the engine," the elder of the two guards said.

Ann snorted. Waiting by the engine was shorthand for taking a break. She sent the diverter line a hopeful glance, but there was no stream of oil flowing, so she waved to David and Ulrich and headed toward her tent to review her notes from the day before.

She was updating some of the entries in her drilling log, adding some notes born of the perspective that comes after a night of sleep, when Forrest interrupted her work. "Fräulein, I think you should come to the drill floor."

She followed Forrest out the tent toward the rig. She could see David hurrying to the rig as well. They were confronted on arrival by a beaming Ulrich.

"I felt something," he said. "This time I felt the liquid level when I ran the tools into the well. Just to be sure I went back. It's there. It's only down about two hundred feet. We filled nine hundred feet of borehole during the night."

"Oh god. We've flooded the well," Ann blurted.

Ulrich shot her a glance. "There wasn't any water last night, was there?"

"Well no, but, uh never mind. I'm just worrying too much." She answered.

"If it's water, I know how to shut that off," David said. "Come on, people. Let's get drilling."

Ulrich smiled, and turned back to his grinning roughnecks. "You heard the man, let's get drilling." The crew sprang into action to reconnect the drilling cable to the walking beam.

Ann watched them for a while then walked up to David. "If anything develops, I'll be back in my tent," she said before leaving the rig.

She'd barely made it halfway back to her tent when Forrest caught up with her. This time he grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the rig. "Quick! Ulrich says come quickly!

Ann didn't have much choice but to try and keep up with Forrest as he dragged her back to the rig and bundled her up the stairs. David and Ulrich were standing with their hands on the drilling cable grinning like idiots. "Feel this," Ulrich said.

Ann put her hand on the cable. Intermittently, she could feel it vibrate. Then she heard something—it was quiet—but it was a sort of ringing hiss. "What's that sound? she asked.

"Gas," David said, "but that vibrating cable, that's not just gas. Keep an eye on the diverter line, we may see something soon."

Just then, the gas noise subsided. Ann and Ulrich both looked to David. "Here it comes."

Almost on cue, the wellhead valves and piping rattled—and there was a burp of oil from the diverter line into the storage tank. It was followed by more gas sounds, then another rattle-burp, and then another, and another . . .

"Oh crap," David muttered.

Alarmed, Ann looked at him. "What's wrong?"

"The storage tank isn't going to be big enough. We're going to have to restrict the flow until we build a bigger one." There was a gleam in his eye when he smiled at Ann and Ulrich. "I think we've just struck ourselves a gusher."

****

Professor Dr. Johannes Wissel, of the University of Helmstedt stared at the three timber derricks being assembled in a line about a quarter of a mile away. "I see you're wasting no time adding more wells."

"Those aren't ours," David Willcocks said. "We only have the one rig and it's going to be set up over there." He pointed to a pile of lumber two hundred yards to the north.

Johannes stared in the direction Herr Willcocks was pointing. He could just make out a pile of lumber in the scrub near the river. He looked from that site to the three derricks to the west. "Then who is responsible for those?" he demanded.

"Gerhard Graves."

Johannes nearly screamed. "Why are they drilling on our lease?"

Johannes didn't like the smile that appeared on Herr Willcocks' face just before he answered.

"They aren't on your lease. They're on their lease. What they're doing is corner shooting our strike. By drilling as close to the edge of their lease as they can, they hope to strike the same formation we did."

Johannes was outraged. "That shouldn't be allowed."

"There's not a lot that you can do about it," David said, "But if it makes you happy, Ann's not sure the Triassic formation we hit extends that far west. I might be a bit worried if they had rotary drills, but If Ann's right we don't have any worries."

"Pardon?" Johannes was confused.

"Back up-time there was a bit of a problem with poachers pitching a derrick close to the edge of a proven block and sending their drills down at an angle trying to strike the same formation. But you can't do that with a cable rig."

"Why not?" Professor Dr. Joachim Wecke, also of the University of Helmstedt, asked.

"Because a cable rig uses gravity to drill. There is no way to get it to deviate from the vertical and still drill," David explained.

"So they won't be able to poach our oil?" Joachim asked.

"Not without a rotary drill," David said.

"Please, Herr Willcocks, tell us more of these rotary drills," Johannes invited.

****

Ann Koudsi stood on the dock on the River Aller thinking that saying goodbye to her friends was turning into too much of a habit. She hugged David and his wife, Annie Laurie. "Don't forget your friends now you've become an academic," she told David.

"No fear of that, girl. With the miserable salary they're paying me I'm going to need you to call me in as a consultant on a regular basis."

"I thought you said they were paying you well?"

"Ah, well," David started. "Don't worry, me and Annie Laurie'll be okay. Besides, there's my share of the well, and there'll be royalties on the rotary drill when me and the new faculty of mining get it working." David glanced over Ann's shoulder toward where she knew Ulrich was standing. "Do you have any plans?"

Ann chose to ignore the suggestive nature of David's question. "Lori's still dropping hints that I should join her in Hamburg. She's found an area called 'Reitbrook' sort of east of Hamburg and she wants me to run a survey over the area to see it's the salt dome mentioned in the encyclopedia."

"What does Ulrich think about that?" Annie Laurie asked.

"I haven't told him yet," Ann admitted.

"They you'd better, hadn't you?" Annie Laurie suggested as she looked pointedly past Ann.

Ann swung her head, and swallowed. Ulrich was standing right behind her, and he looked hurt. She swung back to Annie Laurie and David. "I'll miss you both."

"Nah, no need to miss us. You'll see us again as soon as we have ourselves a rotary drill to test," David said.

Ann wasn't sure if Ulrich was still with her, and she didn't really want to see that he'd walked off, so she stayed standing on the dock until the ferry disappeared. Then, and only then, did she turn around. He was there. He had waited. Sure he was looking slightly grim, but he was there. That meant he was prepared to listen. Ann released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding and walked toward him. Ulrich held out his arm for her to loop hers through and they walked silently toward the village of Wietze.

****

Fire and Brimstone

Written by Terry Howard

Grantville, summer of 1636

"What can I do for you, Mr. Underwood?" the young lawyer asked.

"I want an injunction compelling that bar to change its name. It's embarrassing," Deacon Albert Underwood said. "I asked the man politely to take that sign down and he laughed at me."

Jimmy Dick found Albert's polite request rude and demanding, followed by an even ruder ultimatum. Jimmy laughed at him.

"They have no right to use the name. They aren't Baptist. That's why we threw them out. Drinking is a sin and calling that place The Baptist Basement Bar and Grill is insulting. Baptists do not drink!" The last words rang with passion, fire and brimstone. "You know what I thought it said when I first saw it? I thought is said The Bargain Basement Bar and Grill; after all it surely couldn't say what it does, could it? But I took a second look and lo and behold it did say what it does.

"I pointed out he could shorten the sign by two words and still use it. You know what he said? He said 'if we take off and grill how will people know we serve food?' The man is a cretin and a fool; they should throw him in jail and throw away the key!"

The young lawyer found himself wondering if the old deacon ever said anything without filling it with passion. "Mr. Underwood, I understand and I sympathize." He told a social lie, but then lawyers are . . . well, (I guess I'd better not say. I don't want to get sued.) "But I doubt if there is anything I can do for you. The word Baptist is in the public domain. It's not like you've got a trademark on it and it is attached to a church after all."

"But they're not Baptist, neither the bar nor the church. They call themselves Anabaptist. They are against every thing we stand for, like decency and order and right living. Ask any of the down-time pastors. The whole lot of them are anarchist. Can't you get them for false advertising or something?"

"Mister Underwood, it will not hold up. What defines a Baptist is adult-only baptism and baptism by full submersion which they have been doing since they opened here in Grantville even if they didn't always do it before. So, I am sorry, there is nothing I can do for you.

"The chief of police is a reasonable man and he has a lot of influence with Jimmy Dick. Why don't you talk to him?"

"I did! He told me to go see a lawyer."

"Then I guess you will just have to learn to live with it, sir."

"You mean the law will do nothing? Well, if that is the case, someone ought to just burn the place down."

"That, sir, would be illegal." Realizing someone as passionate about the subject as the old deacon clearly might actually go to such an extreme, the young lawyer thought to head off trouble before it started. "Since you've mentioned it, if anything happens I will have to tell the police about this conversation."

"Attorney client privilege."

"First, you haven't paid a retaining fee so you are not a client. Second, the privilege does not apply when a client announces ahead of time that they are going to do something illegal. Good day, sir. I cannot help you."

"Well, I wouldn't do it anyway. But someone should."

****

Not many nights later flames shot up from the roof high into the sky, as if the spirit of the building sought heaven. The walls were quarried limestone, but the furnishings burned nicely as did the floor and the roof, except for the roof slates, which, along with the stained glass for the windows, were the only things congregation purchased, except for song books, Bibles and modern plumbing. Unfortunately, the fire burned the walls to lime. They were still standing but the building inspector declared them unsafe. They would have to come down. Beyond question, it was arson. Someone used so much fuel oil or kerosene that some of it floated out on top of the water when the fire department got busy controlling the blaze.

****

At first light, the coals still glowing, Lyndon Johnson started investigating the fire. The fire chief estimated how much petroleum someone used.

"That much?" a shocked Lyndon asked.

"It takes a lot for some to float out like it did."

A radio call to the dispatcher and a few phone calls to the gas stations established for a fact, no one bought any diesel recently which did not go into a vehicle's tank.

"Well, that's a dead end. Looks like someone's been sitting on a stash all this while. We can look, but, if the sweep for fuel back in '31 didn't turn it up, it's not likely we will either," Lyndon told the fire chief.

"I didn't think it would be that easy," the fire chief replied.

****

Jimmy Dick stood there looking at the ash filled hole in the ground. The sign over the door, by some fluke, somehow, survived. He shook his head. "We weren't even open a month. The worst of it is, I had insurance on my contents but the congregation didn't have any insurance at all. At least it was all new stuff. I sold all the up-time furniture and furnishings to an Italian. I'm glad I kept the juke box at my house, or it would be gone too."

"Why'd'ya do that for?" Bubba asked.

"Because, Bubba, it could be overheard upstairs. Some songs shouldn't be heard in church, even if it is through the floor."

"Oh," Bubba said sadly looking at the ashes.

Lyndon asked, "Who wanted you out of business badly enough to do this, Jimmy?"

"I don't know, Lyndon. Not the other bars. They were happy to get rid of Ken's regulars. I can give you a list of the regulars who wouldn't come; some because they wouldn't drink in a church, others because I wouldn't keep the krauts out. But, damn it, Lyndon, it is kind of hard to tell your landlord he can't buy a beer in your bar. And if they were going to burn something down, they would have torched the beauty salon in the old building."

Lyndon's next question probed a bit deeper. "Who had it in for you personally?"

"Most of my family, half of the regulars, all of my ex-tenants and most of the current ones," Jimmy replied.

Lyndon pushed, "Why the tenants?"

"I raised the rent. My family 'cause I ended up with the property and they thought it should have been split up. The regulars because, over the years, when they were being stupid idiots I pointed it out to them, and I wasn't the least bit polite about it when I did it either."

Lyndon probed deeper still, "Sounds like you got half the world mad at you. Why, Jimmy?"

Jimmy actually looked a bit sheepish. "Because I enjoyed being a jerk? Freud told me I have a death wish."

"Like you talked to Sigmund Freud!"

"You mean you haven't?"

"Get me the list of the old regulars who don't come. I'll start there."

****

Back at the station, Lyndon found a note in his inbox telling him to call a lawyer's office. Shortly he stood knocking on Deacon Underwood's door. "Mr. Underwood, have you heard the Anabaptist church burned last night?"

"Serves them right. They never should have opened a bar in the basement."

"Mind if I ask where you were last night?"

"Home, in bed."

"All night long?"

"I can't sleep like I used too. So I get up and read and then go back to bed."

"Anything you want to tell me?"

"You mean like, 'Yes, I kidnapped the Lindbergh baby.' Well, I didn't."

Lyndon did not trust the gleam in the old man's eye.

****

"Hey, Jason, any ideas on who burned the bar?"

"Hey yourself, Lyndon, and what you really mean is did I do it since I got a record as a suspected arsonist.

"They never proved it. I never said I did it, never said I didn't, either. In this case I didn't. If I find out who did, I'll beat the crap out him before I tell you. He burned a church, Lyndon. I don't go to church, 'cept for weddings and funerals. It shouldn't have been there. But I would never burn a church.

"You ask me, it was one of the pious hypocrites. The churches are full of them. You know how you tell a Catholic from a Baptist in a liquor store? The Catholics will talk to each other, the Baptists won't."

"Well, you were in town. and you might have it in for Jimmy, you both being Shavers after all."

"I ain't got nothin' against Jimmy. But, he shouldn't have opened a bar in the basement of a church. It just ain't right."

****

A few days later the chief asked "How is the arson case coming?"

"A lot of dead ends," Lyndon said. "The only thing I've turned up is Jason Shaver's being in town. He says everything is cool between him and Jimmy. I know better. So there's opportunity and motive. I'd question him again but he's back in Magdeburg at the glass works."

"How'd they move the fuel oil?" the chief asked. "It wasn't carried in by hand, not that much, not by one person anyway. Freight moves around town at night since the League of Women Voters got the daylight traffic ban voted in. Ask the haulers if they saw anything."

****

"Herr John's Son?" Lyndon just stepped into the gas station to sign for the tank of gas for the cruiser. The attendant said, "I have a question."

"Yes?"

"The police called the day after the fire and asked if anyone had been bought diesel, and I said no except into trucks."

"Yes," Lyndon prompted.

"Is it important? One man buys ten gallons into cans once or twice a week."

"Do you know who he is?"

"No."

"The next time he comes in, call the station. Then stall him if you can and try to get a name."

"Yes, Herr John's Son."

****

"Wesley, your electric truck was seen around town the night of the fire? Know anything about it?"

"Now that's the strangest thing. When I came in the morning after, I found the big door closed but not latched. Nothing missing or out of place so I just figured we forgot."

"You're telling me someone could have used your truck without you knowing it?"

"Yeah."

"How'd they get in?"

"Through a window, maybe? I didn't check. Like I said, nothing was missing."

"Any idea who could have borrowed it?"

"Not offhand."

"You think of anything, let me know. I should talk to your partner too."

"Sure, she's home getting over having her appendix out. Been laid up all week."

"Just for the record, where were you that night?"

"Home in bed. Where else?"

****

Three days later a message caught up with Lyndon to call Wesley at the conversion shop.

"Wesley?"

"Hey, Lyndon, after we talked I added a bar to the door. This morning the bar was upside down. There's some nicks you wouldn't notice if you weren't looking for them and the chalk marks on the wheels were gone too."

"I'll be over in just a bit. Don't touch anything until I get there."

"Hey," Lyndon called out to the office, "I need a fingerprinter. Who's up?"

The chief came out of his office.

Lyndon addressed him. "Maybe we just got a break in the arson case."

A week later on a roof top in Grantville

"See anything?" the radio asked.

"What did I tell you an hour ago?" Rick asked in nearly accent-free English.

"Nothing."

"What did I tell you the hour before that?"

"Nothing."

"What did I tell you once an hour yesterday and four yesterdays before that?"

"Nothing."

"Do you see a pattern here?"

"I see nothing."

"Have you been watching Hogan's Heroes?"

"Yes. Sergeant Schultz is a hoot. Talk to you in another hour."

"Hang on, I see a light. Someone is in the building." The soft noise of the carrier wave and the occasional mutter of voices in the background of the station were the only sounds for long enough to measure time in fractions of an hour instead of numbered minutes.

"Okay, they are opening the doors and yes the truck is rolling out. It's comin' down. Move."

"People are in place, Rick. Come on down."

"Let me guess, you've seen The Price is Right?"

"Sure, my landlady brought them home and we watched them over and over. A panda is waiting for you in the alley."

"A panda?"

"Yes, a black and white patrol car."

"Where did you come up with that one? Never mind. I'm on my way."

Wesley's electric truck made its way to the fair grounds where things to be delivered downtown were left until the middle hours of the night when traffic wouldn't endanger the swarms of kids and other pedestrians. The driver and passenger loaded up, made the three stops and headed back to the conversion shop. When the two of them were exiting the side door of the shop, car lights came on at both ends of the alley.

A voice called out, "Freeze." Then, "Put your hands on your heads." Then, "Abe? Is that you?"

Abe, a known hillbilly-ophile answered, "Rick?"

"Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"You tell me."

"We were borrowing Wesley's truck. He said we could."

"No, he didn't."

"Yes, he did. We needed to help someone move and we borrowed his truck. When we brought it back I said 'thanks' and he said 'any time.'"

"Abe, you know that is not what he meant."

"It is what he said."

"Come on. Let's go down to the station."

At the station, they called Wesley. "Sure, I loaned Abe the truck to move some old lady. But I didn't mean he could use it for free anytime he wanted without asking."

Lyndon nodded. "Rick tells me it isn't a question of Abe misunderstanding either, even if he has the I-don't-know-English-too-goodroutine down pat. Shoot, his proper English is better than mine and he can do hillbilly just fine."

"So," Wesley asked, "did they burn the church?"

"No. The dispatcher at the fairgrounds says Abe worked the other side of town that night and he's got records to prove it. Only thing they've got to say is they saw a dark pickup truck go by on rubber tires and they sure wished your truck had rubber tires. So now I get to chase down every dark truck in town that still has tires, which is most of them.

"Are you going to press charges." Lyndon asked.

"No. They didn't hurt anything, but I am going to charge them rent."

****

The next day Lyndon stopped for gas. Barely through the door to sign the chit the attendant spoke to him.

"Herr John's Son, I have something to say."

"Yes?"

"I have a name. He is Abe Holt."

"Thanks. We picked him up last night."

"Then he burned the church?"

"No. He has a solid alibi."

"I have been thinking, Herr Underwood, he has been buying a lot of diesel into his truck. I have been wondering why so much driving. And now, after the fire, he has stopped."

"Oh, really?" Lyndon said. "Interesting. What color is Underwood's truck?"

"It is dark blue, Herr John's Son."

"Hm. Thanks, Johann."

"Any time, Herr John's Son."

****

"Hey, Lyndon," the chief called out when Lyndon got to the station. "What did you get last night?"

"A red herring. The fellows using Wesley's truck didn't do it. But they saw a dark pickup moving through town. So I follow that lead next."

"Well, over lunch someone from the CoC asked me about it."

****

"Chief Richards, how is the investigation going in the religious discrimination case?"

"The what?"

"The religious discrimination case. Have you found out who burned the church down?"

The chief asked for an explanation, "It's religious discrimination?"

"Of course it is."

"Why?"

"Arson. The only church in town to be burned is a down-time church. Your up-timer churches are strange and crazy, but for the most part, they are staying put in Grantville . . . well, other than the Pentecostals. These people are a long-standing despised minority. They are actively expanding under your protection."

"Maybe the bar was the target and the church just happened to be over it?"

"Don't be crazy. Who would care about a bar? No. You need to be investigating the loud-mouthed Lutherans whose pastor, from the pulpit, called it an act of divine justice."

****

"I got the distinct impression if we didn't look into it the CoC would.

"I told him we weren't calling it a religious discrimination case at this time, and if the Lutheran pastor had an accident one dark night, I would come looking for him.

"So, if you don't have any other leads, check it out."

"I may actually have something. It turns out Underwood has a dark blue truck, which I know runs on diesel. He fills up way too often, but not since the fire."

"Oh, really," the chief said. "Let's go."

"Where?"

"To see Albert."

****

The door opened and Albert Underwood said, "Yes?"

"Brother Underwood," the chief said, they went to the same church. The archaic greeting matched the man being addressed. "I have a problem, and as a deacon of the church I thought you might be able to help me out."

"If I can I surely will. What's the problem?"

"I've got a suspect in an arson case who's got motive, opportunity, and ability, which is enough to bring him in and book him."

The old man paled. "I didn't do it."

"I didn't say you did. So far the evidence is purely circumstantial so a judge would most likely throw it out. Without more evidence, I don't see any point of charging the suspect.

"But, that's not the problem I want your help with."

"What is?"

"If someone in town got burned out, especially if they didn't have insurance, we, that is, the congregation, would take up an offering. Seems to me like we should help the Anabaptists out. Don't you think?"

Albert's mouth fell open. "You have got to be kidding! After they opened a bar in the basement? And called it what they did? No absolutely not! It needed cleansing and nothing cleans quite like fire."

"Albert? Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Yes. If you propose we take up an offering to help them rebuild, I will vote against it. And I'll make it stick too."

"Albert, I got a situation. The CoC thinks this is religious discrimination. Those people tend to act on their beliefs. If they do, we've got serious problems. I need this settled. I need to make an arrest whether I can make it stick or not.

"Or come up with the money to rebuild the church. If an elder deacon says to take up an offering and if he asks the other churches to do the same, and he seriously encourages people to give, we can raise enough to rebuild and I can keep a lid on things."

"And you want me to do it?"

"That's the idea."

"What about the bar in the basement?"

"Nobody's business but theirs. You know they don't see drinking as a problem."

"I don't like it! Not one bit!"

"Needs to be done," the chief said.

"I didn't do it!"

"I didn't say you did."

"What about the name over the door?" Albert scrambled to salvage something since he understood he wasn't going to have any choice in the matter.

"Oh, I think, maybe, something can be done about that," the chief threw the old deacon a bone. "What do you say?"

"I don't like it!"

"Albert, I need someone to head up the funding drive to rebuild the Anabaptist church and I need that someone to do it right."

Albert turned red. "This is blackmail."

"Really? Just what is it I am holding over your head? Why don't you stop down to the station tomorrow morning, bright and early, and let me know how I'm going handle this. See you tomorrow, Brother Underwood."

Back in the cruiser Lyndon spoke for the first time since leaving the station. "Chief, that's just plain mean."

"Yeah. It is," the chief said with a chuckle. "Either he raises the money to rebuild or he confesses. Either way, it doesn't really matter."

"So, Jimmy Dick is back in business." Lyndon said.

"He says no. There's not enough business. Too many of the regulars won't come. But things have quieted down with the old 250 crowd, so maybe we don't need it."

****

The next morning Albert Underwood walked into the chief's office. "Brother Richards, I've got something to say."

The chief nodded.

"I've walked this earth for over eighty years. In my younger days I did a few things I probably shouldn't have. Some called me a braggart and a bully, and looking back I'd have a hard time arguing about it. But I am not going to take the credit for doing something when I didn't do it. And come judgment day I do not want to explain to the Lord why I helped build a bar. I can't confess. I won't go to my grave with a lie on my lips. I won't do it."

"Albert, I need to know what you did with the diesel you were buying, because right now it sure looks like you used it to burn a church down."

"I didn't do it. I'd be lying if I said I did. At my age I'll be facing the Lord sooner rather than later."

"What did you do with the fuel?"

"I didn't use it to burn the church down."

"I didn't ask what you didn't do with it. I asked what you did do with it."

"I ain't telling."

"Albert you're the only lead we've got on where that much fuel oil came from."

"So be it," the old man said.

The chief got up from his desk and walked to the door. "Lyndon, I need you in my office."

When Lyndon entered, the chief pointed at the old man. "Book him."

****

In a bit over an hour the chief's phone rang. The judge currently handling arraignments asked, "Chief, Albert Underwood's wife just came to my chambers. Is it true you've got him locked up?"

"Yes. He's our only suspect in the arson case."

"Do you consider him a flight risk?

"No."

"Do you think he did it?"

"I don't know. If he could tell me where the fuel he's been buying went, I'd say no. But he can't, or at least he won't."

"Just a minute."

After some faint mumbling the judge said, "His wife says he's embarrassed to admit he's been selling out of town."

"If the fueling stations did that they'd be cut off. But there's no law against it."

"His wife says it bugs him because she's making all the money. His pension is gone so he's been looking for some way to make money. This is all he's come up with."

"Shoot," the chief said. "I need something in the way of a break in this arson case."

"This isn't it," the judge said.

A minute later Lyndon's phone beeped.

"Yes?" Lyndon asked.

"We know what he did with the fuel. He's covered, Let him go."

"Right, Chief."

A few minutes latter Albert bypassed the receptionist and knocked on the chief's door.

"Come in."

"Brother, Richard, I've been thinkin'. Now don't get me wrong. I still think the place should have been burned down. But you're right. If it had been anyone else, I'd be happy to help in a fundraiser, but I won't help raise the funds to rebuild a bar. If you can assure me they won't open a bar back up, I'll raise the money for them to rebuild."

"Jimmy says he definitely is not going to open back up. Is that good enough?"

"I think so. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. Lyndon said you know what I've been doin'. I wouldn't want it to get around. An' I've been thinkin'. The CoC might be right. The fellows I've been selling fuel to picked up a load the night of the fire. If you don't have any other lead on where the fuel came from then it might be the fuel I sold 'em. I talked religion with them some. If you think I'm angry with the Anabaptists, you ought to hear them. They hate 'em even more than they hate the Lutherans."

"So you think they stopped on the way out of town and torched the church?"

"Motive, opportunity, ability, what you said I had. Well, they had it too. They even had the supplies on the move that night."

"Brother Underwood, do you have any idea who they are or what they're doing with it?"

"I asked once. They said the French were paying top dollar for fuel at a research station. I wasn't selling enough to fuel anything much like a boat or a tank or something and it's not aviation quality so I didn't see any harm."

"How do they get in touch with you?"

"They stop by the house and ring the door bell."

"Do you know when they'll be back?"

"Another three or four weeks."

"But you've not been buying any since the fire. How were you going to fill the order?"

"I'm ahead pretty close to a wagon load. After the bar burned down, the wife asked me what would happen to the house if what I had out behind the garage caught fire, and if maybe I should keep it down. I decided she's right."

"Can you let me know the next time your buyers are in town? I think we need to talk to them."

"I'll give you a call," the old man said.

****

"At least this time it will be a short stakeout," Rick told his partner.

"Be quiet and watch," came the response.

A wagon full of barrels came down the road. But instead of turning left and heading out of town, it turned right.

"Shit." He clicked the hand held twice and waited.

"Go ahead," the dispatcher said.

"Call the army guys outside of town. Tell them they're not coming. They turned right instead of left."

"I'll tell them. Watch them as long as you can see them, then come on in. I'll get a tail on them."

Shortly Lyndon stopped by in a patrol car. "Hop in."

With the lights off, the cruiser crept along staying just close enough to see where the wagon went.

Lyndon grabbed the hand set to the radio, "Holy smokes, they're stopping at the Baptist church. Get me some backup, pronto."

"Will do, Lyndon. Do what you can, but be safe about it," Chief Richards voice returned over the airways.

"Rick, you shoot one of the horses if that's what it takes to keep the wagon from leaving. Don't worry about anything else." Lyndon turned to the other man, "Come on."

One man waited on the wagon, the other walked out of the building.

Lyndon called out in German, "Hold it right there. Get your hands in the air." The man drew a gun and Lyndon dropped him. The driver kicked off the brake and slapped the reins over the horses' backs while at the same time yelling at them. It did no good because he now had a horse down in the traces.

Lyndon rushed the door. His companion took charge of the downed man. Lyndon rushed into the basement of the building to find a wooden barrel of diesel with the bung knocked out and fuel all over the place. A two-inch stub of a candle slowly burned its way down to the floor. The wooden stick match with a black head, made to a Grantville pattern, lay on the floor beside it. Lyndon picked the candle up carefully and carried it outside.

"How is he?" Lyndon asked at the door.

"He's dead."

Another car pulled up and slammed on the brakes. Four people piled out.

"There's a mess to clean up inside," Lyndon told the chief. "One down, and one in custody."

****

Back at the station the still-living half of the pair sang like a stool pigeon. "It was not my fault. I didn't know he was going to do it. It was my first time to come. His last partner quit him. I didn't know till we got here."

"We can check if you're new or not. If you are then you're only facing one count of attempted arson. Did he say why he did it?" the chief asked.

"Yes, he said, he's part of the Society of the Sacred Heart. It's his God-given duty to stop the spread of heresy. He said this too is an Anabaptist church which re-baptizes people. It's an affront to God, the church, and the souls of men. It was his duty to burn it down. He wished he could burn it when the people were inside to send them off to hell all the quicker."

Chief Richards shook his head. "Book him."

****

"Hey, Lyndon?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"When you called in, was that supposed to be a pun?"

"What are you talking about?"

"When you called in, the first thing you said, 'holy smoke.' I want to know, were you making a pun?"

****

Months later, Albert Underwood stormed into the chief's office. If anger was heat, he could boil water. "You promised me they wouldn't open another bar in the basement. I told a lot of people that when I went looking for money." The simple truth being, he bragged about it outrageously. "If you don't shut it down, I'm going to look like a fool. You promised. I expect you to shut it down."

"Now, Brother Underwood, just calm down. Think back to the day you got locked up and released. Now, just what did I tell you?"

"You said they wouldn't be opening a bar in the basement."

"Did I? Or did I say Jimmy Dick would not be reopening a bar in the basement? I remember. Those were pretty much my exact words. Well, Jimmy hasn't. The congregation has. They say it's an evangelical outreach. People stop for a beer and see they aren't a bunch of sticks in the mud like up-time churches. Part of the problem is the Gardens told them they can't come back until they promise to stop talking religion. Since there's nothing else they really want to talk about, they decided to open a place of their own.

"But, Jimmy Dick has nothing to do with it, which is all I promised."

Albert set quiet for a moment. He didn't want it. Then he smiled. "Brother Richards, when you were standing on my doorstep the day before I got locked up, you told me you could get them to change the sign. Well, they're using the same sign, so they're still calling it the Baptist Basement Bar and Grill. I expect you to see to it they change it like you told me you would."

"Let me see what I can do."

****

Preston Richards leaned over and rolled the passenger side window done. "Brother Granat, can I give you a lift?"

"Thank you," Rev. Granat said, opening the door and getting in.

"Don't mention it. There is something I need your help with."

Rev. Granat cautiously asked, "Which is?"

"The sign over your basement door at the church. Albert Underwood is offended by the use of the word Baptist. Do you think you could help me out? He says I promised. I didn't but I did say something once and I guess it could be construed as a promise. Whether it can or it can't, he sure is doing it anyway."

"After all of the money he raised, I think we can do something. The sign is okay as long as it doesn't have the word Baptist in it?"

"I guess so," Preston answered.

****

The chief answered his phone the next day. "Brother Richards," Albert said, "thank you for taking care of the sign promptly."

"I haven't seen it. What did they change it to?"

"I have no idea. They haven't put a new one up. But the old one is down and you said the new one wouldn't have the word Baptist in it so I really don't care."

Two days later Lyndon told something in the station and everybody broke out laughing. The chief buzzed the receptionist and said, "Tell me about it? I could use a good laugh."

"Chief, the sign over the bar is back up. They cut the sign into two pieces and inserted a third piece large enough to carve three extra letters, "Ana," and put the sign back up. Lyndon hasn't seen it yet, but he says he heard about it while walking to work and they couldn't have put it up more than an hour ago. The whole town will be laughing about it shortly. Well, at least those who aren't boiling mad or screaming bloody murder about it, anyway."

The next day about ten o'clock the chief answered his phone, "Hey, Preston, I'll buy you lunch if you'll pick me up."

"I can do that."

"Pick me up at eleven so we can beat the rush."

Preston picked up the smiling judge.

"Where are we going?" the chief asked.

"Annas' place."

"Where?" a puzzled Preston asked.

"The Anabaptist Bar and Grill. Annas' place. I heard it called that three times on the trolley on my way to work this morning. Seems like everyone heard about Albert Underwood demanding they change the name, so they added Ana. Beside, the cook and the bartender and the waitresses are all named Anna. So it's Annas' place."

The judge continued, "I tell you, they couldn't have asked for better advertising. I want to see the sign. Beside, I hear the beer is good, and they say they've got a grilled brat that tastes just like the best brand name off a supermarket shelf."

Looking at the sign over the door, the judge said, "Those three letters on the unscorched wood sure do stand out."

When they were seated a buxom matron came to their table, "I"m Anna Gisa. I will be your waitress. What can I get you gents."

"Gisa . . ."

"No, Chief Richards, here I am Anna or Anna Gisa."

"Okay. Anna, where did you learn to take an order that way?"

"Is how Jimmy Dick's waitress did. Is not right?"

"Yeah, it's fine, just wondering. But why are you going by Anna?"

"Chief Richards, everyone is all the time calling Anna so is easier than to tell it is not our names."

When she left with their order for small beer and brats, the judge said, "See, I told you, Annas' place. If the food and the beer is half as good as people are claiming, they've got it made. But you know what is really funny?" The judge did not wait for the chief to answer. "Look over there in the corner. If you bring your kids with you in the evening they've got someone telling Bible stories while you have a beer or two. A bar telling Bible stories, now don't that beat all?"

****

Months later Chief Richardson stopped in around three o'clock for a brat. He'd missed lunch and a brat sounded good. The lunch crowd gone, Preston sat at the bar.

He asked, "So, Anna, how's business?"

"Chief, is very good. People like our beer, they like especially Henri's brats. The number of families bring children is good. They have a beer, maybe two, maybe dinner. The kids hear a story. Some children start coming on Sunday, a parent too, sometimes. Everything is good.

"The only problem . . ." Anna shook her head and tsked. "We have to tell our elders to argue more quiet. It disturbs other customers. Is getting tiresome. No wonder the Gardens told them not come back. Some nights I wish we could do the same."

****

Second Chance Bird, Episode Two

Written by Garrett W. Vance

Chapter Three: Out the Door

Grantville, near the end of May, 1635

How does one go about leaving on a year journey? A journey around Africa on a ship about as technologically advanced as the Mayflower?! Pam stood in her bedroom scowling at the things she had arranged on the bed and feeling very put out with the whole exercise. The clothes she had chosen were the most sensible and weather resistant she owned, she figured she would be facing extreme conditions so she had selected items for both hot and cold weather. She had gone through her medicine cabinet and put anything that might be remotely useful in one of her carefully hoarded ziplock bags. There were other things that she should bring; the flashlight from the bedstead drawer and some of her precious batteries, needle and thread for repairs... the list got longer and longer. She found herself gazing numbly into her closet, feeling confused and overwhelmed by the scope of the journey she faced. Shaking her head she blew out a long, plaintive whistle.

Well, I'd better bring along my good black dress so they'll have something decent to bury me in when I'm shot dead by savages with poison blow guns, or succumb to some rare tropical disease.

Enough was enough. This could wait. With a dramatic gesture she swept the closet door shut with a bang and stalked off to the kitchen to make coffee. Would there be coffee on the ship? There damn well had better be! She would mention it to the Princess' clerks.

Pam looked at her desk. She had hired some friends of Dore's as caretakers, a young couple who were new to Grantville and needed the work. She had written careful instructions in German (with a little help from Gerbald) telling them how to harvest the sunflower crop and how to keep the bird-feeder stocked. Pam's daughter-in-law Crystal would be their paymaster and check on things once in a while, which made her more comfortable with the situation. Once her young daughter-in-law had come to terms with Pam's looming absence she had proven to be a rock, helping Pam get ready in any way she could. Meanwhile Pam and her son Walt had been avoiding each other, which was sadly the usual state of their relationship.

Things had gone amazingly well when she broke the news at work, much better than she had expected. She had managed to nearly finish her latest round of research and smoothly pass what little was left to do on to her colleagues.

Pam had expected to resign but the director had insisted that she remain an employee, moreover an employee on official leave of absence drawing a reduced salary, which was quite generous to her mind. They asked her to document anything she found along the way that may be useful to their mission in Grantville and she vowed she would. In a flash of inspiration Pam asked them to look into the subject of artificially pollinating the vanilla orchid if they could find some live specimens, apparently it was a lost art and she wanted to revive it for use in her spice colony. They had even thrown a party for her! That had really helped her mood, she had been lonely since Gerbald and Dore had left a week earlier to supervise the loading of their ship, especially the stowing of the many pounds of coffee she had made it very clear were a requirement. Well, she would see them soon.

Now that it really was really getting close to being time to go Pam had to once again face the fact that she was at heart a homebody. Sitting at her window watching the bird-feeder was her idea of paradise. Chasing around Africa in a seventeenth century sailing ship had never been something she would have considered in her old life. She blew softly into the steaming cup to cool it down, making this peaceful moment last as long as she could.

The princess herself had called her the other day to let her know the issue of the colonists was finalized. "They aren't annoying religious nuts, are they?" Pam had asked her and was assured that they were nice, quiet Lutherans who were looking for a better life and willing to take a chance. They would travel in a fleet of four ships; one for Pam and her expedition materials, two for the colonists and one military escort. Once the business was done there was a long pause.

"You still there Princess?" Pam asked. She could hear a deep child sized breath being taken.

"Pam, I want to thank you for doing this from the bottom of my heart. I know it's not easy for you and I feel a little bad now that I talked you into it." Kristina's voice was freighted with emotion as if she might cry, enough so it made Pam wonder if things were all right at home for her.

"It's okay Princess. I wouldn't do it unless I wanted to. You see I was once a little girl who cried when I read the story of what happened to the dodo. This is something I need to do and in no way do I hold you responsible. In fact I'm glad you came along to help me out the door, I needed a shove. You are a real good kid and your heart is in the right place. I hope you will continue to work to preserve nature, it's going to need your help in the years to come. I've seen what a bunch of Americans can do the land, and it ain't pretty. You keep at it."

She heard Kristina sniffle away from the receiver. "Thank you Pam, I will try my best. Please come back to us safely."

"You can count on it kid."

"May God be with you!"

"He's welcome to come along, I could use the extra help. Is there a bunk for Him on the boat?" This made Kristina laugh, which assauged Pam's concern for the girl's emotional state. Pam laughed too, said good-bye and put the phone down feeling pleased despite her continued anxiety over the coming voyage.

****

The day had come. Pam took one last look at her beloved bird-feeder, full of sunflower seeds and currently hosting a pair of young uptime descended Eastern bluebirds, fellow immigrants through the Ring of Fire. She wondered where the transplanted bird species wintered now, in their former homeland it had been Central and South America. Here in Europe she wondered if they found the balmy southern reaches of Italy or Greece to their liking, or if they ranged farther, across the Mediterranean to Africa? Well, now maybe she would find out.

She became aware of an approaching noise out on the road, growing louder as it drew nearer. She peered out the front window to see just what the ruckus was. She could hear... cheering? And some kind of music. Rather irritated at the disturbance she went out on the front porch to gaze over the nodding heads of her hillside full of sunflowers to the road below. There was some kind of a parade coming.

"Oh that's just great. Now the road into town is going to be all jammed up and I'll be late for the train." She was about to turn back to saying her private farewells to her little pink house when an odd thing caught her eye. There was something large coming into view, what must certainly be a parade float. Today wasn't any kind of holiday that she could think of, but with all the different kinds of people living in Grantville these days it certainly could be somebody's holiday. It looked like it might be a chicken, or a turkey, or maybe a... Pam gave her sharp eyes a squint and cupped her hand across her brow.

No. It's a dodo.

Pam's eyes rolled briefly back into her head. She had said her good-byes to family and friends, not wanting a scene at the train station. Now she considered quietly slipping the door closed, sneaking off over the wooded hill behind her house, and then bushing her way cross-country to the station. As a dedicated birder she knew every secret path and hidden hollow in Grantville and figured she could go most of way without even using a road, or even being seen at all for that matter. Yeah, no problem, I could do that, the baggage has been sent ahead, just my rucksack left... She looked back at the road to see that the parade mostly consisted of a large group of children led by Stacey Antoni Vannorman, a teacher who often helped Pam with the summer nature program and who had kindly offered to take it over during Pam's absence, had stopped at the bottom of her steep walk bearing painted signs that said 'Our Hero, Pam Miller the Bird Lady of Grantville!' and 'Save the dodo, Pam!' Oh. Dear. God. Pam nearly swooned. I swear I'd rather be lost in the Congo than be the leader of a damned parade.

"We're here to escort you to the station, Ms. Miller!" one of her favorite girls from nature program outings cried out between giggles, beating her teacher to the punch. Stacey, knowing Pam's fluctuating moods pretty well after several seasons of working with her, grinned merrily at her current discomfiture without regret and said "I'm sorry Pam, but they insisted." She definitely didn't look sorry. Pam did her best to maintain the deadly look of bored disdain she favored disruptive students with during her planned activities but it broke into a really silly, grinning girl giggle of her own.

"Gawd, you guys! I'm simply mortified! Okay, I can't possibly get more embarrassed than this so let's have a parade! Maybe no one else will notice if we move fast enough, I have a train to catch! Just give me a minute to grab my pack!" With one last look back she took in her little living room and her desk by the window, beyond which her bird-feeder stood stuffed with sunflower seeds. She felt a sharp pang of regret blended with a murmur of fear at her leaving this island of reason in a turbulent world, a world that all too often struck her as violent and incoherent. With an effort of willpower she pushed the uncomfortable feelings aside. It was time to go. She was ready to go.

Pam turned back toward the door, slipped her trusty rucksack over her shoulder and spied her grandmother's sturdy walking stick leaning in its usual place beneath the coat hooks. It had saved her and Gerbald's life once, she had nearly killed a man with it in their defense. She gripped it firmly in her hand, the solid oak weight of it was reassuring, lending its strength to her. If you could just see me now, Grandma! Pam stepped out her door, closed it tight with a twist of the lock and took her place at the head of her parade.

It turned out she was wrong about no one bothering to attend her departure, she having already warned her relatives off, being how it was going to be hard enough as it was. To her great discomfiture Pam found a host of noble types and local muckety-mucks waiting at the station, it looked like half of Grantville had turned up and her cheeks achieved a rosy red they hadn't known since high school. A stunned and thoroughly embarrassed Pam Miller was escorted by gentle hands up onto the train platform.

Stacey climbed up with her, clearly the master of ceremonies. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am very proud to present Pam Miller; champion of nature and soon to be rescuer of the poor, helpless dodo!" Cheers and clapping erupted, some of the town's original hillbillies shouting out "Go Bird Lady!" Pam inwardly cringed but resolved to make the best of it. This is all part of it, too. Smile, Pammie! and she did.

Mercifully, the train conductor blew a loud whistle and hollered "Alllll aboooooarrrrd!" with old-time American gusto, albeit with a slight German accent. Pam was ushered to the open door of the converted school bus that someone had repainted a Day-Glo lime green popular in the 1970's still found on several brands of construction equipment, apparently in a misguided attempt to make the thing look less like a school bus. It certainly didn't make it look like a train, to her it resembled a giant caterpillar.

Pam waved at the crowd one last time then stepped onto the ersatz 'train'. She made her way to the very back even though it turned out that this was a 'special non-stop express' just for her. Thank you, Kristina! She thought, grateful not to have any company but her own for the ride north.

She collapsed onto a dull green vinyl school bus seat as the converted vehicle rumbled out of the station, the festivities' noise diminishing behind her as they picked up speed. She didn't look back. Instead she studied the bright red and white up-time safety stickers. These urgent messages from another universe combined with the familiar smell of up-time plastics, metals and artificial fibers suddenly made Pam painfully nostalgic for her child-hood. This quickly grew into a longing for up-time life in general, filling her with an intense feeling of loss she hadn't felt since her very first years here in the 1630's. She watched as the landscape made its abrupt, unnatural change from West Virginia to Thuringea as they crossed the rim of the Ring of Fire, a round peg thrust into the wrong hole by forces beyond comprehension.

She began to weep silently as the now familiar German country-side with its thatch roofed barns and half timbered farmhouses sped by beyond the fingerprint smeared windows. She had spent many hours wandering its quaint to her eyes pastoral landscape in search of elusive birds. This, too, was home now, and it wasn't until she was leaving that she had come to realize it.

She knew she now belonged to both worlds, this Germany, this time and place, was a part of her as much as that lost USA had been. Once a soft twentieth century woman, she had been re-forged in seventeenth century iron. Pam found a handkerchief in her pocket and wiped away her tears, then blew her nose so loudly it made the conductor in the front of the bus-train jump. With professional courtesy he refrained from looking back to check on his only passenger, giving her all the privacy she might need. Pam smiled approvingly at his good manners. She opened the satchel containing her many notes, maps and copied pages of useful books and began to study the long journey ahead as they chugged their way toward the distant sea on the ever spreading rails of industry.

****

Chapter Four: Out to Sea

Port of Bremen, The North Sea

After the train ran out of track Pam enjoyed a variety of uncomfortable conveyances, including horse drawn carriage and river barge. She sometimes felt as if she were in a never ending historical reenactment, sure they would turn the next corner to find a visitor parking lot full of cars and tired tourists, but the bumpy roads of the seventeenth century just stretched on and on as did the days. She eventually arrived in Bremen on a windy, overcast morning, travel worn and weary. Dore clucked worriedly over her and sent her directly to a hot bath. The princess' agents had made arrangements for them to stay in a decent inn, nothing fancy but clean and well cared for. Pam slept most of that afternoon away, then joined her friends for a hearty dinner of baked fish fish from the North Sea which Pam declared to be divine manna from the gods. The next day they would meet the colonists, tonight was for good beer, a round or two of schnapps and an early bed.

The next day flew by like a whirlwind for Pam. She met so many people that their names and purposes became a hopeless blur. She put on her brightest smile and tried to look heroic, but inside she felt old familiar fears beginning to creep around. That evening she met with the colonists at an outdoor picnic style gathering in a wide meadow on the riverside. Everyone was very polite and deferential to her, the princess's agents had made it clear to the colonists that Pam would have a leadership role in the venture and should be treated with respect. They were mostly young couples, there were very few children or people over forty in the group, which she estimated to be about a hundred souls. Their pleasant demeanor put Pam at ease and when it was finally time for her to deliver her speech she was feeling pretty confident, aided perhaps by the numerous toasts she had engaged in during the party.

She spoke in German and kept it short, hoping that her translator (his name had already escaped her), a jovial merchant from Stockholm who had lived in Bremen for many years and was fluent in several languages, would at least get close to her desired meaning. She reminded them that their sponsor, the young and much adored princess, was very concerned for the future of the dodo bird as well as the many other unusual animals found on the islands and that it would be everyone's duty to act as stewards of the land, living in harmony with nature while enjoying its bounty. They would be growing many types of crops that would be new to them, and would have to learn new ways of farming, it would be surely difficult at first but ultimately very profitable.

The Swedes listened with eager expressions on their faces, Pam hoped this was because they were tired of their old ways and were ready to try something different, something she could definitely deliver. When she finished she gave them all a polite bow and was met with a deafening chorus of approving cheers, which caused her to blush and almost trip on her way down off the makeshift platform. Gerbald caught her with one strong arm and handed her a tankard of beer with the other.

"You have missed your calling I think," he told her with a grin, "You should be running for Prime Minister!"

"I'd sooner chew my leg off. Leaving on a creaky wooden ship for a long and dangerous journey tomorrow is far preferable to a career in politics." She tipped her tankard back, taking a long draught. Their were merry cries of "skol!" around her and she stood swaying happily as they all joined in yet another round of toasts.

****

Pam walked slowly down the Bremen docks flanked by Gerbald and Dore, escorted by a retinue of Swedish soldiers. Her head felt twice as large and three times as heavy as it should thanks to their frolics the night before, she had taken quite a bit more than the recommended dosage of that crumby Gribbleflotz aspirin, which was better than nothing and probably why she could manage at all. A sharp, salty wind whipped across the harbor, capping the waves in white and making Pam shiver even under her best wool sweater. A bit of winter was still hanging around Bremen this morning, even this late in the Spring. She felt as if she were trooping toward the gallows rather than leaving on the adventure of a life-time and longed for her little pink house in Grantville with a surprisingly sharp ache. Wrinkling her nose she pushed such thoughts aside, she had wanted this, she had gotten it and by God she was going to go through with it.

"There it is, Pam" she heard Gerbald say, a note of excitement ringing in his usually calm voice. She looked ahead to find a red painted sailing ship tied to the dock, with a group of sailors standing by the gang plank. One of them, dressed quite a bit better than the rest, stepped forward to offer his hand to Pam. He was tall, his angular, windburned face sporting a sincere looking smile. A length of red-blonde hair with a touch of grey in a pony tail rustled around his wide shoulders in the wind. All in all he was pretty much exactly what Pam had expected a Swedish sea captain of the era to look like.

"Frau Miller, it is such a pleasure to meet you. I am Torbjörn, your captain for the voyage. Allow me to present the Redbird, basically a Dutch fluyt, which has been refurbished to help make you more comfortable. We also renamed her, in your honor."

The captain had addressed her in an understandable but slightly odd sounding German, touched by northern dialects and spiced with the music of the Scandinavian tongues, but he said 'Redbird' in English. Pam looked up to see the name carved in an elegant looking font, the letters bright crimson with gold trim. As it turned out, the name and paint job were the most attractive aspect of the ship, along with some kind of lethal looking big gun mounted on her deck. The sight of its polished metal gave her a chill, and she hoped fervently its presence would prove unnecessary. Her gaze continued around the whole of a vessel that was not quite what she had imagined. It was shorter, stouter and despite the fresh coat of paint, far more used looking than the great old ships of days of yore she had seen in the movies. It didn't quite manage to be ugly but it was by no means a graceful schooner. She hid her dismay and smiled back at the captain.

"Pleased to meet you Captain, and let me say that I am honored by the renaming and modification of your ship. That was all very thoughtful and no doubt an inconvenience."

This obviously pleased the captain, who obviously saw something beautiful in his vessel that she didn't as he regarded the lumpy looking thing with pride.

"It is our pleasure Frau, merely a gesture to honor you and our beloved princess Kristina. We hope to make you and your staff as comfortable as possible during the long voyage. My usual small crew has been augmented by a group of volunteer soldier-sailors from the princess's own guard, you might call them 'marines' in your American English." With a confident smile he switched into heavily accented English "You will be protected by the very best during our voyage. Now, allow me to welcome you all aboard!"

The captain turned with a polite bow to his new passengers and beckoned them to follow him up the steep gang plank, leading the way with a spry and well practiced step. Pam followed slowly, holding on tightly to the rail ropes which she was pretty sure were not standard and looked to have been hastily rigged for their use. Making a point not to look down at the water below she stepped onto the decks of the Redbird with a quiet sigh of relief. Mercifully, her hangover was mostly gone, dissipated by the salt air and excitement.

Once assembled in an area of the deck relatively clear of casks, coiled ropes and sundry other nautical looking apparatus, the captain asked them to wait for a moment while he made sure their cabins were indeed ready.

As they waited Dore's face had grown paler than usual, giving her bright red cheeks the appearance of two poppies on a field of snow. Pam smiled and took her dear friend by the hand, hiding her own grumbling fear as best as she could.

"Don't worry Dore," she said softly to the older woman, "I think I like this captain and I feel we are in very capable hands."

"Of course, of course!" Dore replied with her usual confident tones, but there was no mistaking the tremble in her well calloused washerwoman's hands.

Gerbald for his part was grinning like a lunatic, looking around the ship as if it were the greatest thing ever to happen to him.

"Ah, the life of a seaman, braving the waves and winds in search of adventure!" he exclaimed, his exuberance bringing a dour scowl from his wife.

"Now he fancies himself a sailor-man, does he?" in a quieter tone, so as not to be heard by the busy crew going about their duties around them she continued "Well, from what I know of the breed, a scoundrel like my husband Gerbald will fit in well, although a pirate's life would suit him closer!" Gerbald merely grinned all the wider, smugly taking Dore's disparaging remarks as compliments.

"Do you think so? How fun that would be, the yo-ho-ho and bottles of rum! With luck, I'll have the opportunity!"

"We'll just see about that, you black-hearted fool!" Dore rolled her eyes and blew her usual puff of disgust filled air his way as the unrepentant Gerbald continued his happy inspection of their new home for the months to come.

The captain returned soon after, along with a ruddy looking fellow with a harried expression on his rather chubby face. "This is my first mate, Herr Janvik, he will escort you to your cabins. We shall be setting sail in an hour's time, I hope you will join us up on deck to bid farewell to Bremen."

"This way, please" the First Mate said in rudimentary sounding German. Pam vowed to herself that she would take the opportunity to add Swedish to her growing collection of languages during the long trip. Gerbald was still gawking at the sailors and their sails as they entered the dimness below decks. Pam gave him a quick whistle.

"Come along Smee," she scolded him jokingly "before you get in the way and they decide to make you walk the plank before we've even left the harbor."

"Ah, another pirate tradition! How grand! It wouldn't do much good though, I am quite unsinkable." Gerbald exclaimed, then chuckled, pleased with himself until Pam heard a dull thud and looked back to see him rubbing his forehead at the spot in which it had bounced off a low beam.

"I wouldn't be so sure my friend, all those rocks in your head might take you right to the bottom." Pam retorted. She and Dore then both had a laugh at Gerbald's expense. He gave them a sheepish smile and bent low to follow them to the waiting cabins. Pam and Dore exchanged a guilty grin; annoyance or not, Gerbald's boyish antics had served to alleviate the fear they shared, at least they were all together in this mad endeavor.

***

Pam looked down at her bed, which was a rectangular opening in the wall surrounded by storage cabinets and drawers. It was narrow and a touch claustrophobic, but the mattress and bedding had been shipped from Grantville, so it would be clean and comfortable. There was a foot tall wooden wall along the outer bedside that must be to keep her from rolling out onto the floor in heavy seas, it had an opening in the middle wide enough for her to sit in that would make exiting and entering much easier. Suddenly tired, she sat down to try it out. Turning behind her she lay her walking stick down between the edge of her thick wool blanket and the thick timbers of the outer hull, a good place to keep it safely out of the way until needed again.

Looking about at her rather a bit too cozy cabin she saw there was a thick glass porthole letting some of the day's bleak northern light fall on a fold away desk, she had requested both and was glad to see them. She could live without a lot of things, such as a private bath, but a desk she simply had to have and a bit of natural light was always a good thing. The heavy wooden chair accompanying it was ornately carved in a floral motif and looked fairly comfortable. She moved over to the desk and sat down, yes, not too bad. Time to get settled in.

Pam started unpacking her books and writing supplies, which she had insisted on carrying herself in her rucksack along with other precious and irreplaceable items such as her field glasses and birding scope. After a moment's thought she stopped. Considering the inherent dangers of the sea voyage to come she decided to adopt a policy of keeping her most important things in the rucksack at all times, only fishing them out when necessary and then putting them back as soon as she was done with them. If things went wrong she could grab that bag and be gone, quickly, well worth any inconvenience in the mean time.

During the voyage she intended to work on finishing some of the text for her 'Birds of the USE', and upon arriving in the Mascarenes begin writing about the species she would find there. The thought of this sent a wave of happiness through her. Yes, it was likely to be a hard journey, but the prospect of seeing the unusual birds of far off lands held a current of electric joy. And then there would be the dodo, a creature out of legend, the bird that she was coming to save. The very thought of it made her feel dizzy.

As she put her books and papers back into the rucksack she noticed the stiff corner of a photograph protruding from a dog-eared notebook. She pulled out the up-time style publicity shot the princess had given her on their last meeting, a black and white glossy of a bright eyed Kristina smiling shyly out at her subjects. On a whim Pam stuck it into the crack between the wall and the low ceiling, a bit of decoration in the otherwise featureless cabin and found that she liked this strange little ship better now that there was an echo of home in it, her things were here, she was here, this was her place. She was brought out of her reverie by Dore's knocking, time to go up on deck.

The trip up the Weser River toward the sea was pleasant, they watched Bremen harbor's stolid buildings recede, replaced by farms and villages vibrant in spring colors despite the brooding skies. Behind them followed the colony ships, the fluyts holding the colonists, Annalisa and Ide, with their military escort the modest sized but well armed Muskijl bringing up the rear. The Muskijl had been a captured Imperial warship, it was now close to retirement and apparently the best the princess could do. When the bosun, a cheerful seeming fellow who had some English told her the name literally meant 'muscle' Pam laughed.

"That's good, we might need a little muscle." she grinned at her jest but only Gerbald, well schooled in up-time slang, got it.

As they came to the end of the bay the unsmiling first mate came to ask them up to the wheel as the surf would be getting rough and it would be somewhat drier there. Standing behind the pilot and chatting with the captain they got their first look at The North Sea, a dark, brooding mass topped with white spray. The wind picked up and was reaching what felt to Pam like gale force as Redbird bounded over the rollers.

"Refreshing, isn't it!" the captain shouted over the wind to his guests, who were beginning to turn alarming shades of green.

"Maybe we should go back to our cabins." Pam managed to shout back, she had never been in high seas before and felt that her internal organs were jumping into the air and landing back in new and uncomfortable configurations.

"No my friends, it is better if you stay here for now, keep your eyes on the horizon and breathe deeply, you will get used to the movement soon enough." he told them, smiling kindly but with a crinkle of amusement around the corners of his eyes at the landlubber's plight.

"I hadn't expected to be tossed around like a doll in the hands of an angry child." Gerbald muttered, trying to keep his balance as the deck moved beneath his feet. He was struggling mightily to maintain composure, but his face nearly matched the sage green of his many pocketed long coat. Pam looked at him and started to laugh, which turned out to be a mistake as her breakfast rushed up to join her chuckles. The captain nodded at a nearby young sailor, who gently escorted Pam to the back rail, where she was shortly joined by Dore and then Gerbald in a chorus of retching and spitting.

"Speaking of 'tossing'..." Pam said nonchalantly to her friends before another round of vomiting came over her.

The captain, politely declining to observe their suffering, called over his shoulder, "There, you have it out of the way. It happens to us all at least once, and now you shall begin to feel better. Pers, kindly escort our guests below decks and get them cleaned up."

The young sailor dutifully tugged on Pam's coat sleeve and the three of them meekly followed him down the stairs, nodding at the captain on their way but too ill and embarrassed to manage eye contact.

"Loving the life at sea yet, Greenbeard?" Pam managed to croak at Gerbald.

"Having sacrificed our breakfasts perhaps the sea gods will be appeased and provide us with gentler waters."

"May merciful God help us, he has been out here less than an hour and is already becoming a heathen." Dore muttered irritably.

****

Chapter Five: Getting to Know You

The North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean

After a miserable night of suffering with each roll of the waves, the North Sea had calmed somewhat by dawn. Pam, her sea sickness in remission at least for the while, spent the morning wandering around the decks, trying to stay out of the way of the sailors and practicing her sea legs. The sailors were all very polite to her. Several of them could speak a form of German she could mostly understand and Pers could speak a little English, albeit with a very potent accent.

The cheerful young fellow explained that he had lived some of his youth in the Faeros Isles which were part of the British Isles but shared close ties with Scandinavia. He was a bright and friendly kid, not much older than her son Walt. Pam soon determined she would try him out as her Swedish language coach for the voyage. During what seemed a relatively idle hour for the crew she began going about the ship with Pers in tow asking how to say things in Swedish, or Svenske as she must now think of it.

"What is the sky called?"

"Himmel" Pers happily told her, enjoying the attention of the 'foreign lady from the future'.

"And the sea?"

"Hav"

Pam wrote the information in one of her notebooks. It's pretty close to German, She thought, that might make this go even quicker. Soon, other sailors became interested and fairly tripped over themselves to point at things on the deck, repeating the Svenske words for them slowly and loudly to aid in her studies. Many of the items were nautical gear that she didn't even have a a name for in English, and so found herself scribbling descriptions such as 'rope and tackle thingie' and 'looks kind of like a winch'. Eventually the first mate came along and without saying a word directed the men back to their work with an exceptionally hairy eyeball. Pam smiled sheepishly at him to which he nodded politely enough before turning his attention to a sloppy line, his growled order to set it right made young Pers jump into action as if lit on fire.

Pam decided it would be a good time to go below-decks to check on her friends, who still hadn't been sighted. She found them milling about their little cabin, in an attempt to make themselves presentable. They were both still green tinged but some of the color had come back to Dore's cheeks and Gerbald was wearing the stony expression that so expertly hid the impish joker within.

"My Pam, I am so sorry we are up so late." Dore apologized.

"It's all right Dore, you needed the rest. I'm really sorry I got us into this, I never expected we would get so seasick."

Dore clucked such nonsense away. "Think nothing of it, the captain says that it shall pass."

Gerbald added in a wry tone "It reminds me of the kind of hangover one gets after mixing too much whiskey with beer, there was definitely a spin to it."

Seeing the daggers in the eyes around him he made his escape to the door. "I think I'm well enough now, shall we go up?"

"I'm feeling pretty good, too." Pam said "Being out in the fresh air helps."

Dore, narrowed her eyes at her husband. "The fresh air will do nothing for this oaf's foolishness I'm afraid, the good Lord knows he's had plenty of fresh air in his time and it hasn't helped any yet!" She shoved past him to head to the stairs, followed closely by a chuckling Gerbald. Pam smiled at the warm familiarity of their familiar banter.

After a tour around the deck and introducing her friends to Pers and his mates, the three of them stood watching the waves pass by. This seemed to suit Gerbald and Pam, who were practiced observers of nature, but Dore grew restless and fidgety.

"I don't know how you two can stand there and gaze at nothing! I'm going to go down to tidy up our cabins."

Pam and Gerbald knew that their cabins were already as tidy as could be since there had been hardly enough time to clutter them yet, but kept mum as there was no point in trying to stop Dore, who with shoulders pulled back in stiff determination marched below decks to rejoin her never ending battle against dust, dirt and germs, real or imagined.

"These may be the luckiest sailors ever." Gerbald remarked.

"How's that?"

"The next thing you know Dore will be up here swabbing the decks and polishing the brass for them. They might as well go on holiday!" The two friends laughed, their voices swiftly carried away by the North Sea's bracing breezes.

****

That evening they were invited to dine with the captain. The fluyt was not a large vessel and the captain's cabin was a little more than twice the size of Pam's own, also serving as an office and dining room. She, Gerbald and Dore joined the first mate and Nils, the ship's bosun, a red cheeked fifty-ish gentleman who was an old friend of the captain's, all squeezing in around the cramped yet carefully set table.

The captain poured wine from an odd round bottle, which Pam recognized as a signature of Franconia's wineries.

"I hope this will make you feel a bit more at home" the captain said to them graciously, "Now that Thuringia has joined with Franconia I assume you share wine as well as borders. To a successful voyage!" he raised his glass in toast, being sure to meet everyone's eye one by one in the Scandinavian style. A chorus of 'Cheers!', 'Prosit' and 'Skol' came from the diners, bringing a cheerful mood to the slowly swaying cabin.

"It's lovely!" Pam remarked having sipped the dry, but still slightly sweet, white wine. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness Captain. You have made us feel so very welcome and we do appreciate it."

That brought a pleased expression to the captain's windburned and sun lined face. Pam smiled inwardly to herself, it was hard to believe that she, a former recluse, had somehow learned to function so glibly in public. She tried not to think about the fact that the captain was not only charming but also rather handsome.

After another round of wine a harried looking crewman arrived at the door bearing the first of several covered trays made of solid looking pewter. The fellow looked to be in his late thirties and had the demeanour of one who strongly wished he were somewhere, perhaps anywhere else. After bringing all the trays in he leaned over to whisper to the first mate and then made a hasty, bowing exit.

The First Mate's expression was less than cheerful as he leaned to whisper to the captain. The Captain frowned and looked around solemnly at his guests.

"At the risk of spoiling our dinner before it has even begun I must make an apology to our guests. It seems the ship's cook that we hired for this voyage, a very capable fellow, had been suffering from an extreme case of the gout and had to resign at a very late hour. I am told there was no time to find a replacement before leaving port and so Mr. Janvick here assigned the job to a less experienced man. And now I am made to understand that this man is even less experienced than hoped for and wishes to extend his apologies that his cooking may be quite a bit less savory than desired. Mind you that ship's fare is never very fancy at the best of times, but in any case I must extend my apologies in advance."

There was a murmur of "Never mind" and "Don't trouble yourself over us" from around the table as the meal began. All put on a brave face but the truth was that the food was supremely awful. The potatoes were only half cooked and needed to be cut with a steak knife while the meat, which may have once been beef, had been charred to a crispy lump. Everyone did their best to eat some of the ruined meal, but in the end their plates were hardly touched. Pam looked over to see Dore poking at a bowl of soggy salted cabbage with her fork, a thoughtful expression on her wide face.

The captain sat back in his chair and sighed. "Honored guests, I have spent most of my life at sea and I shall be blunt- I have eaten things that even a pig might pass on and this is is one of the worst. I can only offer my sincerest apologies. Tomorrow we shall signal the other ships to see if they can't spare someone with at least a rudimentary knowledge of the culinary arts for our new cook." His face was bleak, this was the kind of captain who took a personal responsibility for all that transpired on his ship. Pam found herself admiring him all the more and suddenly felt a rush of relief; seventeenth century sailing aside, they were in as good hands as could be found.

Dore looked at Pam with a questioning eye that meant 'May I say something?' in the nonverbal communication they had established over their years of friendship.

"Dore, what's on your mind?" Pam asked, hoping it would be what she suspected was forthcoming from the doughty German.

"I don't wish to to speak out of turn Captain, but perhaps I can be of service."

The captain raised his shaggy eyebrows at the woman who thus far had been as quiet as a mouse in his presence.

"Yes Frau Dore? Please, you may speak freely at my table!"

"Well, there's really no need to take a cook from another boat. I could do the job myself, I have a lot of experience."

The captain looked at Pam.

"She sure is a great cook, Captain!" Pam exclaimed "I can vouch for that!"

"My wife is the best cook in all the USE!" Gerbald chimed in "I'll wager in all the Kalmar Union as well!" he added with a husband's pride, making Dore blush and elbow him in the ribs.

The captain smiled while the usually dour first mate looked on with great interest. He had barely touched his food yet by his shape was a man who thought much of dinner and missed few.

"Your offer is very kind Frau Dore, but surely I cannot prevail upon you. You are a member of Frau Pam's personal staff and it wouldn't be right to put you to work on a voyage in which you are a passenger."

"Just try to stop her!" Gerbald countered wryly, earning himself another, harder blow to the ribs.

Dore straightened in her chair, casting aside the meek act she sometimes put on in front of strangers. "The truth is Captain, I would very much like to do the job. Please understand that I am a woman accustomed to work, I've worked my entire life and when I pass on to the next realm my sincerest hope is the good Lord will have work for me there. Spending the next few months lolling around in the confines of this ship with nothing to do would bore me to tears. Please, I need to work! Again, I offer my services as ship's cook for the voyage with the hope that you will accept." She fixed her gaze on the captain with determination in every inch of her robust frame.

The Captain laughed and threw up his hands in mock defeat. "Very well then, if Frau Pam and your husband have no objections, I don't!" Pam and Gerbald both nodded their approval enthusiastically. "The galley is yours."

"Good! Then I shall start immediately! If you would all be kind enough to amuse yourself for an hour I shall make what repairs I can to this dinner as well as a simple dessert."

"Mr Janvick, by all means, escort Frau Dore to the galley and send some men to bring along the trays!" The portly first mate nearly leaped from his seat and Pam thought the sour fellow might actually be attempting to smile. They exited the captain's cabin at a speed which must surely be hazardous in such narrow confines.

Pam and Gerbald were left behind both grinning like alley cats picking their teeth with feathers from the bluebird of happiness. The captain laughed heartily.

"I see from your faces that I am going to be most grateful for my new cook!" The four remaining diners passed the time in conversation, the Grantvillers telling the Swedes of life in their most unusual town and the Captain and his bosun regaling them with tales of high seas adventure; the time passed by quickly and pleasantly.

One hour later to the very minute a rich stew of fully cooked potatoes and pieces of meat salvaged from the center of the burnt round of beef came to the table seasoned with onions, caraway seed and thyme. It was of course excellent, and as the diners scraped off the last molecules from their plates Dore and a very relieved former ship's cook brought in the dessert, a soft and chewy spaetzel in a sugared cream, simple and delicious.

"So, that's why you had so much luggage, Dore!" Pam laughed 'It was full of ingredients!"

"Well, I didn't know what to expect and I needed to make sure you two ate properly on such a long trip. As it turns out it's lucky I thought of it." Dore sat back in her chair with her quiet kind of pride, dutifully accepting the rain of compliments. After the party ended with a round of minty schnapps they made their way up to the deck for a breath of fresh air before retiring. There by the lantern light the sailors all cheered when they saw Dore emerge, shouting praise in German and Swedish. Dore simply waved and told them to shush, there was more than her usual rosy blush on her cheeks.

"Well, you certainly are a hero tonight Dore!" Pam gave Dore's arm a happy squeeze.

"I fixed up the sailor's dinner for them, too. It seems they liked it well enough." Dore making light of the subject was belied by the extremely pleased crinkles at the corner of her mouth and eyes. The cheers went on until well after they had gone below decks. Pam fell asleep smiling at the improved prospects of this crazy voyage.

****

The next day as Pam tried to get used to working at a desk that felt more like a carnival ride, one of the sailors brought her a pot of tea at Dore's instruction. His name was Fritjof and Pam thought he was likely the oldest of the crew, seeming to be in his sixties yet still hale and hearty, which was sadly not always the case amongst down-timers. Tall, thin and sporting a long graying beard, Fritjof was a serious old fellow not given to talk much. He set the tray down gently where she motioned him to and shyly mumbled a reply to her thanks. As he was about to leave though, something caught his eye, and his face lit up in a very surprising way.

"The Princess!" he said in halting German. "Princess Kristina!" Pam raised her eyebrows at him, then remembered the photo she had put up the day before.

"Yes that's right. It's a photo of Princess Kristina."

The older gentleman's eyes were moist with adoration, they never moved from the photo which he studied as if to commit it to perfect memory. "We love The Princess." he told her, "She is our light."

"Yes, I think I can understand that. She's a wonderful child and she has a lot of heart." Pam watched Fritjof stand there entranced and wondered how long he would stare. After a very long moment he came to his senses and began to leave hastily, apologizing profusely for having disturbed her work. Pam gave him an understanding smile, he seemed like a real sweet old guy.

"Think nothing of it Herr Fritjof. Say, wait a minute." Pam stood from her chair and reached for the photo. She pulled it carefully off the wall and studied it for a second. You imp she thought this is all your fault, bless your too big for that skinny body heart. With a broad smile she held it out to Fritjoff. "Here, I'd like you to have it. I can get another easily enough when we get back, and I can see you think so much of her. Please, take it."

"Frau Pam, I can't..." Fritjoff said, but his eyes were fixed longingly on the glossy image of his adored princess.

"Yes you can, in fact I insist. I have had the honor of meeting the princess in person and I am sure she would want you to have it."

Pam gently opened the old man's trembling hands and placed the photo on his palms. "Only pick it up at the edges or it will smudge, and don't get it wet! Now take it, its yours now!"

Fritjof's long fingers closed gently around the edges, moving carefully to grip it as she had instructed. He looked at Pam as if she had gifted him with eternal life, then bowed his head deeply to her.

"Thank you Frau Pam, I shall never forget your generosity. I am in your debt." and with that he backed out of the cabin quickly, closing the door behind him. Pam could hear him nearly running down the narrow hall to show his mates his new treasure.

"Well, looks like I made a friend." Pam laughed to herself as she went back to work. That evening on her way to dinner she saw that the photo had been hung carefully in a place of honor near the stairs. Several of the sailors were looking at it with worshipful expressions. They grinned at Pam merrily as she went by and thanked her repeatedly for sharing her wonderful photo. Yeesh, that kid is a superstar to these people! Pam rolled her eyes a bit once she was passed the giddy sailors but was secretly pleased at the reaction to her little good deed.

****

Chapter Six: Salt Tears and Sea Legs

The Atlantic Ocean

The days passed by slowly as they made their way along what would in another universe have one day become a clipper ship route. Pam had studied everything she could find regarding her intended voyage before she had left Grantville and found the age of the great clippers fascinating. Alas, the heyday of the tall ship won't happen here, Pam mused in her cabin. Those magnificent constructs of rope, sail and wood were destined to be passed by all together in favor of bluntly effective engine power, an almost naturally evolved technological butterfly crushed by the gritty steel and soulless plastic of technology from the future.

Sometimes the Redbird came in close to the other vessels in their small fleet and were able to wave and shout brief conversations to each other. Pam's Swedish was still clumsy but the voyage worn yet stoic Swedish folk on the Annalisa, Ide and watchful Muskijl congratulated her on her growing fluency, which pleased her greatly. She found that by God she liked these civilized scion of the Vikings, there was something about them that attracted her. Sometimes she would watch the captain going about his duties and would find herself blushing, there was definitely something about him that attracted her, but she pushed such thoughts aside sharply. No time for that, idiot! Get back to work!

One afternoon she and Gerbald walked the deck for some exercise, the stiff breezes of the Atlantic a refreshing respite from the confines of their cabins. There was something moving in the water about ten yards off the prow so they paused to see what it was. Two large seabirds swam along the waves, chasing fish, calling to each other. Pam was pretty sure they were flightless, their sleek wings looked thoroughly adapted to swimming.

"Are those penguins?" Gerbald asked, having seen them in the movies and taped TV shows he enjoyed so much.

"No... no, penguins only live in the southern hemisphere, we aren't to the Equator yet." Pam looked closer at the pair of large birds swimming away from the ship. They certainly looked like a penguin, about thirty-three inches long, their markings black and white with a prominent white spot on the top of their heads. Still, their beaks seemed rather big for a penguin... Suddenly she remembered, another page in the sad little chapter in the back of Birds of the World shared by the dodo.

"Oh my. I know what they are. They're great auks. They were extinct up-time, just like the dodo was." Pam told him in a very small voice, her eyes staring at the sight of the unique creatures, one of the classic cases of convergent evolution, yet another species destined for extinction.

One of the sailors paused from his work to join them in watching the great auks.

"I haven't seen those things for a long time, not so many as there once were. Good eating!"

Pam just blinked at him, feeling her face grow hot and her eyes fill with moisture. Suddenly it was all much too big for a bird loving West Virginian stuck in the wrong century and she couldn't stop the hot tears from coming, blurring the sight of birds that were surely doomed, wondering if she could somehow save them as well as the dodo, or if it weren't too late already. She mumbled an apology and fled back to her cabin, burying herself under her blankets for a long cry.

On the deck the sailor, a pleasant enough fellow called Helge, turned to Gerbald, his face filled with worry. "Herr Gerbald, I did not mean to offend the lady!"

"It's all right friend, it wasn't you. The world grows narrower and crueler with each year and Pam's heart is too big for it."

****

The long days at sea rolled on. And on.

"Does that hat ever come off?" young Pers asked Gerbald as they stood watching the increasingly sunny skies of their southwards course. He spoke in Swedish; Gerbald and Dore had soon joined Pam in the effort to learn that musical tongue of the far north and they were all picking it up fast, especially since there was not much else to do. Pam chimed in, also in Svenske, the words now coming swift and sure.

"I would have sworn that it's sewn to his head if I hadn't seen him take it off for dinner." Pam laughed.

"I insist on that much. He would take it off in church as well, but his shadow never crosses that doorstep." Dore added, with an admonishing look at her confirmed black sheep husband.

"But what about the wind? Herr Gerbald, Do you not worry that the sea breeze will take it?"

"No my friend, it troubles me not. If nature should take it from me it only means that it is time for a new one." Pam and Dore both looked at each other with wide eyes, which then narrowed into the slits of hunting cats.

"Nature nothing! Get it, Dore!" and with that both women lunged at Gerbald in a bid to tip his ridiculous hat off into the wind. He dodged them both easily of course, reflexes honed to avoid the jabs of deadly pike and sword being no match for such innocent sport as this. Laughing, he gently kept his assailants at arm's length until they gave up, the offending headgear still safely in place.

"Oh well, it was a good try." Dore grumbled, her cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath. "I have thought to burn it while he sleeps many times, but oh the fuss! Men are such children about their things."

Pam shook her head in resignation "Well, I guess he wouldn't be Gerbald without that stupid hat. It's like his trademark or something."

"There are still a few men in the Germanies who fear the sight of this hat, you know." Gerbald remarked matter of factly, adjusting the dirty mustard brim to no visible effect; the felt remained warped and ragged.

"A few men?" Pers asked, still in awe of the ex-soldier but curious.

"Yes, it is so. I had some notoriety on the field, long ago."

"Please excuse my forwardness, but with prowess such as yours, why only a few?" The young fellow's question held just a note of teasing, trusting in the good nature of his new friend.

"Most such are dead of course young fellow. Some got away, but only a few." allowing himself one of his very rare proud as a lion and twice as dangerous smiles Gerbald sauntered away, every inch the conquering warrior, boots to ridiculous hat. Pers grinned after him, in full blown hero worship.

Pam and Dore looked at each other with eyebrows raised. Gerbald seldom spoke of his soldiering past, much less bragged about it.

"Check out Rambo! Must be the sea air?" Pam asked wonderingly.

"He rarely speaks such words. Perhaps it is the close company of other fighting men." she nodded toward the Swedish marines drilling further down the deck rail. "He is still proud, you know."

"Glad he's on our side." Pam said, and meant it. Meanwhile Gerbald had sauntered over to the marines. Shortly they watched him join in their drills, stepping and swinging his deadly katzbalger short-sword right along with the rest. Not long after that they saw that Gerbald, an experienced combat veteran, was giving the younger men some pointers.

"Oh, here we go now." Dore switched back to German, frowning deeply as she pointed at her husband with her chin "The great soldier will teach these Swedish boys how it's done. He will be full of himself tonight." With a long suffering roll of her eyes she headed back to her galley.

Pers had been standing with them quietly watching the drills until the ever surly First Mate walked by and cuffed him lightly on the head, causing the lad to bend himself back to the nearest task at hand in embarrassed haste. Pam turned back to the view over the rail with a smile and watched the gulls swoop and cry alongside the ship, her heart filled with a sudden and surprising contentment with life at sea.

****

Chapter Seven: Under Southern Skies

The Equator and the South Atlantic Ocean.

The days were growing warmer. They were headed for one of their way-markers, The Saint Peter and Saint Paul Archipelago, near the Equator and roughly halfway between South America and Africa. Darwin had stopped there and described two species of bird, a booby and a noddy so Pam was anxious for a sighting. She prowled the decks peering through her scope and binoculars, but so far had been rewarded with only common gull and tern species. The area was known for storms but the breeze that bore them along was sultry today, the men had taken off their shirts to work in an effort to keep cool. Panning around to the bridge with her binoculars Pam saw to her surprise that this included the captain!

Unable to stop herself she paused to study the man; his chest and back were a bit hairy, but it was of a fine red-gold color and not too long, maybe even attractive. He was definitely in good shape, he regularly drilled with the fighting men and could sometimes be seen pitching in at the ropes, he was the kind of leader who would get his hands dirty if need be, and the men loved him for it. Pam admired his lean physique, that of a much younger man. She was just about to turn away when he noticed her attention and flashed her a smile and a friendly wave. Ack! I've been caught! Pam gave him a feeble wave in return then pretended to be interested in a handy seabird flying by, hoping he couldn't see the scarlet tone her face had taken on at that distance. Gawd Pam, you are acting like a teen-ager! She chided herself. Still, she thought with a tiny smile, he is pretty hunky.

Later that day Pam declined a stop at the rocky atoll, she had read Darwin's notes on it and there wasn't much of anything she could add, might as well keep going. It made her feel depressed, here she was risking her life on an expedition in a world where someone else had already discovered almost everything in a future that wouldn't even happen that way again. Deep down she knew that any research she did would have value, but the feeling of being a dwarf following along in the footsteps of giants, even ghostly ones who would now never even be born, made her feel insignificant.

Pam was quiet through dinner that evening. After dessert the captain asked everyone to join him up on the bridge for a toast. Pam looked at Gerbald but her friend only shrugged, the bosun however had a knowing ook about his ruddy face. The night was cooler than the day and very clear, the stars were so thick and close they seemed about to land right on their heads. Once Dore arrived from the galley the bosun passed out a cup to everyone into which the captain poured a very fine French brandy.

"I've been saving this for a special occasion. Today we passed over the Equator, we have come a long way on our journey. I would now like to direct your attention to the South." he pointed with his brandy glass. "Do you see those bright stars there, low on the horizon, in a group? They are, I am assured, the Southern Cross and it is the first time I have ever seen them, perhaps it is so with some of you. They are as beautiful as their reputation states and I hope for their blessing. And so, we have arrived at an excellent time and a place for a toast," he raised his cup as the others followed suite, "Here's to the good ship Redbird and all who sail on her!"

A chorus of 'skols' followed and Pam found herself feeling better as the warm night and the fiery brandy worked to soothe her soul. While Gerbald joined in the second round of brandy Pam noticed Dore had drifted off to the rail by herself, where she gazed solemnly out at the southern sky. Pam joined her friend, giving her a friendly bump which made Dore smile.

"Penny for your thoughts, Dore?"

Dore smiled again, Pam could see that the usually doughty woman was quite moved and needed to gather herself before speaking. Eventually she turned to her younger friend.

"I never thought I would see anything like this Pam. The Southern Cross, the great oceans; these are sights for men of adventure, for the brave and the mad... I'm just an old washer-woman, a simple soldier's simple wife. I never thought I'd be seeing anything like all this..." Her voice trailing, Dore looking again to the winking lights of unfamiliar constellations, slowly shaking her head in wonder, her face having taken on a child-like cast.

Pam nodded slowly. "Neither did I, Dore, not in a million years. I'm just glad you're here to see it with me, it makes it a lot easier to cope with. Thank you for coming along on this crazy voyage, it's a lot to ask from even a friend as wonderful as you."

"It's nothing Pam, of course I would. I just didn't expect such beauty, such thrills. I am glad I saw this, I am glad we are here, doing these things. It's fun."

At that revelation it was Pam's turn to have her words catch in her throat, so she just looked back at Dore with wide eyes and grinned her biggest grin.

****

As they continued South and then Eastwards the weather got cooler. It was still winter in the Southern hemisphere and the warmth of the Equator was fading with each passing day. One chilly morning Pam got up before dawn to make her way to the deck rail. She hadn't been able to sleep for several hours and figured she might as well get some fresh air. Looking out to the north she gasped- the flat horizon had been replaced with a purple rise of distant land: Africa.

"Cape of Good Hope, Frau Pam." the bosun told her as he leaned up on the rail near her. "A lovely sight, isn't it?"

"It's like I'm in a dream sometimes, one incredible thing after another. I really never thought I would see a place as far away as this. None of us did."

They watched as the sun rose, bands of light and shadow lent the continent the appearance of some vast, enigmatic monument fashioned of gold and ebony. Shortly the bosun gave the scene a pretty little whistle before he ambled off to his duties, but Pam stayed there, mesmerized.

A few minutes later Dore, always an early riser joined her on the deck with two mugs of hot coffee. She gazed at the red vastness of morning painted Africa for a time and then spoke aloud in a reverent tone:

"'And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.'"

****

They were getting close now. The weather turned from fair to foul and Pam felt she was back on the North Sea again, day after day they bounded across hair raising swells. That morning the Captain had told her that they might sight Mauritius that afternoon, maybe even be able to land if all went well. Pam had become increasingly anxious over the last few days of unpleasant pitching and rolling, the rough seas had dampened her mood, even though the sailors said they should be happy they had such strong winds to push them along.

Feeling cooped up in her cabin and frustrated with what had come to seem a never ending journey she decided that cruel waves and wind or not she would spend the day keeping watch with her binoculars, she really couldn't just sit and wait any more. After a late breakfast from an ever sympathetic Dore, Pam bundled up in her best water resistant gear to go stalk the decks, binoculars ever at the ready. She even trusted young Pers with her precious scope in order to have another set of eyes on the task, he had been eager to climb into the crow's nest and help her keep vigil. The bosun had allowed it and the first mate had apparently elected not to interfere, despite surely considering it a shameful waste of the lad's abundant energies. She looked up at the bridge and gave the captain a hopeful smile, which he returned when he noticed her there. He had dressed in a fancier than usual coat today and cut a fine figure.

"Come on up here, Frau Pam!" he called down. She climbed the steep ladder-steps carefully, grateful to be that much higher above the bitter cold, splashing seas.

"I see you are eager to get there, Frau. One hopes you have not grown unhappy with our service?"

"Oh, no, not at all! You're wonderful, I mean, you and your crew, all wonderful!" Gawd, you sound like a total dork! The captain laughed amiably, he had only been kidding and fully understood her desire to reach their destination.

"Of course, of course, it's been a long voyage! I must admit I'm looking forward to some time on shore, maybe have some fresh fruit- not that what your friend does isn't delicious, it's the best ship's fare ever! I don't imagine you would let me keep her on?" he asked, grinning in jest.

"No way buddy, she's mine!" they shared a good laugh and Pam began to feel the knot of tension that had been forming in her shoulders ease. We really are almost there! I can hardly believe it!

"Dodos, here I come!" she said to herself as the captain turned back to his duties.

The hours passed by slowly. Behind them the weather from the South promised to turn surly, black clouds were building and the wind had dropped a few degrees. Ahead of them the Muskijl tread solidly along, the Annalisa and Ide just ahead of her. Their fleet may be small and made up of small vessels but Pam now understood that they were also tough, the product of years of shipbuilding know-how in the wintry north, they were made for weather like this and took it in stride.

"That's a real demon storm brewing down there." The bosun said when he came up on the bridge to confer with the captain.

"Looks no worse than a North Sea squall." the first mate said, his voice full of tedium.

"Now it does, but this is the south and the weather's different down here, meaner. I've seen it like this before down near Cape Horn. When she hits us tonight she'll be full blowing all right, let's hope we're in the lee from it, behind the island."

As the weather worsened Pam did her best to go unnoticed, hoping the captain wouldn't send her below decks. He and the pilot both held the wheel steady, their eyes were only for the waves. The sky behind them darkened, in stark contrast to the bright skies to the North. The afternoon was slipping by, the descending sun's rays slanting across Redbird, casting her in bronze as the shadows grew longer on her decks. Pam's eyes were aching from straining to see over the horizon and she began to feel tired, regretting the foolishness of her long watch. She was just about to go find some tea, and maybe pour a little whiskey in it when Pers' excited call came from above.

"There it is! The island! The island of the dodos!" Pam ran to the rail, fumbling to get her binocular straps untangled, the ceaseless rolling of the sea had a way of tying them up in knots. With her naked eye she saw... something to the North, a blur of color above the sea's distant curve. Focusing in carefully she saw it clearly at last; pastel smudges of lavender and green, the volcanic mountains that soared up from the islands interior.

"Mauritius. At least that's what I'll call you until we give you a new name to go with your new destiny." Pam grinned up at Pers' pale face high in the crow's nest and waved crazily at him. Not letting go for a second even to wave he grinned back and let out a loud whoop of joy. They were moving fast with the blustery wind and the mountains grew larger and higher above the horizon. The captain deemed it safe enough so Dore and Gerbald were summoned to come join them on the bridge, where they all milled about grinning like children at the county fair, about half out of their minds with excitement. Gerbald had remembered to bring a long a bottle of schnapps and was passing it around merrily, careful not to let the waves ceasless rocking spill any.

The captain soon caught their joyful mood and told them in a very pleased voice "Our colonists may be able to set foot on their new home this eve after all, if we can find a safe anchor before dark. We'll head up the East side, the storm is blowing from South by Southwest so we'll have more protection there. Your maps from the future show several suitable harbors, let's hope they are right." The man turned back to the wheel, well earned pride in his every move. Pam made herself stop staring at his broad shoulders and returned to the impromptu party at the rail. That was when Pers called again from the crow's nest.

"Sails in the East! A ship is coming around the island's East side!" The revelers quieted themselves, they hadn't happened on many other ships on their journey since leaving the North Atlantic and the presence of another vessel here and now seemed a surprise. Pam held her binoculars to her face, hurrying to find the ship, which had now turned southward, headed directly toward them.

"It's BIG." she told them calmly enough. "And it's got guns. Big guns." She lowered the binoculars, then quickly handed them to the captain. After he found his focus he was quiet for a moment. He handed the binoculars back to Pam, his face ashen.

"It's a French warship. Their crew is readying her guns, we are about to be attacked."

****

To be continued in Grantville Gazette, Volume 34 . . .

Northwest Passage, Part Seven

Written by Herbert Sakalaucks

Le Chaume, Mid January 1634

The torches were starting to gutter out as the sun rose, but the fires were still being stoked as the villagers gathered, their packing and loading finished. Their day had started long before the dawn as the entire Huguenot population of Le Chaume prepared to leave for the New World. The deadline for reporting to La Rochelle was tomorrow. A few final carts were being piled high with cherished possessions that just couldn't be left and farewells were being said to those who were remaining. Off to one side, a discussion was heating up as Pierre Marion tried to reach a deal with Giscard Berthaud, a farmer from the next village south. Pierre had an extra hay cart and donkey that exceeded his cargo allowance and Giscard saw a chance to get them for a song. They had been haggling for half an hour already and Pierre was getting exasperated. Elie Marion stood by patiently, holding the reins for his father, who needed both hands to make his points. Giscard was a notorious skinflint and had waited until Pierre was ready to leave before making his offer. Elie smiled at his father's colorful description of Giscard's ancestry. When Giscard tried to break in on the tirade to ask who else would buy the cart and donkey, Pierre suddenly turned to Elie and told him to get in the cart. He then walked back to Giscard and spit on the ground. "That is what I think of your offer. I would rather sink the cart in the harbor and have the donkey for dinner than sell to a thief like you!" Giscard just stood there sputtering as Pierre stomped back to Elie. "We'll take it with us to La Rochelle." Giscard reached over and pulled on Pierre's sleeve to try to continue the haggling. Pierre shoved him away. "I can get more for it as a dung cart than what you want to pay. Get out before I do something you'll regret!" Giscard hurried off to try and find a more willing patsy.

Pierre grabbed Elie by the shoulder and pointed him toward a group gathering at the north end of the village. "Go see Pastor Bigeault. I'm sure an extra cart will come in handy somewhere today." Pierre turned and went to help his wife do one last check of their house for anything they might have missed. Elie sat there for a second until his father's words finally sank in. He could ride to La Rochelle! The prospect of the long walk he had been dreading disappeared. He reached under the seat and found the whip they used to coax the donkey. He prodded the beast and headed it toward the north end of the village. As the donkey ambled along, Elie searched the groups as they finished loading their carts. In the waning moonlight, he finally spotted the figure he was looking for. His betrothed, Paulette Bannion, was trying to stuff a small rabbit cage onto her family's already overloaded cart. Elie pulled up beside her.

"Would Mademoiselle like to hire a carriage for herself and her companions for her journey?" He managed to bow from the cart seat without falling out.

Paulette turned in surprise. "Where did you get an empty cart? I thought they were all spoken for." As she stepped around to put the cage in the back, she got a better view from the light of a warming fire. "Isn't this is the hay cart where we . . . ?"

"Shhh! Not so loud! Your father might hear you!"

"He doesn't care now that we're betrothed."

"You still don't need to announce it to the whole village." To change the subject, Elie motioned toward the cage. "Make sure it's stowed securely in the back. We'll probably need all the space we can manage once I see the pastor. Father told me to help him." He winked at her. " I think I'll have to have you sit next to me here in front." Paulette climbed up and snuggled up next to Elie to stay warm. He shook the reins and the donkey started out again. The day was definitely looking up. No matter what Pastor Bigeault might have him doing, having Paulette for company on a long ride was worth it.

****

Pastor Bigeault was surrounded by a milling group of villagers. The adults were clamoring for answers to their questions and the youngsters that were running errands for him. Elie pulled up and waved to get the pastor's attention.

Bigeault yelled over the questions being thrown at him. "What can I do for you, Elie? I'm rather busy here. I've got too many problems and not enough answers." One of the youngsters kept tugging at his sleeve to get his attention.

Elie yelled back, "Maybe I can help you! I've got an extra empty cart if you need one."

Bigeault's face lit up. "A prayer answered! I need someone to follow at the end of the column and help anyone who's unable to complete the trip on foot. I've got a number of older folks that don't have a cart and still think they're tougher than anyone and can walk all the way to La Rochelle. I just know we'll have a fair number needing help eventually. I don't want to lose any stragglers. I'm sure you'll be overloaded by the time we finish. Can you do that?"

"My pleasure! If I need assistance, Paulette can help," Elie volunteered without asking her. The exasperated look he got from her promised another session on male manners.

****

Eight hours later, the pastor's prediction had come true. The cart was full to overflowing. It had filled up gradually. Some folks had started with brief rests before resuming walking. Now, all of the oldsters that Bigeault had feared might wear out were squeezed in, sleeping. The day was still cold, even with the sun shining. No one complained about the extra body heat. The only space left was on the seat next to Paulette. Elie had insisted that the space be kept clear so they would be able to get in and out to help anyone who needed a boost. The head of the column was probably getting close to La Rochelle but Elie and Paulette were quite a ways farther back. Elie was tired and started to daydream about the farm he planned to start in the New World. Plans slowly formed and evolved. A stout house and a large dairy barn, with fields full of cows. He smiled at the scene. Slowly, the fields somehow changed to a pen full of hogs. Suddenly a shout broke his reverie.

"Watch where you're going!"

Elie jerked awake. He had almost run down Jean Barceur and his ten pigs. He pulled back on the reins and brought the cart back to the middle of the road. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. At least it explained where the hog farm came from. He wanted to be a dairy farmer. He hated pigs!

He checked his passengers and they were all right. When he turned to Paulette, she broke down laughing. "Did you fall asleep? Or were you trying to get even for the time Jean dosed you with slops for teasing his prize sow?"

Remembering the incident, Elie let out a loud guffaw. That woke up some of the sleeping passengers and they started asking, "Are we there yet?" He turned around and answered, "We're close. I'm not sure how far." No sooner had he said that than they cleared the woods they had been riding through and the harbor towers of La Rochelle shown in the afternoon sun. He pointed to the north. "The tallest one, that's the Tour St. Nicholas. It's less than an hour until we stop."

Up ahead the road crossed over a wide stream on a stone bridge. The storms over the past month had left the road heavily rutted, with a washout on the far right hand side of the bridge. Spotting the trouble in time, Elie swung to the left. Concentrating on the road, he missed the remains of a broken wheel lying in the washout. As they reached the far side, Paulette tugged at his sleeve and pointed toward the bushes on the stream's bank. "What's that in the bushes?" A pair of wiggling shoes and the accompanying pants legs were just visible disappearing into the brush. A muffled voice could barely be heard, "Here, boy. Hold still!"

When Elie just stared, Paulette grabbed the reins from him and jerked the donkey to a halt. "That's Francois, Madame Vasseau's youngest. What's he doing in there?" She pushed Elie to get down and check. "Go get him! His mother is probably frantic!"

Elie grabbed a set of chocks and set them under the front wheel. At least he wouldn't have to worry about the donkey running the cart off the road. With a perplexed expression he looked back and asked Paulette, "How do you know it's Francois?"

"His mother is the only one in the village that uses that color thread for hemming pants." She gave him a look that was usually reserved for questions from the village idiot.

Under his breath he muttered, "Only another woman would remember something like that." Shaking his head, he climbed down the short embankment. As he approached, he noticed a game trail leading into the bushes where they had spotted Francois. He called out, "Francois, is that you in there? Get out here now before something takes a bite out of you!"

"I'm here, but I need some help."

"What are you doing? Are you stuck?"

"No, I need a knife to cut him out! Please hurry, he's hurt badly!"

Realizing that Francois wasn't coming out voluntarily, Elie got down on his hands and knees and went into the brush to haul him out. Grabbing hold of a leg, he pulled Francois out, kicking and sputtering. "Let me go! I've got to save him!"

"Save who!" Elie had gone through this type of ten questions with his sister on a number of occasions and was starting to get the same frustrated feeling.

"The dog! Don't you listen? He's crying in there." Francois twisted in Elie's grip, trying to go back to the animal trail.

Elie held on but listened. There was a faint sound like an animal whimpering in pain. He knelt down in front of Francois. "Promise me you'll stay here and I'll go in and see what I can do. All right?" Francois nodded vigorously. Paulette came down from the road and took Francois in tow. Her smile encouraged Elie to try.

By getting down on his hands and knees, Elie tried to see what was in the brush. Only by crawling in on his stomach could he get passed the brambles to where Francois had gone. He pulled out his work knife and crawled in. He shielded his face from the thorns with his free hand. Pushing with his toes, he found that the animal trail broke quickly through to a small den area. In the dim light he suddenly found himself nose to nose with a large white, emaciated dog that gave him a tentative lick.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the leather studded collar that had gotten snagged on a main branch and twisted. The dog was so tangled that he couldn't move. He reached slowly forward with the knife to cut the collar free. The dog seemed to sense his intention and held completely still. After some careful sawing, the collar parted and the dog could move. It was so exhausted that Elie had to back out, dragging the dog behind him. Even as emaciated as it was, it was still a heavy load.

As the pair emerged from the brush, Francois twisted away from Paulette and raced over to the dog. "You saved him! You saved him! Thank you, Elie." He buried his face in the fur and hugged.

Elie gently separated them. "Careful now, he's in rough shape." He quickly asked Paulette, "Can you fetch the water jug and a bowl from the cart? He's almost dead from thirst."

Paulette scrambled up the slope and returned quickly with the water. Keeping Francois back, he set the bowl in front of the dog. "Let him drink. I'll check him over to see if he's injured." The big, white dog lay there, feebly wagging his tail while he lapped up the water. After the third refill, Elie made it pause. He hadn't found any injuries, other than the cuts and scrapes from trying to free the collar. The brush had prevented it from injuring itself worse by confining it. It was a magnificent mountain dog, bred for protecting livestock from predators. It was exhausted and lean from its ordeal, but adequate food and water appeared to be all it needed.

Its presence was a mystery. Elie scratched his head and surveyed the scene. "How did you get here and what's happened to your master?" The dog just looked at him and begged for another bowl. As he poured out some more water, Elie spotted the broken wheel he had seen earlier. Now that he actually looked, he noticed that it was the wheel from a substantial carriage or wagon. There were numerous signs about that some type of accident had occurred and repairs had been made. No clues were around to hint who it might have been. Probably a well to do herder, heading to La Rochelle with livestock to sell. He would check around discreetly when they got there to see if he could learn more. In the meantime, he had to get the cart moving or they might spend the night outside the walls.

Francois looked up and asked, "Can I keep him?"

Elie stalled. "I'll secure him under the front seat for the time being. He's too tired to walk. You'll have to ask your parents about keeping him." Hearing an excited shout, Elie looked up. "Speaking of parents, here's your mother now and she doesn't seem too pleased."

Madam Vasseau came up and grabbed Francois by the ear. "What do you think you're doing, young man, scaring your father and me half to death? Thank you for finding him Elie. Just wait 'til I get you back to our cart! I'll . . ."

Elie interrupted. "Madame Vasseau, Francois has been doing a good deed. He's a hero!" Remembering his younger days, Elie knew Francois needed some help.

Madam Vasseau paused, looking perplexed. "A hero?"

"He saved a valuable dog from a certain death." Elie pointed to the Pyrenean mountain dog under the cart seat.

Sensing an opening, Francois quickly asked, "Can I keep him, please?" Francois made the sad eyes only a child in love with a pet can make, but it did no good.

"Certainly not! How would we feed him? We have barely enough for ourselves. You'll just have to find someone else to take him."

With her emphatic statement, Elie's half formed idea coalesced. "I'll take care of him, Francois. You can visit anytime and he won't be a burden to your family." He would also be a valuable addition to the Marion farmstead in the New World. A good guard dog would be worth its weight in gold in a potentially hostile environment.

Madam Vasseau nodded agreement before Francois could interrupt. "A fine suggestion! Now come along, we need to get moving." She took Francois by the hand and started to pull him toward their waiting cart. As he left, Francois looked back over his shoulder to Elie and the dog. Elie gave him the thumbs up and winked.

Paulette laughed softly and climbed into the cart. "I can see this is going to be interesting." The dog looked appealing at her. "Do you have anything in that little bag of yours he can eat?" Elie rummaged through and came up with a crust of bread. It quickly disappeared.

"Maybe I'll be going hungry soon," he sighed.

****

Long shadows reached across the road as the head of the column approached the gates of La Rochelle. There were still signs of the siege from the previous Huguenot revolt. Pastor Bigeault was in the lead cart with Pierre Marion to speed their passage through the city to their lodgings. As they reached the gates, a guard stepped out to challenge them. "Who are you and what's your business here?" He lowered his pike to block their way. Before Pastor Bigeault could answer, the guardroom door opened and a familiar acquaintance appeared.

"Charles, you fool! Put up that pike and get out of the way! How many times have I told you? We're expecting a very large group from Le Chaume." Captain Reneuf stepped forward to assist the pastor down from the cart. "I don't know if you remember me, but the last time we met, you were christening a baby and I posted the Edict at your church."

"Of course I remember. How could I forget, given the results?" Pastor Bigeault motioned to the growing assembly of carts that continued to slowly trickle up. "Can you tell me where we are to be lodged?"

"I can do better than that." Reneuf turned to his deputy. "Sergeant La Batt, I want you to escort the pastor and his flock to the site by the Tour St. Nicholas." He rounded on the gate guard who was leaning up against the wall, trying to take a surreptitious swig from a wine jug. "Charles, drop that jug and get that gate open now!"

He bowed the pastor toward the door he had stepped out of earlier. "If you would step into my guardroom, I'll show you a map of where your people will be quartered. We have two warehouses for your shelter and the walls from a building that was damaged in the siege where you can stable your livestock." Once they had entered the dimly lit room, Reneuf reached for a rolled parchment on a nearby desk, rolled out a map of the harbor area and then pointed out the buildings and the route to get there. When he was certain the pastor had the directions memorized, he digressed to small talk. "I'm so glad you've finally arrived. I've been getting messages twice a day from Monsieur Guitton and once a day from the admiral inquiring on whether you had been sighted by my patrols. Admiral Duquesne was starting to worry that you were not going to come. The fleet plans to sail within the week and he has an empty ship. I can't say I'm happy you're here, though. My men and I have been assigned to the army unit that's going with the fleet. We're having to leave our ladies behind." He suddenly realized who he was talking to and blushed a deep red. "I'm sorry, Pastor! I shouldn't have been so crude."

"Nonsense, sir. Maybe you need to sail with wives instead of leaving lovers." There was a loud creak from outside. " It sounds like your sergeant has the gate ready for us to depart. I look forward to our future discussions on your soul." With a chuckle at Reneuf's discomfiture, Bigeault headed outside to lead his group to their lodgings. Reneuf left out a side door to report to the Admiral that the last group for the New France expedition had arrived safely.

****

Admiral Duquesne sat at his desk, trying hard not to nod off to sleep. The final conference before loading the fleet for its voyage was dragging on. Trying to get all the political and military leaders together at one time had been like trying to herd cats. There were a few missing. Notably, Jean Guitton, the local Huguenot leader was absent on "pressing" city business. Two of the merchant ship captains that would be carrying passengers were at the docks loading new arrivals. They were the lucky ones. The rest of the attendees had had to listen to Samuel Champlain's petty complaints about his lost prerogatives. Michael Mausineur had spent the past hour trying to convince Champlain that he really should sail with the ships that would be headed to the former English colonies in Virginia. As the leader of New France, Champlain belonged at the capital, not the new settlement. As Duquesne looked across the room at the other attendees, he could see Leonard Calvert jerk upright. Evidently he was having trouble staying awake too. When Mausineur finished, Champlain finally nodded a weary acceptance.

"If that is how it must be, then I will agree. You do have a valid point that dealing with the English settlers will require an experienced leader to calm their fears. I just hope you can handle dealing with the natives in the south as well as you say you can." He went back one last time to an earlier point that he had previously surrendered. "I'm still not sure how you plan to handle the Dutch in New Amsterdam. You say that you have worked this out with Lord Baltimore and Cardinal Richelieu?" Mausineur and the Calvert brothers nodded without elaborating. They were hoping Champlain would not press the point, since their plans were contrary to his aversion to violence. "I suppose the threat of a regiment of pikemen and a frigate or two should be sufficient to cow them into a bloodless surrender." Behind his back, Mausineur raised his eyes to heaven in relief. Champlain finally sat down.

There was a knock on the door. Duquesne called out in a voice that barely hid his relief at the interruption, "Come in!"

His aide stuck his head in. "Captain Reneuf just reported in that the entire group from Le Chaume has finally arrived. He's having them escorted to the waiting area by the harbor towers. Do you need to speak to him, or should I send him back to see to the billeting?"

Duquesne looked around the room to the others. Hearing no concerns he replied, "Give him my thanks for a prompt report and send him on his way." The aide hesitated and Duquesne asked, "Is there anything else?"

"The gentleman who says he's to be the bishop for New France is waiting in the outer room and insists that he speak with you. I told him you were busy but he says he'll wait until you're done."

"Very well, tell him that I should be done here shortly and that I will see him then." He gave a Gallic shrug and commented to the guests, who were gathering their coats to leave. "I suppose I should be grateful that I've at least been able to postpone this meeting for as long as I have. I hear he's made quite a name for himself in the two weeks he's been in La Rochelle." The chuckles from the other attendees confirmed that the stories had gotten widespread coverage amongst the town's gossips. Demands for the best food and lodging without payment had angered many of the local Huguenot merchants and he was frequently seen in the company of a high class "lady."

"Gentlemen, are there any other issues we need to discuss before I have to see this churchman?" The tone left little doubt that any questions would be greatly appreciated.

Cecil Calvert was still seated and cleared his throat.

"You have a question, my lord?"

" A minor problem. My ships have been held in one port or another for many months. I have to revictual and water before we go and I am having difficulty finding carts to transport the supplies to my ships. The local carters won't deal with an Englishman. It seems a recent visit by a countryman of mine has all the carters in an uproar."

Duquesne raised an eyebrow in surprise, but quickly added, "I'll see that you have your carts within two days, Lord Baltimore. Our good Captain Reneuf should have no trouble locating something for you." Mausineur tried to catch his eye. "Oh yes, the payments! If any settler should ask about their land and bonus payments, tell them that will be taken care of at the time of sailing. If they press, tell them we want to make sure they actually do sail with the fleet." Duquesne started to straighten the papers on his desk.

The visitors took the hint. The meeting broke up quickly, as the dinner hour was already well past. Admiral Duquesne called for his aide, "You may send in the bishop now!"

The aide returned a moment later and announced the visitor. "Bernard de Perpignan, the bishop of New France!"

A short, rotund, balding gentleman in church vestments hobbled past the aide. His attitude and demeanor tallied with all the stories Duquesne had heard about his visitor's regard for "the lesser ranks" of humanity. His first words confirmed the opinion.

"Admiral, I've been kept waiting almost two weeks to meet with you! Is this any way to treat a senior leader of the Church?"

"I'm sincerely sorry, your eminence. I was given to understand that you had been seriously injured during your journey here and required some time for recuperation."

The apology seemed to mollify the bishop momentarily, but he then launched into another diatribe. His nasal voice grated on Duquesne. He wondered how de Perpignan's sermons were endured by his parishioners. His thoughts were interrupted as de Perpignan reached into the leather folder he was carrying.

"Here is my appointment as bishop of New France. I will need three cabins for myself and the two priests that are accompanying me, and five cabins for my staff members and our servants. As you can see, my appointment was signed by the pope, so there shouldn't be any problems meeting my request!"

Duquesne picked up the parchment and examined it closely. It was beautifully illuminated and did, indeed, appoint one Bernard de Perpignan to be the bishop of New France. In addition, it authorized two priests to support his work. Oddly, nothing was said as to any sources of income for the post. And nowhere in the document was the name of Cardinal Richelieu mentioned, nor the king. A memory of past court news came to Duquesne as he read further. The family de Perpignan had been implicated in the events surrounding the Day of Dupes but nothing had been proven. On an impulse he asked, "Very impressive. By the way, before you received this appointment, where was your previous church?"

"I had the honor to be a chaplain. The Duc de Orleans is my patron!"

"Ahh! That explains a great deal." Duquesne handed the parchment back. The man was nothing more than a spy for Gaston. The papers might be genuine. Given Gaston's wealth, buying a bishopric in a new land was very possible. Without time to confirm with the authorities in Paris, he would go along for now. Nothing said, though, that he had to bend over backwards to acquiesce to the bishop's outlandish request for cabins. "I will have a cabin prepared for you on the Grande Dame. It is the last ship with any cabin space. Your priests and staff will have to travel with the rest of the settlers. Please report within the next three days if you still wish to sail with us. Good day!" He called for his aide, "Henri, please see the bishop out. We are finished."

Bernard started to protest that he had other ecclesiastical issues he needed to discuss, but Henri grabbed hold of an elbow and escorted him out.

When he heard the outer door slam, Duquesne relaxed. "I fear that man is going to bring nothing but troubles to the voyage." He got up, put on his cape, and went out to find a good bottle of wine and some roast duckling.

****

Captain Reneuf approached the Tour St. Nicholas in search of Pastor Bigeault just after sunrise. He needed to procure the services of three or four carts and drivers to load supplies for the Ark and the Dove. The settlers from Le Chaume were the only ones with carts and animals available to break the strike the local haulers were calling against the two English ships. Hopefully, Bigeault could convince someone to help. The only people in sight were a young man and a boy with a large white dog. They were training it to answer commands. Their efforts seemed to be picked up quickly by their pupil. Reneuf vaulted the low fence and walked over. The dog came over, wagging his tail but voicing a low warning.

"Champion, stop that! The gentleman has business here." The young man stepped over and gave the dog a push on the rump to sit. "I'm Elie Marion, how may I help you?" The boy raced up and held the dog for Elie. He was rewarded with a sloppy kiss from Champ.

"I'm looking for Pastor Bigeault. Is he around?'

"I'm sorry, but he went to visit some of the other pastors here in La Rochelle. He wanted to meet with them before we sailed next week. I don't believe he plans to be back today. Is there anything I can do?"

"Only if you know where I can get some carts and drivers." Reneuf clearly seemed to think that Elie was just making polite conversation and started to turn to go.

Elie quickly replied, "I can get you at least two for sure, and depending on the pay, all that you can use. What does the work involve?"

"I need to haul supplies to two ships in the fleet. I have soldiers to load. They'll just need to drive. I'll pay three livres a cart, in silver."

Elie thought the offer over. Reneuf definitely was associated with the fleet and might be high enough in rank to solve a problem some of the settlers were encountering as they had their belongings loaded on board. The ships' masters were limiting families to one cart and beast and no more than three hundred pounds of goods. If the fleet was in a tight spot for hauling goods, maybe an arrangement could be reached. "I'll get you your carts at that price, if you do me a favor, too."

Reneuf looked like someone who knew his pocket was about to be picked and couldn't stop the thief. He replied cautiously, "And what might that favor be?"

"Some of the folks from my village need extra weight authorizations for their goods and one of the carts you want is over the limit too. If you get those authorized, we'll be ready as soon as you are. Oh, and one large dog." Elie pointed at Champ. "Deal?" He held out his hand.

Reneuf tried not to show his relief. He knew from talking to the ships' captains that there was more than ample space for what Elie was asking for. An extra ship had been chartered and was only partially full with military supplies. He could add the goods in with his unit's supplies and no one would be the wiser. The dog would be easy to slip aboard. "Done, but you have to work with me to get them loaded. They'll have to officially be goods with my troops." They shook and then walked over to the livestock area to prepare the carts.

The hauling job was finished just as the sun was setting. Reneuf had the drivers gather to be paid. Afterward, he spoke with Elie. "Have the cart and donkey down by the Martine on Tuesday, along with the goods. We finish loading then. I'll get them on last so they are easy to get out when we reach our destination. You kept your bargain and kept the admiral off my back. I'll make sure your goods get on with no trouble." Champ wandered up and barked his approval of Reneuf.

When Elie returned to the campsite that night, his father was overjoyed to learn what his son had accomplished. "You will keep the cart and donkey for your new farm. You've earned it. They will be a big help, harvesting your first crops in the new land." He gave Elie a sound thump on the back and passed him his favorite jug. Elie was surprised. His father had never shared the jug before. "You did a man's job today, son. You deserve to drink with the men now!" Elie took a long swallow and then realized why his father never had let him drink from this one before. It burned like fire all the way down. But when it hit bottom, it left a warm feeling all over him. He sat down by the fire and relaxed.

****

Bishop de Perpignan had reluctantly decided to accept Duquesne's offer. As he boarded the Grand Dame, he paused on the gangplank to listen. He thought he heard a familiar bark. The bark of the large dog he had lost in the carriage accident had sounded just like the bark coming from the group of carts unloading at the two ships down the quay. Shaking his head, he proceeded on board. His ears were just playing tricks on him. He reached the deck and demanded to be escorted to his cabin. Within five minutes, he made a complaint to the ship's captain that the quarters were too small. Captain de Bussy replied that the only larger space available was in the bilge with the ballast and rats. All thoughts of the dog's bark were soon forgotten.

La Rochelle Harbor, February 1634

All the preparations were done. All the passengers were on board. It was a magnificent sight. Seven French naval ships and twelve merchant ships prepared to get underway. One last issue remained to be addressed. On all the ships carrying Huguenot settlers, the captains assembled the passengers and then read a statement.

"All funds described in the Edict of Poitou will be paid to settlers upon arrival in New France. Deductions for food and transportation, in the amount of two hundred livres for each family will be made from the amounts owed. Signed, Cardinal Richelieu, Compagnie des Cent Associes." Across the harbor, voices could be heard in protest as the anchors were weighed. Nothing had ever been mentioned about paying for the passage west. The largest French settlement fleet ever to sail began its voyage under a cloud of dissension.

****

To be continued . . .

A Visit to Wietze

Written by Kerryn Offord

(This is an opinion piece. It is my personal view of what Wietze might be like. However, I will attempt to justify my "view" with cites from references and canon.)

After the Ring of Fire the up-timers need fuels. Not just gasoline, but also diesel. They can strip gasoline from some of the gas wells around Grantville, but they can't get diesel that way. That leaves them using bio-diesel substitutes to run diesel engines [see McDonnell: Grantville Gazette Volume 4]. In itself, that isn't a problem. Diesel engines can run on bio-diesel with little or no modification. The problem is the cost of the bio-diesel. Down-time there is no waste fat or oil from fast food restaurants that you can get for a pittance and, after running it through a filter, use it in a diesel engine. They will have to use expensive seed or fish oils, at least until they can produce proper diesel, which means they have to find oil.

Unfortunately, the reference material in Grantville is very thin on German oil fields. However, fortune favors the up-timers. There are oil seeps in an area known as the Hannover Basin, and oil seeps are usually a very good indicator that there is oil in the immediate area. The seeps at Wietze were known to people on the bar when the need for an oil field was announced and we know that these seeps were also known to down-timers (Cooper (1); Kauenhowen, p.472). For this reason Wietze was selected for the first efforts in the search for oil in the 1632 universe.

Wietze is not the most productive oil field in Germany, but our heroes didn't know that when they set out to exploit it. What they did know was that it lay within the Confederated Principalities of Europe sphere of influence, unlike the other six possible field locations hinted at in the Hammond Citation World Atlas (which is known to exist in Grantville).

Historically there is probably some confusion as to who owns the rights to the oil, but it seems it has been assumed that ownership of the oil belongs to the landowner rather than the leaseholder, and the land where the Wietze oil field exists has been determined, for 1632 universe purposes, to belong to George, the duke of Calenberg (1633; Cooper (2)).

So, where is Wietze? You might well ask. To describe its location as "in the middle of nowhere" is a slight exaggeration. However, when it comes to getting material to Wietze, and more importantly, getting oil products out to where they are needed, it certainly comes close.

Wietze is a small farming community about eighty-miles as the crow flies NWW of Magdeburg. It is such a small settlement that it doesn't appear on the Blaeu 1645 map of Lüneburg. It lies on the left bank (traveling downstream) of the River Aller, on the left bank of the Wietze River (traveling downstream) about twenty miles north of the city of Hannover and ten miles west of Celle. From Wietze and extending east toward Celle there is a bog-like region known as the Wietzenbruch. Today this is a region of extensive forest and fen woodland (Bruchwald) about 400 square kilometers (150 sq mi) in area (Wiki: Wietze - Aller). However, if we take into account the impact of centuries of drainage engineering and modern irrigation drawing off water, the region is likely to have been larger and wetter in the early modern era.

Across the Aller, beyond the right bank, there is a trade route joining Magdeburg (via Braunschweig (Brunswick) and Celle) to the river-port city of Bremen. Not that that road will be very good. Sieglerschmidt (p.31) tells us that even the great overland roads (and this isn't one of them) were "generally of lower quality than your modern field or woodland road." They lacked proper foundations, and were usually in need of repair. Kriedte (p.102) tells us that a report on roads in the Duchy of Braunschweig-Wolfenbüttel "dating from 1681 noted large number of 'very bottomless and bad places.'"

From 1633 we know that Quentin Underwood is expecting to use steam sternwheel river tugs "to provide much of the transportation for the petroleum he was starting to produce at Wietze."The idea of using the river to transport cargo won't be new to anybody. In fact, as far back as the 12th century metals from the Harz were shipped past Wietze from Braunschweig to the North Sea. All of which suggests that Quentin could be able to barge his petroleum at least as far as Braunschweig (using first the Aller and then the Oker River)—which only leaves another fifty or so miles to connect to Magdeburg. Unfortunately, until a railway is laid or a canal dug that will bridge that gap, the roads, bad as they might be, will remain the only way to move most goods between Magdeburg and Wietze—although a pipeline bridging the gap could deliver petroleum products to Magdeburg.

There is another way to connect Magdeburg with Wietze by water, but it involves a loop of about 300 miles—Wietze to Bremen via the Rivers Aller and Weser; the North Sea between Bremen and Hamburg; and finally, the River Elbe between Magdeburg and Hamburg. I doubt they'll be traveling that route in 1633—maybe they'll use it after the Baltic War, when the USE sphere of influence extends past Bremen to the North Sea, and includes Hamburg.

****

Having decided to head for Wietze, what can people expect to find there? Well, as I said before, it's a small farming village. The River Wietze is a shallow river (not navigable) that flows about a quarter mile to the north of the village, and the village is about a mile and a half southeast of where the River Wietze joins the River Aller. The village is positioned close to a ford across the Wietze, which might in part explain its location.

Before the up-timers arrive to exploit the oil the village population will probably be in the one to two hundred people range, living in maybe twenty housing units centered on the village which lies in the middle of the land they farm. That's a density of five to ten per housing unit, but that's not unreasonable for the period. Most of the adults will work the land, either as tenant farmers or as farm laborers.

Modern aerial photographs show the village surrounded by farmland, which is in turn nearly completely surrounded by woodland. We are told that back in the 1630s the wooded area would have been less, which is important when we consider the advent of the French raid in 1634: The Baltic War, as most of the area the French would have to pass through is heavily wooded today. We are also told the ground close to the rivers is wet, especially the areas southwest of where the River Wietze joins the River Aller. Which, considering the River Aller turns from a southwest direction to northwest, isn't too surprising. Any increase in the river level (due to rain or snow melt) is likely to flood the land bordering that outside curve.

****

Having arrived in Wietze the up-timers responsible for setting up the oil recovery and refining facility had to make some decisions. We know that Quentin Underwood is planning on using river barges to move the oil out of Wietze. That means they have to build a dock.

So where to build the dock? The River Wietze is an obstacle to easy movement north and south, and the known oil seeps are to the south. If the dock is north of the Wietze, then we have to transport oil from the oil seeps across the Wietze. So we have to locate the dock on that bit of curve on the River Aller south of the River Wietze. Not ideal, but the pragmatic choice.

We have placed the dock, now, what about the oil facility? The oil seeps that brought us here are about a quarter of a mile northwest of the village of Wietze, and a mile southeast of the dock. Do we put the oil facility close to the oil seeps and transport refined products a mile to the dock? Or do we put it close to the dock, and transport crude oil the mile from the oil seep? Pragmatism suggests the oil facility should be built close to the dock, for the simple reason that that is where everything enters or leaves the facility—and some of the material necessary for building the oil facility is big and heavy. This will be found to be the right decision when we start to drill for and find oil, as a good deal of the oil around Wietze is closer to the dock than it is the oil seeps.

The Technology

Having decided where to build the oil facility, we now have to decide just what is the oil facility to be like.

When most people think of an oil refinery they think of tall fractionating columns—where the oil goes in as crude and separates out into the different frctions (Gasoline, naphthas, kerosene, diesel (oil gas), fuel oil, residue). That's nice, but those columns are big. The Encyclopedia Britannica (1977EB15th) talks of one-hundred-and-fifty feet high towers with forty to a hundred fractionating trays. If that tower is ten feet diameter and made of half-inch rolled iron plate, with forty fractionating plates in quarter-inch plate, that's about sixty-five tons of iron. Can you imagine trying to get that much material to Wietze, let alone erecting it once you get there?

So what will they build?

In the beginning the only oil they can recover will be what they can skim off of the tar pits. Volumes will be small and production will be measured in buckets per day rather than barrels per day. That sort of volume doesn't demand complex processing equipment, and simple batch processing in very simple stills could suffice.

Batch processing means you fill a "kettle" with a charge of crude oil and heat it. Different fractions are boiled off by controlling the temperature in the vessel and you keep boiling off the different fractions until you have all that you want. Early on they need gasoline and diesel, but they might also isolate the middle fraction, kerosene, as well, meaning they have three cycles. After they have boiled off the diesel fraction the kettle will be emptied and left to cool. The residue is "fuel oil." You can extract lubricating oils and ashpalt from this, and or use it as fuel.

Early batch processing methods will be quite inefficient in terms of throughput for the amount of equipment and manpower required. Additionally, there will likely be difficulty in producing consistent product grades. For these reasons, it can be anticipated that a second generation process would be implemented as soon as there was a reasonable certainty of successful production from the drilling program. The second generation technology would build on the knowledge base developed from the coal tar industry which started in 1631.

In the early stages of developing the refinery capability, until they know the sort of volumes they might face, they could use something like one of the existing coal tar fractional distillation systems (built for the coal tar industry) with pots probably no bigger than an oil barrel. As such,they should be easy to transport to Wietze, even by road.

The first separator pot in the system will draw its feedstock from a wood stave storage tank of crude oil. From this tank the oil will pass through one or more heat exchangers. The heat exchangers will heat up the feedstock a little before it enters the "boiler" while also aiding cooling of the distillate and residues. For efficiency reasons the boiler will be modeled on a locomotive type small-tube boiler, except it'll be oil passing through the tubes. The small tubes allow more surface area to be exposed to heat than would be the case by just heating a "pot," and will heat the oil to the same temperature using less energy (fuel). From the boiler the oil, now heated to the required temperature, will go by pipe straight into the separator pot (Corwith (2)). The heat exchangers aren't essential, and might be nothing more than a few windings of one pipe around another, but they add to the efficiency of the system, and this system was designed by an engineer. Improving the efficiency of things is what engineers live for.

If the operator has got things running correctly (And in the primitive equipment being used it will be up to the skill of the operator to control things), the desired fraction will evaporate out of the heated feed oil and rise up the pot. The vapor will hit a perforated "bubble-cap" tray near the top of the pot and the desired fraction will condense onto the drip tray ("Bubble-caps" sit over short risers in a drip tray, using the condensed fluid as a "fluid seal").

The condensed fluid (the desired fraction) will be drawn off from the drip tray and pass through the first of the heat exchangers previously mentioned, and the cooled fraction will be piped to a storage tank, from which it can be poured into barrels ready for export. The oil being fractionated can be heated inside the separator pot, but not by exposing it to a flame. Instead, superheated steam (heated to the temperature of the desired fraction in another set of small tubes inside the boiler) can be passed through the oil collecting at the bottom of the separator pot. The system is continually pumping more heated oil into the separator pot, so the residues (everything left after boiling of the desired fraction) have to be drawn off. Otherwise the pot fills up and stops functioning. The residue will be drawn off from below the steam inlet. Hopefully, by the time it leaves the pot the desired fraction has been totally removed.

The residue from one separator pot will be the feedstock for the next pot down the line. Either it will go into a storage tank (where it'll cool down a bit—not what an engineer will want to see), or it can be piped directly to the next pot. The process will be repeated in successive separator pots, but at higher and higher temperatures, until all the desired fractions have been removed. The final residue will contain heavy fuel oils and tars. The oils can be evaporated off by vacuum distillation at 750°F (400°C), leaving a residue of asphalt, or bitumen (1977EB15th). This system of "chained" separator pots is entirely suitable for the primitive nature of the oil processing technology available—being well within the technological and industrial capabilities available in 1633 (see EB9th: Paraffin).

Because we are drawing off fractions as we go, the amount of oil going into each successive separator pot decreases. Efficiency of design would suggest that the size of the successive separator pots should decrease as well. However, not only can the proportion of the various fractions in crude oil vary between formations, but the small differences in the sizes of the pots necessary to process the various Wietze oils do not really justify constructing different sized vessels.

Over time, as oil wells are drilled and oil is struck, they will need to increase their refining capacity. They have the choice of installing extra coal-tar size units, or building something bigger. The description of a man climbing a ladder welded to a separating pot in canon (1634:The Baltic War) suggests they went for something bigger.

There are two "something bigger" options. One is to take advantage of the fact that the useful fractions (gasoline, kerosene, and diesel) amount to only 23-51 percent of the crude found at Wietze. They could get away with having a single large pot run at a constant temperature to boil off all of the desired fractions (Corwith (2) suggests a cylinder ten feet high and about twenty-eight inches diameter (with a thin sheet metal cover protecting a layer of insulation, making the pot maybe three feet diameter), made out of quarter-inch rolled plate—and massing less than a thousand pounds when in running condition—would satisfy canon, and can process something like two hundred and fifty barrels per day (bpd) of feedstock.). These fractions can then be condensed and fed through the existing small pot line and the residue sold as fuel oil. This means we only need one large separator pot to feed two smaller pots (We are no longer using a small pot to separate diesel.). However, if we decide we need to isolate the asphalt or bitumen from the fuel oil, we need a new pot to process it.

The alternative is to design and build a new potline using the same larger separating pot design. This has the advantage of removing the cooling step, and creating a system where every pot is the same size. There are pluses and minuses for both options. All that canon says is that there must be at least one separator pot large enough for a man to need a ladder (welded to the pot) to climb so he can look out and see the French attacking, so the final choice is up to prospective authors.

The scene before the French raid in May 1634

When Quentin Underwood turns up for his last inspection of the oil facility in May 1634 what is he going to see? Let's assume he arrives by boat (He could arrive by plane.).

When he steps onto the dock of the oil facility he is likely to find a storage area where full barrels of petroleum products are sitting waiting for the next barge out.

Most of those barrels will be headed upstream, toward Magdeburg. Others, mostly containing the heavier fuel oils, will be heading downstream, towards the river port city of Bremen. Bremen, and anywhere in between, are likely to be buying the fuel oil as a substitute for the peat they are otherwise forced to use (Depending on what is in the peat it is 12-28 times the volume for the same calorific value of heavy fuel oil.). However, there will be demand for these fuel oils in Magdeburg as well.

When he looks beyond the dock he'll see (based on descriptions in 1634: The Baltic War) a compound surrounded by the beginnings of an earth fieldwork about a hundred yards from the operations center (which is in turn, close to the separator pots, which puts them both close to the river). There will be a number of watch towers around the perimeter (probably at least four—one per corner of the compound) manned by members of the recently arrived garrison. Within the compound there will be a number of structures housing workshops, laboratories, storerooms, the staff canteen, various other offices, and the operations center. That description sounds grander than they'll be. At best the buildings are going to be standard fachwerk half-timbered structures with "wattle and daub" walls, and probably thatch roofs. There will be windows, but few in number and with small panes of glass—in other words, little different from normal down-time rural structures.

There will also be the cluster of separator pots with their storage tanks located close to the dock (So the filled barrels don't have to travel far).

The earth fieldworks can only at the early stages of construction because the garrison that is routed by the attacking French would never have abandoned complete or even near complete field defenses. Not when it consists of a ditch and an earth wall, and not when it means presenting their backs to pursuing cavalry (most combat casualties occur in this period when cavalry pursue and cut down running soldiers). Where that compound is positioned the ditch that would have been dug outside the compound (doubling as a source of earth to build the fieldworks) will tend to fill with water. The combination of water filled moat and earth fieldwork is a barrier that cavalry and dismounted soldiers would hesitate to cross against armed defenders. We are told that the garrison is five hundred men, and they face about two thousand men, that's attacking odds of four to one. Even if all the defenders have is obsolete matchlock muskets, those are not attractive odds for attacking that kind of prepared defensive position without serious engineering support (to bridge the moat).

I doubt that many people will choose to live within the working compound, and the garrison and their associated camp-followers can't. The area isn't big enough for the amount of housing the garrison and camp followers need, but also, soldiers defending their families—and a lot of those camp-followers are going to be soldier's families—are unlikely to rout like they do in the book.

With only about twenty up-timers at peak working with the garrison or at the oil facility, they will most likely choose to billet with families in the village. That will be a lot more comfortable and economic than building housing inside the compound, or—after much negotiation with the landowners and leaseholders—building within the village boundary. It also has the advantage of making sure the men, and it is mostly male up-timers who have traveled to Wietze, are not left to look after themselves. Instead, their host households can provide bed and board, and do their washing etc, leaving the up-timers to concentrate on the jobs they there to do. However, the majority of the houses in the village will likely be considered primitive by the up-timers. With the up-timers willing to pay good money for what they want, the villagers are likely to enlarge and improve their houses, and/or build an inn or some kind of boarding house to cater for them.

Most of the initial down-time labor is likely to be provided by agricultural workers from the Wietze area, and they will be trained to do the jobs they are needed to do. Over time itinerant labor and journeying craftsmen will find their way to Wietze and add to the workforce. However, the numbers will grow slowly, and they'll be more willing to live in primitive conditions—even bunking down in some of the buildings in the oil facility. This means there is no real pressure on accommodation, until the garrison arrives.

I see the garrison arriving sometime in early 1634. I say this because an extra five hundred men would have been invaluable in the mad rush of September-October 1633 when King Gustav was so worried about finding soldiers to protect his Baltic ports. The troops would probably have stayed near the Baltic over the winter, and only moved to Wietze in 1634, sometime before the French raid. They can't arrive in Wietze too early, otherwise they should have completed those fieldworks, and they can't arrive too close to the French raid that they can't make a good start on them.

Normal operating procedure in this period is to billet garrison troops on the community, but Wietze isn't big enough to support that number (one result of this is that the village is likely to be given permission to hold a weekly market, otherwise they'll never feed all the extra mouths). The camp-followers that will join them will make a bad situation worse, as camp-follower numbers can equal those of the soldiers they serve. Note that some of these camp-followers follow crafts and trades, and could be employed by the oil exploration and processing industries.

The officers and wealthier camp-followers are likely to expect housing similar to what the up-timers want, while the common soldiers and poorer camp-followers will make do with what they can find, such as barns, tents, and temporary wattle and daub shacks. Certainly there is little likelihood that the government will spring to building them a proper barracks.

For many of the reasons already given, the garrison and camp-follower settlement is likely to be close to the village of Wietze—probably to the north (near the ford across the river) where they would have easy access to the River Wietze for water for washing and cooking.

This leaves just two more things for Quentin Underwood to see. The first is the oil derricks that should be busily drilling for oil. They will be simple timber structures broadly similar to what was used in West Virginia in the 1920's, and be at least seventy feet high—so that the drilling bit, tools, and well casings can be lifted and lowered down the borehole. There should be a "hut" on a sled that protects the donkey engine (either a hot bulb internal combustion engine or a small steam engine) that provides the power to operate the cable drill and winches. (The alternative is that power is provided by animals on a sweep. This would work, but drilling speeds would be significantly slower. For that reason, I'm predicting the rigs have some kind of donkey engine.)

The final structure he might see is a producing well. Each well is likely to be identifiable by the walking beam pump, a small wood stave storage tank of about thirty barrels capacity, and a treadmill or animal on a sweep to power the pump (The alternative is an expensive donkey engine, and well, that level of expenditure isn't warranted at this point).

After the French raid

From 1634: The Baltic War we learn from Jesse Woods flying above the destruction that not only are they trashing everything, they're also ". . . burning everything they can.” And just about everything in the compound can burn.

When Greg Ferrara is flown in to Wietze he is going to find a scene of devastation. Let's start with the dock. That is seasoned timber. Sure it's close to water, but it's likely to have oil spilt on the timbers, and there is going to probably have been barrels of petroleum products sitting there waiting shipment. A lot of it will burn.

The buildings: with thatch roofs, fachwerk walls, wood floors, and plenty of fuel loading inside with furniture and fittings, even without the addition of easily accessed petroleum based accelerants, they'll burn, leaving little but rubble.

The watch towers: they'll be timber, and they'll be knocked down and probably burned.

The separator pots though, won't burn. Sure the wood stave storage tanks around them will burn and things could get hot, but the actual iron separating pots made out of thick rolled plate iron will survive. However, they'll be pulled over. The outer skin will be penetrated and torn, exposing the insulation, and a lot of their fittings will be damaged or (especially anything in copper or brass) stolen, there won't be a single dial or inspection window left unbroken, and the various pipes and heat exchangers will be damaged. The separator pots will be repairable, it'll just take time.

The drilling derricks, if they are close enough to the oil facility compound will also be burned, and the engines damaged or destroyed. This will cause problems. Especially if the French cut the cables, releasing the drill bits to fall to the bottom of the borehole.

If there are any producing wells the French can get to they might damage the well-head Christmas tree, but I can't see there being any oil well fires that can't be easily controlled. The Christmas tree will be trashed, but that can probably be repaired or replaced. The wood stave storage tanks will be burnt, as will the walking beam of the pump and the sweep or treadmill. One hopes whoever was in charge of the animal on the sweep cut it free before the French got there, otherwise the animal is likely to be killed by the raiders. There will be a containment berm surrounding the well, so hopefully any spillage will be contained (But then, if they are so inclined, the French could breech that berm. I guess it depends on how much time it takes to do so and how they feel at the time.)

It is possible that any petroleum storage tank or barrel, especially those containing the lighter fractions (raw crude, and fractions down to Diesel), once ignited, could blow up. At special risk will be storage tanks that are only partly filled, as that can allow the necessary fuel-air mix to occur (Corwith (2)).

Rebuilding after the raid

Immediately after the raid efforts will be directed towards getting the refined products flowing again as soon as possible. That means rebuilding the separator cluster, using the existing separators. They might have problems getting exactly the same fittings, but over all, the rebuilt separator cluster should be very much the same as the old one.

There will be some reconstruction of facility buildings, but they'll not be as important as the separator line, the storage tanks, and replacing all the burnt barrels and barrel staves that would have been awaiting the cooper. It's summer, so they can probably survive with tents.

June and the Congress of Copenhagen

The important thing about the Congress of Copenhagen is that it signals peace. With peace the garrison is no longer necessary. There is no obvious enemy who can reach Wietze, and they will look to redeploy the men to somewhere where they will be more useful. This will make the people of Wietze extremely happy (no community likes having soldiers billeted on them). It also removes any stress on housing and sanitation. Continued security at the oil facility can be provided by arming the village and oil facility militia with SRG rifled flint- or cap-lock rifles with bayonets and giving them some training. Certainly a hundred or so such armed militia can't do any worse than the previous five hundred man garrison.

By mid to late July 1634 the oil facility should be producing again and the number of up-timers will draw down as people leave for jobs elsewhere. Wietze will return to the slumbering farming village it used to be, except for a few minor changes.

There will be producing oil wells supplying a small oil refinery. There will be a dock that is serviced by steam powered riverboats, making trade with Wietze cheaper and regular. There will be regular employment for citizens of Wietze working on the oil facility and on the continuing drilling program. The housing stock of the village will probably improve in number and quality as more money enters the community.

There might even be a new industry. Wietze lies on a salt dome. If any wells hit that dome then the down-timers know how to extract the salt. It can be a new and profitable industry for the village. They can use fuel oil from the wells to heat evaporators to recover the salt, and that dock, with those steam powered riverboats, makes it easy to get their salt to market.

References:

Cooper, Iver: (1) the Author's Note (Jan. 2007) to "Drillers in Doublets": in Grantville Gazette, Volume 4

Cooper, Iver: (2) "The Doodlebugger": in Grantville Gazette, Volume 13

Corwith, Jeff: (1) "The Oil Mines at Wietze and Pechelbronn": in Grantville Gazette, Volume 23

Corwith, Jeff: (2) private communications with Jeff Corwith, who is a graduate of the Colorado School of Mines with nearly 30 years of experience as a Petroleum engineer in the oil industry.

Kauenhowen, Walter (1928) Oil Fields Of Germany, Bulletin of the American Association of Petroleum Geologists, May 1928, Volume 12 Number 5, p. 463-499.

Kriedte, Peter,: "Trade", in Germany: A New Social and Economic History; Volume 2, 1630-1800, edited by Sheilagh Ogilvie and Bob Scriber; p.100-133

McDonnell, Allen W.,: How To Keep Your Old John Deere Plowing: Diesel Fuel Alternatives For Grantville 1631-1639: in Grantville Gazette, Volume 4

Sieglerschmidt, Jörn,: Social and Economic Landscapes"; in Germany: A New Social and Economic History; Volume 2, 1630-1800, edited by Sheilagh Ogilvie and Bob Scriber; p.1-38

1633: by Eric Flint and David Weber

1634: The Baltic War: by Eric Flint and David Weber

1977EB15th: 15th edition Encyclopedia Britannica, published 1977

EB9th: 9th edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, published 1885

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Renaissance Boogie: Dancing in Early Modern Europe

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Soon after the Ring of Fire, the residents of Grantville will discover that dancing was far more important in seventeenth century European society than it was in twentieth century America.

In The Courtier (1561), Castiglione recounts an anecdote about a noblewoman who asked a knight to dance with her. He refused, saying that dancing was not part of his profession, which was to fight. She sweetly suggested that since the country was at peace, he should be stored in an armory with other implements of war, suitably oiled so that he didn't rust.

A century later, in issuing a patent to his new Academie Royale de Danse, Louis XIV declared that dance is "one of the arts most useful to our nobility, not only in time of war, in our armies, but in time of peace as well, in the divertissements of our ballets."

The attitude that dance was an essential social skill was not limited to the nobility. In England, the professionals and their wives had to be able to dance, too. In 1631, a Middle Temple bencher warned that it was "accounted a shame for any Inns of Court man not to have learned to dance, especially the measures". (Durham) Guildsmen might be required to do a ritualized "guild dance" on a particular day of the year, and it is evident from period paintings that peasants enjoyed folk dances.

So the up-timers—especially those who take up positions outside Grantville—are going to have to learn the down-timers' dances. My story "Two Left Feet" (Grantville Gazette 27) was driven by the conceit that Mike Stearns would be expected to dance in 1635 at the new prime minister's inaugural ball . . . and wouldn't like the idea one bit.

Of course, the down-timers visiting Grantville are going to be exposed to up-time dances, possibly including square dancing, contra dancing (more on that later), Appalachian clogging, modern ballet, and ballroom dancing (including tango, waltz, polka, etc.) and swing dancing.

Bear in mind that the exposure is not limited to the dances that the up-timers presently do; there will be dance scenes in the movies shown to the down-timers.

Kerryn Offord has written several stories ("A Night at the Ballet," 1634: TheRam Rebellion; " A Falcon Falls," Grantville Gazette 13) which relate to the creation and activity of a ballet company in Grantville (the company later moves to Magdeburg), and in my "Federico and Ginger," an Italian dancing master studies Fred Astaire and creates, with the aid of the cheerleaders at the high school and his star pupil (Princess Kristina of Sweden), a dance extravaganza celebrating Gustavus Adolphus' rule, with both up-time and down-time dance elements.

In this article, I will first discuss the social context of Renaissance dancing (especially early-seventeenth century dancing), and then describe the dances (especially court dances) of our period.

Social Context

Dancing is not an isolated phenomenon, it's a part of the participants' culture. Cultural rules dictate when and where dancing occurs, and who participates.

When? Particular dances may be performed at select moments in the life cycle (birth, baptism, birthdays, puberty, marriage, death) of the dancer or the dancer's relatives and associates. Others are governed by the calendar; they are done every Sunday, or in recognition of the season (arrival of spring, midsummer or midwinter, or harvest time, or the movement of the herds to downhill or uphill pastures), or on a "recruitment day" or "market day." Or they may be sporadic, preceding or following cooperative work.

In rural Germany, in particular, "the occasions for dancing and entertainment included Carnival, Easter, ember days, sowing, the driving out of the cattle, May Day, the feasts of Saint John the Baptist and Saint Martin, the anniversary of the local church's dedication, and the winter solstice." (Ency.)

Where? Dances may be done outdoors or indoors. If outdoors, it might happen anywhere that is reasonably flat and wide (a courtyard, a field), or only in a place specially designated for dancing. If indoors, the dance may be held in a "private"(think of a Harlem rent party) or "public" (a dance hall, a temple, a threshing floor) place. Dancing indoors has its hazards; in 1284 at Nefyn, the floor collapsed (Med Eng 31).

By Whom? The right to do particular dances, or to dance at all, may be limited according to gender, age, marital status, heredity, occupation, social class, or selection by initiates. There are:

—ritual dances such as the English Morris dance or Romanian Calusarii;

—occupational dances performed by members of town guilds (there is a memorable image of German sausage makers parading a very long link of sausages down "main street", and I have photographed the dance of the barrelmakers in Erdobenye, Hungary) or by herdsmen (such as Hungarian swineherds);

—court dances done by members of the nobility; and

—country dances that are essentially all-inclusive.

In eastern Europe there are villages where only the men danced, or only the women danced. Even when the women danced, there was room for variation: only unmarried women danced; married women danced but only with their husbands; and married women danced but never with their husbands (if her husband asked her to dance, it would be declaring that the wife was such a bad dancer that no one else would dance with her).

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In the Renaissance, the church attitude toward dancing was rather ambivalent. On the one hand, there was an association between dancing and paganism, traceable back to the dancing of the idolaters (Exodus 32:6). On the other hand, there were some favorable references to dancing in the Bible; David dancing "before the Lord" when the Ark of the Covenant was recovered, and Miriam celebrating the parting of the Red Sea.

In some places and times, there was a prohibition on dancing on holy days or in churches. On the other hand, village priests were known to lead dances, even in church. Some churchmen opposed dance only when it was associated with licentious behavior, rather than decrying dancing per se. Overall, the Catholics were more tolerant of dancing than were the Protestants.

Court Dancing

In the movie The King's Speech, the stutter-prone George VI (Colin Firth) complains that the need to give radio speeches has forced the royals into the lowest class of society: performers. But in the seventeenth century, royalty, nobility and gentry were eager to perform—provided they did so indoors, and for their peers. (Smith).

Italy

In the sixteenth century, the Italians were the trendsetters in dance. Their dances included both processional dances like the pavane, and faster "after dances" (gagliarda, saltarello, canario). Sometimes several dances were combined into a virtuoso figure dance suite, the balli or balleto. These suites were rehearsed in advance by a small ensemble of nobles (possibly including some professional "ringers"), and performed for an audience in chambers of noblewomen, or at balls.

In Italy, the old knightly tournaments evolved into the staged tournoi a theme, and ultimately into the horse ballet: riders guided their mounts through dance patterns (Strong 54ff). One such spectacle was featured in Agnioli Ricci's 1637 Le Nozze degli Dei, which honored the wedding of Ferdinand II, Grand Duke of Tuscany (and a character in my stories "Under the Tuscan Son" and "Arsenic and Old Italians").

The court dances were also adapted by theatrical troupes, who would present snippets to liven up a play. These troupes traveled outside Italy and helped to engender interest in Italian dance. Italian dancing masters and their pupils also fanned out across Europe.

France

By the mid-seventeenth century, Paris had eclipsed the various Italian cities as the capital of dance (Nevile 22). In France, the nobility began their formal public life at age ten, and dancing was an expected skill. Woe betide those who did not master it, or worse, merely thought they had:

"A son of Montbron . . . had been asked if he danced well; and he had replied with a confidence which made every one hope that the contrary was the case. Every one was satisfied. From the first bow, he became confused, and he lost step at once. He tried to divert attention from his mistake by affected attitudes, and carrying his arms high; but this made him only more ridiculous, and excited bursts of laughter, which, in despite of the respect due to the personage of the King (who likewise had great difficulty to hinder himself from laughing), degenerated at length into regular hooting. On the morrow, instead of flying from the Court or holding his tongue, he excused himself by saying that the presence of the King had disconcerted him, and promised marvels for the ball which was to follow . . . As soon as he began to dance at the second ball, those who were near stood up, those who were far off climbed wherever they could to get a sight; and the shouts of laughter were mingled with clapping of hands . . . Montbron disappeared immediately afterwards, and did not show himself again for a long time." (Hilton 15-16)

In France, there were court balls every week; they began with an obeisance to the king. then couples danced for the whole court, one at a time (danse a deux), in order of social rank (Hilton 3). A dance a deux is pictured in Abraham Bosse, The Ball (1635).

While the social dancing at a royal ball had its performance aspects, the ballet de cour created by Catherine de Medici and Balthazar de Beaujoyeaux was longer and more heavily choreographed, with an eye toward the spectacular. The French kings recognized the propaganda value of the court ballet, which dramatized both the splendor of the king and his power against evil. Some of the ballets used elaborate stage machinery from Italy.

In my story "Federico and Ginger" (Grantville Gazette 4), Federico's grand spectacle is inspired by La Ballet de la Nuit (1653), which had 45 entrees in four parts ending with a traditional grand ballet with 22 dancers (a mixture of nobles and professionals). The individual dances (entrees) were probably around two or three minutes long. Le Balet Comique de la Royne (1581) lasted five hours. The ballets had both noble and burlesque elements, analogous to English masque and anti-masque (see below).

The court ballets were performed at Carnival and on other occasions. Each year, courtiers learned two to four new dances; they needed to have twelve dances in their repertoire, and roles were awarded on the basis of technical merit. (Hilton).

Professionals (from the theater) were used if the role was beneath the dignity of a noble or required proficiency beyond that of the available aristocrats. Actresses could partner with noblemen, but it was more awkward for an actor to dance with a lady of the court. The first documented professional dance troupe was that of Horace Morel, who presented Le Ballet de l'Harmonie Universelle and La Ballet des Effets de la Nature in 1632.

Louis XIV performed from 1647 (age 8) until 1670 . . . typically several times a week! He took lessons daily, loved both comic and female (played in drag) roles (the king didn't have to worry about dignity), and danced in seven different ballets in 1656.

While the Sun King was an avid dancer, some of the other noblemen didn't share his enthusiasm. The Royal Academy was founded in 1661, essentially to supply professionals for the ballets. When Louis XIV retired from dancing, there was a mass exodus of courtiers from the ballet de cour. The Royal Academy became a professional company, with few if any of the nobility, but the stage dances were adapted for ballroom use.

Dances were also a part of the higher educational system. Every year, in early August, as part of award ceremonies, the rhetoric students at secondary schools would present ballets de college. A performance might also be given in honor of a king's visit, or a royal birth, coronation, or marriage. The subjects were usually allegorical (e.g. the seasons, a chess game). The costs of production were covered by fund-raising, subsidies, gifts, and sometimes admission fees; actors might furnish their own costume. Guest ballet masters choreographed the production and taught the students; they might also dance the most difficult roles. The performance might be in the hall or courtyard of the college with tent set up, or in nearby castle; it would be announced by drummers or posted programs. A single performance might have audience of 4000 people, including of course parents, friends and local dignitaries.

England

The English court dances were imported from France; the English contribution to Renaissance dance took the form of jigs, hornpipes, and, most of all, country dance. I will discuss those in the "Folk Dancing" section of this article.

The court dances were done, not only by the nobility, but also by the gentry. The Inns of Court were where the bright young Englishmen went to study law. They weren't law schools in a modern sense; rather they were more like private clubs for lawyers, with both offices and dining facilities. The lawyers taught the students on what was probably a fairly informal basis, more like a modern internship.

The Inns of Court regularly hosted revels (at one time, every Saturday between All Saint's Eve and Candlemas) and the members were expected to participate. Indeed, William Dugsdale (1666) says that the "Under Barristers" were punished for having failed to dance the last Candlemas Day and were warned that if they offended again, "they should be fined or disbarred." (Durham).

To learn the dances, the neophytes hired private tutors or attended dancing schools. We know that in 1594, William Fitzwilliam of Gray's Inn "paid almost as much for a month's dancing lessons as for his commons (meals)." Another source says that in 1595, a month's dancing lessons cost five shillings.

It appears that as many as thirty couples might be dancing at one time, so clearly the Inns of Court revels didn't ape the French custom of hierarchical danse a deux (except perhaps when they had noble or royal guests).

In England, masques were a principal entertainment for the court, and were commissioned by the king, the queen, or nobles or lawyers seeking to impress them. Those with royal sponsorship were held at Whitehall, the royal banqueting hall, and there would be perhaps 600 members of the aristocracy in attendance. Masques were also held at the Inns of Court or at the country manors of great magnates.

I will describe the masque in the mature form it achieved during the reigns of James I and Charles I. Please note that even then there could be variations on the basic structure.

The masques began with some kind of introductory song or speech that explained what the performance was about. (Note that these were known more for their elaborate costumes, scenery and stage machinery than for the complexity, subtlety or provocativeness of their plots.)

Then came the anti-masque, a comic or grotesque dance representing the order of chaos. By way of example, the anti-masquers were witches in The Masque of Queens (1609), satyrs in Oberon (1611), and "frantics" (characters in the commedia della arte tradition) in The Lord's Masque (1613).

These would be driven out by the entry dance of the forces of order, the masquers; these might portray gods and goddesses, legendary heroes, exotic princes, knights of King Arthur's Court, soldiers of Imperial Rome, and so forth.

After performing their main dance, the masquers invited members of the audience to join them in the revel. After an hour or so (Ency. GB 252), the invitees returned to their seats, the masquers performed their final speeches or songs and their withdrawing dance, and this might be followed by some sort of royal reception or banquet.

The masquers, usually 6–12 in number, were lords or ladies, occasionally both at the same time. There are a few productions with a double entry, one of male masquers and the other of female. Lady masquers wore low cut bodice or gauzed breasts, with skirts shortened to the calf. Male masquers sometimes were called upon to dance "in travesty," that is, playing female roles.

Children were first used as torchbearers, but they could also do comic or grotesque dancing, as in an anti-masque (Jonson 1608). Otherwise, the anti-masquers were all male professionals.

Henrietta Maria moved revels from mid-performance to the end of the program in 1631. The invitations followed rules of precedence; that is, the principal masquer invited the principal audience member of the opposite sex to dance, and the performers worked their way "down the ladder." Only audience members seated up front were asked to dance; their choice of seating implied a willingness to cooperate.

The revels would begin with" measures," escalate to galliards, corantos, and canaries, and close with branles and country dances (see below).

A masque was usually performed just once, in a royal banqueting hall or similarly august setting, but there's some evidence for a "running masque" that moved from home to home.

Scotland

The Complaint of Scotland (1543) lists a variety of court dances, including pavans, galliards, turdions and branles. Indeed, an earlier source (The Fader, 1500) mentions the "brawll of France" and the "new paven of France". (Machaffie)

Germany and Austria

In the 1630s, Germany was something of a backwater for court dancing; the centers of innovation were elsewhere. The Germans learned court dancing by both direct (lessons with resident dance masters) and indirect (from visitors or while traveling) means.

In the early eighteenth century, the dance masters at the German courts were primarily French (Little 9); I suspect that in the early seventeenth century, they would have been mostly French or Italian. Their status was on par with that of a doctor, lawyer, fencing master or tennis master.

The seventeenth-century Germans would also have seen theatrical performances, with dance elements, by traveling French, Italian and English troupes. And German noblemen did go on the Grand Tour, and bring back foreign dances.

Even if the Germans weren't innovators, they were certainly eager to dance. Dance houses were built as venues for balls, which could be sponsored by noblemen or merchants. These predate the RoF; a multilevel Bread-and-Dance House was built in Nordlingen in 1444; there were bakers' shops on the ground floor and the dance floor above. Ball dancing could be in regular dress or in costume, and the sponsor was considered the "King of the Ball" (and his spouse, the "Queen"). (Nevile 11) Since the balls were for the benefit of the nobility or for those seeking entry to noble circles, I suspect that court dances dominated. However, it is possible that some folk dances crept in, especially late in the evening.

There were also court ballet performances in the French tradition. In the early seventeenth century court ballets at Stuttgart, only men danced, taking on female as well as male roles. On the other hand, in Dessau in 1614, noblewomen were allowed to perform. (Nevile 61)

A detailed description is available of a masque performed in Stuttgart in 1616. This featured four giant heads, from each of which dancers representing three different nations emerged. The dancing included "a galliard after the English manner" and a Frenchman dancing a coranto. (Brandt 32). I must wonder about the accuracy of the statement in the Dance Encyclopedia that "German courts did not develop the spectacular dance pageants or masques that were a feature of the Italian, French and English courts of this period."

The students at the German gymnasiums (loosely comparable to an American prep school) gave dramatic performances that could include dance numbers. (This can be likened to the French ballet de college.)

Albrecht Durer created a woodcut, The Masquerade Dance with Torches for Freydal (1517-18), a faux medieval epic honoring the Emperor Maximilian I. The outfits of the dancers are clearly courtly. It is unclear whether it represented an authentic court dance or was purely a work of the imagination. But torch and lantern dances were part of some guild presentations. (Ency.)

Turning to Austria, there was theatrical dancing in the school plays of the Jesuits and in court festivities. At court, Italian teachers dominated; Carlo Beccharia at the court of Rudolph II (1576-1612), and Santo Ventura, at least from 1626, had Ferdinand II (1619-1637) as his patron.

There was both court dancing and a horse ballet at Ferdinand's marriage to Maria Anna in 1631.

Denmark

During the reign of Frederick II, there were visits by English theatrical troupes. By the 1630s, the Danish royal court had enjoyed the benefit of two French dancing masters, first Jacques Freville (1615-1623) (Wade 84) and then Alexander von Kuckelsom. In October 1634, Kuckelsom presented a court ballet in honor of the marriage of Prince Christian to Princess Magdalena Sibylla of Saxony. (Has this marriage been butterflied away?) The king played Neptune, the crown prince was his son, and the bride debuted as Pallas Athena. (Marker, 32).

It's interesting that the Danish king, an avid Protestant, tolerated the presence of a Roman Catholic dancing master. Jacques Freville, by the way, was more than a dancing master. He was an agent of the Dominican Fathers . . . and Danish spies were well aware of his activities. (Garstein 95).

Sweden

There apparently was no court dancing in Sweden at the time of RoF; Gustavus Adolphus was perhaps more interested in the "dancing place of Mars," the battlefield. In 1636-8 (the sources disagree), Antoine de Bealieau, a French dancing master, came to Stockholm under royal patronage (Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna and the underage Queen Christina), and introduced ballet de cour. (Strong 59). His first production was Le Ballet des Plaisirs de la Vie des Enfants sans soucy (January 28, 1638).

Out of thirteen documented court ballets, five were for royal birthdays, three for noble weddings, one for Christina's coronation, and one celebrated the conclusion of the Thirty Years' War. Twelve of the thirteen texts indicate that they were performed in Christina's presence. (Bohlin). These ballets all ended with a Grand Ballet and Queen Christina took part in at least that of Les liberalitez des Dieux (1652). She also is known to have played the part of Diana (Artemis) in Le Vaicu de Diane (1649). Bohlin speculates that she might have also played Pallas Athena (Minerva) in La Maissance de la Paix, a propaganda piece that portrayed her as the Pallas of the North, just as her father had been the Jupiter of the North.

Netherlands

In other European countries, such as France and England, folk dancing influenced court dancing, and vice versa. However, the Dutch nobility essentially ignored their own folk heritage, drawing their court dances from French and to a lesser degree Italian sources.

In addition, the court dancing was more a social than a performance art. The only documented full-length court ballet of the seventeenth century was Ballet de la Paix (1668), with Prince William III of Orange dancing multiple roles. There were some instances in the second half of the century of ballets being performed before or after a drama.

Poland

Court dances, presumably Italian in character, were performed at the 1518 wedding of Bona Sforza of Milan to King Zygmunt (Sigismund) I. (Ency.)

Ambrosio Bontempo was an Italian dancing master active at the Graz court 1586–1623/5.

King Zygmunt III married Archduchess Anna of Austria in 1592 and Bontempo was involved in this celebration (Przybyszewska-Jarminska). However, I have no particulars.

In 1637–8, another Italian dancing master, Santi Ventura, created a ballet as part of the Austrian contribution to the celebration of the wedding of Wladyslaw IV to Princess Cecilia Renata in September 1637 (Przybyszewska-Jarminska). That is, by the way, the desperately unhappy marriage that is "butterflied away" in Flint, 1634: The Bavarian Crisis, Chap. 64.

The first home-grown court dance may have been the polonez (polonaise), which is said to have itself evolved from Polish folk dances, possibly the chodzony, wolny or wielki (Randel 668). Silverman (142) quotes a legend (her words) that "it was first used by nobleman at the ascension of Henri III to the throne of Poland" in 1573 (or when he arrived in Poland in 1574, according to some sources.) The legend is discounted by Niecks (268) and others. A further complication is that the term "Polonaise" was used in France for music or dance that seemed Polish in character (like the use of "Allemande" for Germany-seeming pieces)(Little 194).

In 1645, a French writer declared, "I know of no dance in which so much loveliness, dignity and charm are united as in the polonaise. It is the only dance which becomes exalted persons and monarchs and which is suited to courtly dress. . . ." (Sachs 424). It eventually became the opening dance for a Polish ball.

However, I collected vague, third-hand references to other dances done at court as early as the sixteenth century: "first the ladies danced, carrying garlands and moving in twos, one pair behind the other; next young men danced, also grouped in twos; then the men approached the women to partner them in processional dances." (Ency.) Those processional dances, of course, may have included the precursor to the Polonaise.

Spain

In 1594, Lope de Vega's comedia El Maestro de Danzar said that dancing "makes the ugly beautiful, and the beautiful even more perfect." (Esses 518). "Under Philip IV, from 1621 to 1665, dance and courtly behavior were so important as to form almost a religious code." (Ency. 668). Even a century later, Bartolomeo Ferriol y Boxeraus' Reglas utiles para los aficionados a danzar (1745) declared the skill of dancing to be "an emblem of the man of court" (Esses 519).

There is only one surviving dance treatise from Spain (Navarro, 1642), so it's difficult to form a clear picture of Spanish court dancing. Negri's 1602 treatise was translated into Spanish in 1630; in general, there was a strong Italian influence on court dancing in Castile and Andalusia. (Ency.)

The court entertainments that featured some sort of dancing included the sarao and the mascara. The sarao was "a gathering of respected persons of high social station in order to enjoy instrumental music and courtly dances." (De Murcia 96); it was essentially a dance suite, without a strong dramatic thread, performed for a small audience. The mascara required the dancers to portray particular characters, and had some semblance of a plot.

Perhaps the most unusual feature of Spanish court dance culture was the "dancing duel" (reto) described by Esquivel Navarro (1642). The offended dancer went to the offender's dance studio, requested that the alta (the standard opening dance) be played, and as he danced it, he proclaimed, "I challenge and dare so-and-so, a pupil of so-and so, to dance four mudancas of the pavana, six passeos of the gallards, two mudancas of the folias, two of the rey, and two of the villano, chacona, canario and rastro, to the sound of good accompaniment, to see who does more and who looks better." (Esses 521). The challenger had to put his money where his mouth was, depositing a stake with the senor maestro whose studio was to be the venue for the duel. (Half the stake to go to the victor, and the remainder to the musicians). And the challenger even had to name seconds!

To accept the duel, the challenged also had to dance the alta and declare (hat off), "It has come my attention that so-and-so . . . has challenged me to dance." He then put his hat back on as arrogantly as possible (which for a Spanish nobleman, was arrogant indeed) and formally accepted the challenge, including making a matching deposit and naming his own seconds.

In 1637, Esquivel himself issued one of these challenges; he was a Madrileno who had just arrived in Seville, and one of the maestros of the escuela he had visited had "criticized his dancing behind his back." Esquivel issued a general challenge to all comers, and no one showed up for the duel. This in turn validated the dancing style Esquivel had learned from his master, Antonio de Almenda. (Esses 521).

Descriptions of Particular Court Dances

Sources

Our principal sources for early seventeenth century court dance figures are the manuals written by various dancing masters. While we have perhaps a dozen of these from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, there are problems working with them. First, they make assumptions, such as that the reader already knows the basic steps, or at least the character of the movements (how high you lift your leg, for example). Secondly, they don't necessarily clearly indicate the timing of the movements. Finally, the fact that a treatise was written in 1600 doesn't mean that it actually reflects what was still being done in 1600; the writer's heyday as a dancer might have been a quarter-century earlier.

If all we have is a reference to the dance by name, without any description—in a diary or chronicle, perhaps—then we have no way of knowing whether the dance being done then is in fact identical or even similar to the dance of the same name done at an earlier or later time.

If the reference to the dance is in the name of a piece of music—as the name of a movement, perhaps—then we don't know whether the dance was in fact being done then. The music could have come before the dance, or the dance could have died out but music was still being written for it.

Dance Technique

The effect of costume on dance technique cannot be overestimated. Clothes can constrict what parts of the body can move where and the overall weight of one's outfit has an effect on stamina.

Costumes varied, of course, by time, place and social class, but as a reasonable example of what one would have to put up with in the course of seventeenth century court dancing, visualize the men wearing starched ruff, doublet, breeches, boots, hat, sword, and cape, and the woman either a corseted bodice and double skirt, or a corseted gown. The ruff and corset imprisoned the head and torso, so the ladies' garb forced reliance on intricate and rapid footwork.

http://laracorsets.com/History_of_the_corset_03_17thCentury.htm

Modern ballet is marked by a pronounced turnout of the toes. We know from paintings and dance manuals that in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the Italians used parallel feet or slight turnout. Caroso said that it was "most ugly to point one foot south and the other north, as if the feet were deformed."

In France, Arbeau said that the amount of turnout was at the discretion of the dancer, but should not be more than a right angle. He warned that it should be less for the man as it imparted a feminine look. But by 1637, more turnout was favored; De Lauze urged "toes well outward" to facilitate movements from the hip.

The appearance of shoes with heels (long known in Asia) in the 1570s no doubt encouraged the stamping sequences of the canary.

The entrechat, a rapid crossing and re-crossing of the legs before and behind while in the air, was known in our period; a picture from 1637 shows one (Sachs 121), and Arbeau (1589) describes an early form (the capriole).

The principal couple hold was hand in hand, but there were definitely peasant dances which featured the closer hold with hands on shoulders or shoulder blades—See, in Theodore de Bry (1528-98)'s Peasants Dance the second-to-last couple, and in his Court Dance, the first couple (in turning position, with hands on waist and shoulder)(Sachs Plate 24).

"Aerials"—figures in which the man lifted his partner—appeared in a few dances, and of course required a strong connection. In Branle Official (Arbeau 1589), the man lifted his partner by the waist, In Lavolta (Arbeau 1589), he put one hand under her busk and the other around her waist. There is also a lift in the balleto La Nizzarda (Negri 1602).

Branles (Brawls, Brandi)

In Love's Labor Lost, Armando's page says "Master, will you please win your love with a French brawl." The French dancing master Arbeau says that it evolved from French folk dances. However, its roots may be deeper; the branle simple has the hora pattern (two steps in one direction, one in the other) that is found all over Europe.

Of course, the spirit of one-upmanship inherent in court dancing guaranteed that more complicated branles would be devised. John Marston, The Malcontent (1604) Act IV makes fun of complex "brawl" dance patterns (and the description seems like Arbeau's Branle de Malte):

Aurelia (Duchess): We have forgot the brawl.

Ferrardo (Duke's minion): So soon? 'Tis wonder.

Guerrino (courtier). Why? 'Tis but two singles on the left, two on the right, three doubles forward, a traverse of six round; do this twice, three singles side, galliard trick of twenty, coranto-pace, a figure of eight, three singles broken, down, come up, meet, two doubles, fall back, and then honor.

Aur: O Daedalus, thy maze! I have quite forgot it.

Maquerelle (guarding the duchess' door from interruption): Trust me, so have I, saving the falling back and then honour.

When you consider how quickly modern dances go out of favor, the longevity of the branle is amazing. Isabelle d'Este and Anna Sforza danced French country dances, which perhaps were branles, in 1491 (Sachs 111). According to Antonius de Arena, by 1528, three types were done at balls. (Ency 522). Milanese royalty danced a brandi for 8 in 1574; 82 dancers enjoyed a brandi in 1594. Arbeau's 1589 dance treatise (Orchesography) sets forth steps for 24 branles, and there are many branles in de Lauze's 1623 monograph. Six types are mentioned by Mersennes (yes, the mathematician!) in 1636.

In the reigns of French kings from Francis I to Louis XIV, the French ball began with series of branles. Mersenne (1636), for example, describes a suite comprising five branles and a gavotte. (Sachs 385).

However, by the mid-seventeenth century, the branle was fading in popularity. In 1642, in Spain it was an old dance that dance masters had to know but which wasn't actually danced. Still, Pepys saw branles at a court ball in 1666 (Sachs 124), and it was still identified as the first dance of the ball in Rameau (1725).

The branle was a group dance, done as a chain or circle. Arbeau (1589) says that it was done by "as many young men as do damsels," implying that men and women alternated, and elsewhere indicates that the lady is on the right. It appears that it was permissible for the more energetic dancers to "ornament" the figures, putting in little springs on their steps, or substituting a triple-scissor for a step-close. Some of the branles feature miming movements—beating the washing like a washerwoman, or pawing the ground like a horse.

Pavane

There are two theories about the name of this dance. One is that it is from "padovana" or "paduana," meaning a dance from Padua. The other is that it's from "pavone," peacock, and I confess that I find the second explanation more appealing.

The pavane is a slow processional couple dance which is more about showing off how elegantly the dancers are dressed than how "musical" or "agile" they are. It may perhaps be compared with the nineteenth-century ballroom form of the Polonaise (another walking dance), with wedding and graduation processions, or even with modern "voguing." It was often done as part of a suite, in which case it was usually followed by a saltarello or galliard.

One common figure, shorn of ornamentation, combines two "singles" (step-close, step-close) and a "double" (step-step-step-close), totaling eight counts. This can be done forward, backward, or turning ("conversion"). In converting, the woman always travels forward (probably to avoid "wardrobe malfunction"). Other combinations of singles and doubles are possible.

The dance is mentioned in Dalza's Intabolatura di Lauto (Venice 1508). The combination of forward and backward movement existed by 1520 because that's when Giovanni Andrea da Prato wryly admitted that his writing style had this in common with the pavane. In 1589, Arbeau said that the pavane is a grand processional for royalty and great nobility on a feast day, or for the entry of a god, goddess, emperor or king in a masque, or to open a grand ball. It's mentioned by Mersennes (1636) and Navarro (Spain, 1642) but by then was probably already in decline. Please note that it survived in music well after the dance itself became extinct. (Ency. 114)

Allemande, Almain, Alman, Allemayne

This was another processional dance, performed in England in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The name implies that it was derived from a German dance. Wilson (Inns of Court) says that the Almain ended double and single steps with a raised leg rather than closing the feet as in the Pavane. Arbeau (1588) describes a French version, but it was no longer danced in France in 1636 (per Mersennes). A version for two couples is described by Negri 1602. (Ency.)

The (Old) Measures

This is not a single dance, but rather a group of dances traditionally done together at the English Inns of Court. It isn't clear that all of them would be done the same night, mind you. They are the Quadran Pavan, Turkelone (Lone Turk?), Earle of Essex Measure, Tinternall, Lorrayne Allemayne, Auld Alman, Brounswycke, Queen's Almaine, Newe Allemayne, Madam Sosilia Alman and Black Almaine. Our sources for these dances are dated 1570, 1606, 1630, and more vaguely as "mid to late seventeenth century." The term "measures" may also be a generic term for the class of processional dances including both pavanes and almains. (Pugliese & Casazza).

Courante

As a musical form, the courante dates back to the mid sixteenth century. There is a problematic description of a "Caranto Dyspane" in a record of dances done at a 1570-ish Inns of Court revel, and equally confusing descriptions in Arbeau (1589), Negri (1602), and De Lauze (1623).

The courante provides a good example of the same name being used, at different times, for quite different dances. Arbeau says that it was a duple meter dance done with "little springs" and Shakespeare refers to "swift courantos"; you may think of it as a pavane with hops, or as being somewhat like the nineteenth-century Schottische. However, the courante done at the court of Louis XIV was the "slowest and most noble" of the triple meter couple dances. It lost favor to the minuet in the 1660s.

Minuet

Praetorius in Terpsichore (1612) said it was descended from Branle de Poitou, whereas Taubert (1717) said it was from the courante. In any event, it superseded the courante as Louis XIV's favorite dance. Unfortunately, the first useful descriptions of the dance are from 1725 and 1735, which makes it problematic to determine what its movement vocabulary was in the 1630s.

Galliard, Gagliarda

In the assemblies held by the English Inns of Court, a pavane would be followed by a galliard. In Chaucerian England, the word had the meaning of "valiant" or "high-spirited." The first literary English reference to the galliard as a dance was in 1539 (OED). The Morris dance term "galley" is in turn derived from "galliard," and refers to a circular motion of the foot, hanging from a raised and bent knee.

However, the dance is of Italian origin. In 1497, Vincenzo Calmeta complained that Bianca Lucia Stanga of Milan "has taken up fencing, dancing the gagliarda, carrying a dagger, wearing a cape like a braggart or gallant, and other doings which the female sex must not only avoid but abhor." (per Sparti's introduction to Compasso's Ballo della Gagliarda). In 1529, Arena calls it a "new and very refined dance . . . makes one sweat . . . makes us gasp for breath . . . makes my legs ache." (Aerobic, in other words.) Its popularity in Italy may be judged by the fact that it was the only dance included in every known Italian treatise or dance collection written or republished between 1560-1630.

The Shakespearean plays contain several references; in Twelfth Night, Sir Toby asks, "What is thy excellence in a galliard . . ." and Sir Andrew answers, "I can cut a caper . . . I think I have the back trick . . ." And later Toby adds "I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace."

So what does that all mean? The caper (capriole) is a fancy form of the final jump (saut major; cadence) of the basic galliard step; the term has carried over to English morris dancing (as a high leaping step) and as "cabriole" to ballet (a cabriole is a jump with the leading leg raised 45 or even 90 degrees and the following leg beat against it). The "back trick" is the ruade, a backward kick with one foot while leaping on the other. (Of course, it has lewder meanings. . . .) The "sink-a-pace" is one of those delightful English bastardizations of French, here of cinque passe, five steps. The basic galliard step is five steps in six counts of music, the fifth step, the saut major being delayed.

Shakespeare's interest in the galliard wasn't surprising, given Queen Elizabeth's (1533-1603) attitude toward it. She danced 6–7 galliards in morning for exercise; at a royal ball, she allowed one pavane at beginning of ball for the old fogies, and then the rest of the time the participants were expected to dance the galliards. Even in 1599, she was seen dancing 3–4 galliards, and more surprisingly, in April 1602, she did two galliards with the Duke of Nevers.(Eng 45)

De Lauze's Apologie de la Danse (1623) offers descriptions of many more corantos than galliards. Depending on whether your cup is half-full or half-empty, this could be read as showing that the galliard was still popular in France, or that it was losing ground to the coranto. Indeed, the galliard was also referred to by Mersennes (1636) and Navarro (1642).

The galliard took a variety of forms. It could be danced by a lone male or female, a single couple, a fixed set of couples, or a changing set. It was probably most often danced by a single couple. In late sixteenth century France, as described by Arbeau, the couple did a reverence (bow), and walked around the room. The woman executed traveling galliard steps moving away from her partner (who stood in place or danced simply), and then he danced over to and in front of her. Then he would dance away and she would dance to join him. This flirtatious separate-and-rejoin motif would be repeated until the music stopped.

Arbeau also mentions a variation ("Lyonaisse") in which the man dances with a woman, then withdraws. She dances alone then chooses another partner. After a while, it is her turn to withdraw, and eventually her partner chooses another woman to dance with. This is what we call a "single couple progressive" dance, "progressive" indicating that there is a regular change of partners within a single dance. Negri "rule 54" describes a two couple "progressive" Italian form, which operates in an analogous manner.

Galliards also appeared as "movements" in dance suites (balleto) performed by a fixed set (usually 2–4) of couples. And the gagliarda was a popular "number" in the Italian intermedii, plays with dance and music.

Although there were standard figures, improvisation was common and expected. Each dancer no doubt developed and to some extent practiced privately an individual repertoire, to serve as a base for inspiration (or to fall back upon if inspiration failed) when dancing for an audience. This is, in fact, what happens with improvisational folk dances, such as the virtuoso Transylvanian men's dances, Pontozo and Legenyes.

The dancing masters were happy to invent and teach (for a price) new galliard figures for those to whom innovation didn't come naturally. And figures were published in dance treatises for those who couldn't afford individual instruction. Reviewing just the Italian treatises, Compasso (1561) taught 165 variations, Lutii (1589) 35 (or 32); Lupi (1607) 200; Negri (1602) 50. In France, Arbeau's Orchesography taught 20 different figures.

The solo dance had no set length, and could continue until the musicians took pity on the dancer and stopped, or played so long or fast that the dancer surrendered. (Wilson).

All of the galliard variations that have come to my attention have an odd number of weight changes; consequently, if you start with left foot free, you end with right foot free. The dancing manuals all insist on a rule of symmetry, that is, each figure is done twice, one to the left side and once to the right side. (The same rule also applies in modern Irish step dancing, most likely because it's a performance dance and the repetition makes it easier for an "adjudicator" to spot a mistake. There are folk dances that do not follow a rule of symmetry; you can do different variations to left and right. And there are many folk and ballroom dances in which the figure has an even number of weight changes and hence can be repeated without reversal.)

However, it is not necessary that the galliard variation be a single measure. It may stretch over two or more measures, but the "cadence" (the delayed high leap into a rest posture) comes only at the end of the variation. If there is no combination or division of beats (e.g. replacement of four movements with two or six), then the one measure variation is five movements (hence, "cinque passe"), the two measure ones, 11, the three measure ones, 17, and so on, leading to an extended variation being called a "passage" or "trick" of 11, 17, 23, etc. (Some sources would instead call these tricks of 10, 15, 20, etc., i.e., an integer multiple of the 5 "steps" of the single measure figure.)

Tourdion

This was a variant on the galliard, done to quicker music but with quieter steps. It, too, was sometimes paired with the Pavane to form a short suite.

Saltarello

An Italian dance of this name is known to have existed as early as the fifteenth century, but the only useful documentation is from Caroso in the late sixteenth century. It was a fast dance, and in musical suites, it often followed a pavane. However, it differed from both galliards and tourdions.

Volta (lavolta)

The name means "turn," and the word is used in fifteenth-century Italian dance manuals as a generic term for a turning movement or for a turning couple dance. However, the dance with the characteristic "aerial" for the woman can only be dated to the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.

Arbeau (1589) is our principal source for this dance. He characterizes it as a kind of galliard, popular (and perhaps invented) in Provence. Some authorities assert that it came from Italy, but I believe that this is based on a misreading of those dance manuals.

In one variation, the couple first dances some basic cinque passe galliard steps, and then moves into the turning position. In another, the same step used for turning is also used as a processional.

The hold is quite unusual. The woman stands at right angles to the man. In the position for a clockwise turn, the woman is on the man's left; the man has his left arm around her waist, and his right hand is holding the bottom of her busk. (This is the stiffening element at the center front of a corset.) Her right hand is on his back or collar, for support, and her left hand holds down her skirt. (Despite this precaution, according to a 1570 French observer, the leap showed "something delightful to the eye." The male eye, at least.)

They take two small steps, both dancers starting with the left foot, and then the woman jumps into the air while the man raises his left leg. The man pushes her around with his left thigh as he pivots on his right foot, and they both land with weight on both feet. There are thus a total of three weight changes for the six count galliard measure. The turning can be repeated, with or without the aerial. The hold and steps can also be reversed, to turn counter-clockwise.

This may be a bit difficult to visualize. If you resort to the internet, you will eventually come across the painting that hangs in the solar at Penshurst Place in Kent, the home of the Sidney family since 1552. According to the visitor's guide, it portrays Elizabeth I and Robert Dudley (Earl of Leicester) dancing "La Volta." There is no doubt that it shows "La Volta," but it has been disputed whether the identities of the dancers is correct. The National Portrait Gallery classifies it, somewhat cryptically, as "Elizabeth I: borderline false." (Gristwood 288). Jansohn (110) dismisses it as a "genre painting," and likely inaccurate in its portrayal of "passive female legs" (in the painting, the woman appears to be sitting on the man's thigh, which is rather unlikely).

The Volta has appeared in the movies, too, but these renditions are usually not to be trusted (in particular, Cate Blanchett and Joseph Fiennes in the 1997 Elizabeth). I can recommend watching the following reconstructions:

By the group "Saltarello" (Heidelberg Germany)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QLG0ZgfAXPk

By Bella Lovegrend (Eger Hungary)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQaCnwR3UQY

The dance was apparently popular in late sixteenth century France, because Arbeau teaches it even though he express strong doubts about the wisdom of performing it: ". . . she will feel her brain reeling and her head full of dizzy whirlings; and you yourself will perhaps be no better off. I leave it to you to judge whether it is a becoming thing for a young girl to take long strides and separations of the legs, and whether in this lavolta both honor and health are not . . . at stake." (Sutton 121)

It was the dance that some observers loved to hate. Johann von Munster (1597), who saw it at the French court in 1582, complained that the lord "grasps her in an unseemly place" and expressed amazement that "such a lewd and unchaste dance . . . should be officially permitted and publicly practiced." Similar views were expressed over half a century later by Johannes Praetorius (1668): "it is a whirling dance full of scandalous, beastly gestures and immodest movements."(Knowles 19)

There were safety concerns, too. Guillaume Bouchet (1597) warned that the dance had caused "an infinite number of murders and miscarriages" (Ency.) and Praetorius repeated the warning. More reasonably, the diary of "R.Z." (1600) cautioned that if the dancers don't pivot fast enough, "they may both fall," but if they turn too quickly, they will get dizzy. (And probably fall anyway.) (Id.) And from personal experience, I can say that it is easy to lose one's balance while doing a complicated partner lift from a one-legged support.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the risk to body and soul, it was (as Munster admitted) a popular dance at the court of Henry III (reigned 1575-1589), with the king being "first and foremost." Nor was he the only royal fan; in England, both Elizabeth I and James I favored it. (In the movie Elizabeth: The Golden Age, the queen declares, "I require all my ladies to learn it." In that scene, Bess Raleigh is taught the dance; according to IMBD trivia, "there were so many retakes that the actress was sore and had trouble walking the next day."

In Shakespeare's Henry V, the Duke of Bourbon refers to "lavoltas high", and in Troilus and Cressida, Troilus complains that he cannot "heel the high lavolt."

In William Cavendish and James Shirley's 1640-ish comedy, The Variety, a dancing master in old-fashioned (Elizabethan) dress, assumed to be Elizabeth's dancing master Thomas Cardell, dances a volta: "he put his right arme about her, and took her left hand in his, and when he did so touze her with his right thigh and legg, and lift her up so high, and so fast, and so round . . . marry as sonon as he had ended his dance she would lye down as dead as a swing'd chicken, with the head under the wing, so dizzie was she, and so out of breath." (Jansohn 139)

Several authorities state that the dance was banned from the court of Louis XIII (reigned 1610-1643) but they didn't cite any primary sources.

It's interesting that in 1668, Pretorius said that it was "a new galliard" and a "foreign dance," as it implies that the dance was still being performed and had reached the Gemanies.

La Nizzarda

Another dance with the man lifting the woman, identified in Lope de Vega's El Maestro de Danzar (1594) as a French dance. The name can be translated as "The Girl from Nice", which would make a good title for a thriller. Sachs points out that Nice is in Provence, the point of origin of the Volta, according to Arbeau. However, the Volta is a galliard variant, and La Nizzarda definitely isn't.

The dance was described by the painter Frederigo Zuccharo in 1600 and the dance master Negri in 1602. It was apparently still around, or at least still remembered, in late in the seventeenth century, as Corsini's Torrachione Desolato (1660) identifies it as the dance out of which "much mischief grows." (Sachs 378)

Canary (Canarie, Canario)

This is presumably named after the Canary Islands. The dance was first mentioned in a 1554 Spanish source (Diego Sanchez de Badajoz). It had the separate-and-rejoin motif, with male or female solos alternating with dancing in unison, that we saw previously in the galliard. However, it took this a step further, as it often featured a pedalogue (talking with feet); one partner would challenge the other with a syncopated heel-and-toe stamping step (akin to the modern Mexican zapateado or Spanish flamenco), inviting a response in kind. Think "Dueling Banjos," but with feet. We know from later sources (1598, 1611) that castanets were used.

We have detailed dance descriptions, suitable for reconstruction, from the Italian dance masters, but none later than 1607. However, it is clear from Mersennes (1637) and Navarro (1642) that the dance was still popular in Europe in the 1630s. According to Rousseau, the dance per se was gone by 1768. However, individual canary figures may have survived as elements in other Spanish dances; a stamped passo di canario figure is mentioned in a 1745 treatise. Also, the canario is still a type of Spanish folk song.

Sarabande, Zarabanda

There isn't enough known about the dance to reconstruct its steps, but it made quite a splash while it lasted. Apparently, it made the volta look staid, being rife with sexually suggestive pantomime. A 1583 ordinance punished it with two hundred lashes, followed by six years in the galleys for men, and exile for women. (Sachs 367). Nonetheless, Thomas Platter the Younger saw it danced in Barcelona in 1599 by as many as fifty couples at one time. By 1618, it appeared to have received some measure of grudging acceptance, as it was one of the dance numbers, paired with a tourdion, in a comedy performed for the court. And by 1621, a character in Lope's La Villane de Jetafe dismissed it as "muy vieja."

While old hat in Spain, it was the new sensation in Italy and France. In Italy, Giambattista Marino complained (1623) about the "dirty fellow who has brought this barbarism upon us." And in 1625, it was integrated into a French court ballet, La Douairiere de Billebahaut. Some version of it was even danced at Versailles in 1697, at the wedding of the Duke of Burgundy.

Gavotte

The name of the dance comes from the word "gavaud"; a bent leg. The court dance possibly evolved from a folk dance in Gavotte, southeastern France; Rameau (1725) says it came from Lyonnois and Dauphiny.

According to Arbeau, in the late sixteenth century it was a branle-like dance done after a suite of branles, combining branle (with hops) and galliard elements. Each couple danced alone, then kissed the other dancers. Or the lord kissed all the ladies and the lady kissed all the lords. (One can readily perceive the popular appeal of this dance.)

We know from notated music that the dance was done in duple time. Step reconstruction is problematic, as the steps changed radically between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries. In 1623, there were at least three different gavottes, with regional variants; each had unique floor pattern and music (this is perhaps true of all French dances of the period, but it is certainly true of the branles.)

In the first third of the seventeenth century, a branle suite evolved, and became standardized as five different branles then a single gavotte. This suite was done at the beginning of a French ball up through say 1680s, per Rameau. A new type of gavotte appeared in Lully's ballets of 1653 and thereafter; it did not accompany a branle. The gavotte continued to be danced in theater after it had disappeared from social dance.

Gavotte is also a type of modern French folk dance, but the two gavottes that I have learned have nothing obvious in common with the seventeenth century form.

Bourree

The bourree was a folk dance from Auvergne. There is a certain amount of dispute as to when it became a court dance. Sachs (409) admits that it was performed in 1565 at "a court festival in honor of Catherine de Medici," but insists that the performance was by imported locals and thus was still a folk dance. He thinks it significant that even in 1676, Madame de Sevigne expressed regret that it wasn't done at Versailles. However, a bourree was included in Le Ballet de la Delivrance de Renaud (1617).

During the period 1650-1750, it was performed at court first as a simple couple dance (danses a deux) and then as a contredanse (more about which shortly). (Ency.)

Gigue

Depending on who you ask, the name comes from German geige (violin), or Old French giguer (to leap, gambol or frolic), or English jig. A gigue appeared in a Lully ballet in 1660, but the first dance description is from 1700. This gigue—as distinct from the English jig—is outside our period. However, the gigue music of Bach and Handel has probably been preserved in Grantville and may inspire dance compositions.

Folk Dancing

Ritual dances

Some rural dances were ritual dances of pagan origin. The best examples, perhaps, are the Romanian Calusarii (mentioned in the Codex Caioni; Caioni lived 1629-1687) and the English Morris dance. The dancers wore bells on their feet (to scare away the fairies) and their faces were blackened (so the fairies wouldn't recognize them later on). The dancers had to observe various taboos and were thought to have healing powers. The Morris became somewhat Christianized; one Morris tune has the words, "Hark now to the angels sing, 'Glory to the Morris Ring.'"

Both of these dances survived to the present-day, although of course we have no way of knowing how much their figures have changed over the years. The Morris dance as described by Arbeau does not sound like an English Morris as taught today, but it's possible that the French boy who performed it for Arbeau had copied the costume but made up the steps.

There were also urban ritual dances, the guild dances. These were held at the annual guild assembly, and during guild-sponsored festivals, usually during the Carnival season. Guild festival dates were exclusive; no other guild could hold a festival the same day in the same town. However, one guild could support another; for example, the knifesmiths and sometimes the weavers and cabinetmakers were invited to perform dances at the Nurnberg butchers' festival.

There were typically three dance elements in a guild festival. The first was the processional, in which the guild members cavorted through the city. (If you visualize a Mardi Gras parade without the floats, you have the right idea.) Secondly, the procession would stop from time to time at inns, hostelries, private mansions, brothels and ultimately the guild hall to enjoy ballroom dances (and other activities). Finally, there was the "signature" dance, most likely held in the village square. Coopers danced with hoops, knifesmiths and furriers with swords, weavers with garlands, butchers with rings (representing sausages), and so on.

Social dances

In contrast, other folk dances were done for entertainment (and flirtation). We know that these included line, circle and couple dances, and the couple dances could themselves be done with the couples in a column, in a circle, or scattered across the dance floor. The couples could dance with or without holding hands.

Unfortunately, the dancing masters usually didn't bother to describe these dances in a manner that permits their reconstruction. Most of our knowledge of period peasant dances is from paintings, which of course are mere "snapshots" of the dance. However, we have a greater knowledge of English country dances, which I will take up first in the country-by-country survey that follows.

England

Morris dancers of the English Midlands performed in the spring or in mid-summer, in teams of six men, twirling handkerchiefs or clashing sticks. The teams were accompanied by characters of unusual aspect and behavior, such as the Fool, Maid Marian, and the Hobby-Horse. There were also solo Morris dances (jigs); in 1600, William Kemp danced from London to Norwich, a feat that was called the Nine Days Wonder.

In contrast, the English sword dancers appeared in mid-winter. One of the characteristic figures was the formation of a "rose," interlocked longswords. These might be joined around the neck of a kneeling participant; when the swords are pulled away, this person fell to the ground. (Sharp 38). In some cases, this victim is revived afterward.

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Thomas Richards's Misogonus refers "country dauncis" (performed in 1559 by Children of the Chapel). Davies, Orchestra 1590-94 speaks of rounds and hays. Nashe lists dances on village green including Green Sleeves and Pepper is Black. A music book (Morley 1597) refers to country dances in music book. The masques of James I made use of country dances.

Playford's English Dancing Master (1651) provided figures and tunes for 105 country dances. This is our principal source of dance descriptions for seventeenth-century English country dances, but unfortunately it was published two decades after RoF. We know the names of several pre-RoF country dances, including Green Sleeves, Pepper is Black, Sellengers Round, and Shaking of the Sheets, but we can't be sure that the 1630s version of these dances hadn't changed in the interim. There is only a small stock of dance descriptions of pre-Playford country dances, and the manuscripts in question disagree with each other and with Playford. (Marsh 5).

The Playford dances are of two types, those with fixed sets of two, three or four couples, and the "longways" sets for "as many as will." The longways sets were columns of couples, and the practical limit on the length of the column was the size of the room (and the ability of the couples to hear the musicians). I suspect that when the country dances were done at court revels, the dancers lined up in order of rank.

It's likely that country dances were originally "round" (circle) dances, that having been the formation necessary for an indoor dance in earlier times, when rooms were warmed by a central firepit rather than a ceremony. A 1622 poem (Davies, Orchestra) refers to "Rounds or Country Dances." But the majority of the dances in even the 1652 Playford collection are of the longways type.

Because a column of couples could be considered a line of men facing a line of women, when the English country dancing was exported to France in the mid-seventeenth century, it acquired the name contradanse. Likewise, the English country squares were "rebranded" as "cotillons" (1716) and later as "quadrilles" (early nineteenth century). The French squares and contradanses spread in turn to Germany by the late seventeenth century. (Ironically, as the English form had virtually died out, it was the French form that was imported to America in the late eighteenth century.)

Our best evidence that the longways dance had been invented by the RoF, curiously, is from a French source: De Lauze, Apologie de la Danse (1623) says that "measures" and "contradanses" are the typical English dances. (Ency.)

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One period oddity is the "cushion dance" that is referred to in Selden's table talk (1620s). I suspect this is like the Romanian Perinitsa, in which the "active" man or woman dances around the room, picks out a partner, lays down a cushion and they kneel on it and kiss. The partner then becomes the active dancer and picks a new victim. The cushion dance of Scotland was called "Babbity Browser" or "Bee Baw Babbity" and had the same "pick-and-kiss" motif; it was often the finishing dance of a ball.

****

The solo or pair competition jig and hornpipe, and a round hornpipe for couples, had entered the English dance repertoire by the late sixteenth century. Indeed, Spelman (1609) thought that American Indian dancing was similar to "our darbyshire hornpipe". (Ency.)

Scotland

We know the Scots had "circle of couples" dances in 1549, and some kind of Morris dance is mentioned in a 1568 source. OED cites "Newes from Scotland" (1591) as showing that Scots "took hands" to dance a "reel." The one observed was danced to "Cummer Gae Ye Afore," and it was some kind of ring dance in which one circled widdershins (counter-clockwise). The earliest reference to the strathspey (a slow dance with a sliding step) is from 1653. The Highland Fling is possibly mentioned in a poem from 1570, and it may have evolved from the reel. (Self).

On January 7, 1623, the church authorities in Elgin fined five men 40 shillings each for sword dancing in the church courtyard. We don't know if this meant the dance was performed by a five man team, or whether some of the dancers escaped official attention—the dancers were masked. On July 8, 1633, a linked sword dance was performed for Charles I at Perth by the company of glovers. (Domestic Annals of Scotland) It has been suggested that this was of Scandinavian origin (Self).

Dating the solo crossed sword dance (Gillie Callum) is more problematic. One theory is that it was an ancient pre-battle divination ritual; avoid jostling the swords as you danced over them, and you would survive the battle. (Since the dance measured dexterity, and surefootedness has its value in sword-fighting, this may have had some predictive value.) Others claim that it was done after the battle, one of the swords being the former property of a deceased foe (indeed, that the dance was first done by Malcolm, of Shakespearean fame, in 1054). In "Federico and Ginger" (Grantville Gazette 4), I assumed that Federico had learned the dance on a past visit to Scotland.

Ireland

Fynes Moryson, an English visitor, reported in 1600 that the Irish had country dances, and "withy" and sword dances, and did not dance "measures" or galliards. (Brennan 16). The same Irish dance types are again referred to in a poem from 1669, so it's a safe bet that they were done in the 1630s. Surprisingly, Irish references to the jig, reel and hornpipe don't appear until the eighteenth century. (20ff.)

Germany and Austria

In rural areas, between Christmas and Epiphany, masked young men, equipped with bells or rattles, performed ritual dances whose purpose seems to have been similar to that of the English Morris and Romanian Calusarii. During the sixteenth century, at least, "they were often performed with religious trappings . . . to veil their pagan origins." (Ency.)

The townsmen had the ritual dances of the guilds, in particular the barrelmakers, butchers, cutlers, shoemakers and bakers. A colored pen drawing shows "The Sword Dance of the Cutters Guild" as performed in Nurnberg, 1600. (Sharp 19;):http://media-2.web.britannica.com/eb-media/52/9152-050-DEF638FD.jpg

Artwork reveals that German peasant dances existed, and included both couple and non-couple dances. Unfortunately, I have no specifics about he dances of northern Germany.

"Regional dances of southern Germany in the seventeenth century included the Dreher ('spinning top'), Schleifer ('slide'), and many forms of Landler (or Laendler), a slow dance in 3/4 time." (Ency.) The Laendler is named after Landl, a town in the mountain region (Styria) of northwest Austria, and it was also called the Steyrertanz.

The Dreher is mentioned as early as 1406, in the Schleswig Chronicle. (Jaffe 161). In 1520, Kunz Haz of Nurnberg complained that at weddings, "Now they dance the wild weller/The spinner or what they may call it." (Sachs 381). The couple turning dances (Dreher, Laendler, etc.) required a close hold, with hands on shoulders, shoulder blades, or waist. Such a close hold is shown in Heinrich Aldegrever's The Wedding Dancers (1538), and Montaigne reportedly saw one of the couple turning dances in 1580, in the House of the Fuggers in Austria. (378).

These turning dances—and not the volta as some Francophiles would have it—are the precursors of the Viennese waltz. However, the real Vienna waltz was a nineteenth-century creation. It is certainly known in Grantville, as it is a part of the standard ballroom dance repertoire (albeit in a differently stylized form).

Sweden

In 1555, Olaus Magnus mentioned the Sword Dance and the Bow Dance. I have no particulars concerning social dances of the period.

Netherlands

We know that "Morris dances" (not necessarily the same as the English ones) and sword dances were done, because town guilds paid for performances, and town councils sometimes banned them. Another ritual dance was the Zevensprong (seven jumps), but I am dubious about the claim that it dated back to Teutonic times.

There is a rich body of Dutch art depicting dancers in action, but the dances aren't usually named.

In the northern provinces, there are dances with names like Skotse Fjouwer (Scottish Flower), that perhaps reflect a Scottish influence. These could have been introduced by Scots mercenaries, who were in the Netherlands from the late sixteenth century, but I am just not sure that they were known in our period. Certainly, the quadrilles of the eastern and southern provinces came from France only in the late seventeenth century.

Poland

The earliest known dance song is from 1488; music for 27 dances was published in 1537–48 by Joaannis de Lublin. (Ency.)

Hungary

According to Gyorgy Martin (17), "A French seventeenth-century abbot tells of dancing at the princely court of Transylvania where chain dances resembling the Branle were followed by couple dances like the French Contra-Danse."

Within the old layer (pre-1800) of Hungarian folk dances, we first have the maiden's round dances (Karikazos); Ference Arpati's Cantilena (1570) refers to "girls running around briskly." Based on the more extensive documentation from the nineteenth century onward, the Hungarians didn't think of these as really being dances, as they were done to singing, when the musicians were taking a break. Consequently, they could be enjoyed during Lent. Only unmarried woman who were eligible for marriage could participate. These dances had fixed steps, there was no improvisation.

Next, there are the heavily improvised herdsmen's dances. Among these, we have held or thrown weapon (sword, axe) dances such as the Hajdu. The earliest references to it are apparently from the reign of Matthias Corvinus (1458-90). The only description I can quote is from Edward Brown (1673): "They dance with their naked Swords in their hands, advancing, brandishing and clashing the same; turning, winding, elevating and drpessing their bodies with strong and active motions . . ." (Martin 24) Curiously, "one Hungarian noble in 1615 sent some men with hatchets and weapons to perform a Heyduck dance to honour his son, a student in Wittenberg. They performed the dance to the sound of violins, trumpets, pipes and bagpipes."

There were also "display weapon" dances, in which one or two weapons were placed on the ground and the point was to dance over them without disturbing them.

Another development was the replacement of real weapons with substitutes, such as sticks (in the Botolo) or more unlikely props: "spits, rods, musical instruments, rush-mats, straw-ropes, rugs, ribbons, hats, caps, bottles or whips" (presumably accompanied by some choreographic changes). These faux weapon dances could be done solo (usually by a man), by two men in a mock duel, by a man and a woman (although I don't think she wielded even a frying pan or a rolling pin.), or by a group of men (sometimes using the faux weapons to link themselves together).

The herdsmen's dances also included leaping dances (Ugros) without props. At the 1572 national assembly, "after the tables were removed the military youth and the grown children of the nobleman danced in the portico . . . in a dance form which is a specialty of shepherds. . . . [Balint Balassi] crouched down to the ground, snatched his legs together, then kicked them apart, then leapt up jumping high." (Balassa 449) These ugrosok could be done by groups ( all male or of mixed gender), or by couples. Even in the seventeenth century, "'The highest lords leap the dance with women folk.'" (452)

Finally, there are the old couple dances. According to Martin, the surviving records of seventeenth-century Hungarian dance music include tunes recognizably derived from western European court and folk dance music.

The "dance cycle" as it is now called was also known in the seventeenth century, that is, in a given village there would be a fixed order of dances, for example an ugros, then a slow couple, and then a fast couple dance, leading even then to the expression "Three makes the dance!" (453)

Spain

In Seville and Toledo, on the occasion of religious feasts and royal visits, hand-picked altar boys (los seises) danced before the cathedral altars, performing pavane-like choreographies. They had what you might term "full scholarships" and were trained, at least to some degree, by dancing masters. (Ency.)

The city councils also commissioned dances to be performed in the general processions associated with these religious feasts. In these processions, the priests led the way, bearing the Host; then came distinguished dignitaries, and finally, on floats, the actors and dancers. The procession was on a predetermined route, which would be suitably decorated. From time to time it would halt for the priest to perform religious ceremonies, and for the performers to do their thing.

The bailes were short dances presented during the interludes between renditions of the autos sacramentales (a dramatic reading concerning the Eucharist). The more elaborate danzas included both dances done every year (the Sword Dance, the Tarasca, and the Dance of the Giants), and four to eight commissioned "invenciones" (ballets on historical, religious and other themes). (Brooks 147). In 1631 Seville, the invenciones were The Sarao, The Vendors of Lisbon, the Fables of Anteon, The Little King of Granada and the Sultan Qeen, The Coalgirl and The Negroes. (368)

Dancing was not limited to religious occasions; for example, at the conclusion of a merchant's fair, late in the evening when the air had cooled, there would be dancing. (Ency.)

Dancing Masters

Dancing masters didn't just teach dance, they also taught etiquette, and what we would now consider to be "PE" (albeit fencing, riding, and vaulting rather than baseball, football and basketball), composed, performed and taught music (both vocal and instrumental), and acted as master of ceremonies for special events. Some, at least, were expected to know poetry, mathematics, geometry, aesthetics, philosophy, rhetoric, painting, and sculpture.

The dancing master might be a court functionary, or be the proprietor of a dancing academy, or give lessons in pupils' homes, or even in public . The Spanish master Navarro was disdainful (1642) of itinerant masters who sat in taverns and gave dance lessons to whoever would throw money into their caps. (Ency.; Brooks).

Conclusion

Agnes de Mille wrote, "The truest expression of a people is in its dance and in its music. Bodies never lie."

Dancing is an important part of human communication, expressing comradery among villagers, facilitating courtship between members of the opposite sex, or demonstrating the physical and mental prowess of performers.

The up-timers are going to have to show that they don't have "two left feet."

****

His Name in Lights

Written by Patty Jansen

The time display said 33.16, an hour and a half after sunset. Daniel was so tired that he no longer appreciated the spectacular sky where Jupiter occupied a significant proportion of the horizon, an immense ball in white and red pajama-stripes. By its red-orange light, he staggered off the plate-ramming machine, rubbing muscles stiff with fatigue.

"Finished," he said, a pre-set command, voice-cast to the immediate surroundings. His tech-bot team needed only that one word to start packing, which they did with their usual robotic efficiency.

Oscar rose from a crouch where he had been taking measurements. His voice-cast went straight into Daniel's ears. "Hurry up. Scanner says an earthquake's coming this way."

"I'm onto it." Thank goodness, only one more job to do.

Daniel slid the vibration gun out of its housing, ran his hand over the thick rim of hardened polymer that stuck about a hand-width out of the dust, found the joint between the two plates by touch, and attached the electrodes. Click - power. The gun hummed. Along the depth of the plates, about ten meters into the yellow soil, billions of atoms heated up, re-arranged themselves and formed a new matrix that glued the two plates together, completing the ring around the planned settlement.

Done. Great. Daniel straightened and looked over the dry valley, where the rims of seven similar rings stuck out of the ground, eight concentric plastic circles, the smallest more than a hundred meters across, of carefully calibrated thickness and distance from each other: the installation that formed the planned settlement's earthquake protection shield. A beautiful design.

"I'm done. Oscar, pack up your gear and—"

Crack.

He didn't hear it—the whisper-thin atmosphere meant there was little sound—but he could feel it in the parched dust under his feet.

What the—

[override command]

[emergency module decision]

[possible scenarios: 1. something in the ground cracked, 2. the seam has split]

The voice in his head soothed him. Yes, he could have figured these possibilities out himself, but he liked to hear confirmation, a clear plan to work to.

He knelt in the yellow dust and ran his sensitive fingertips over the rim. There was a hairline crack in the seam. He pulled the vibration gun out again—

The ground rumbled.

Crack.

[override command]

[emergency decision module]

[possible scenarios: 1. something—]

Yeah, yeah, he got it; he might not be considered entirely human, but he wasn't stupid.

Now the split was wide enough for the tip of his little finger. "Um, Oscar, maybe we should go back to the truck."

[advice: survey surroundings]

The caterpillar vehicle and its trailer stood near the far perimeter of the proposed new settlement, beyond white lines painted in the dust, where the major infrastructure would be built. Two tech-bots were tying empty crates onto the trailer bed in preparation for their return to Calico Base.

[advice: monitor geological activity]

Oscar was lazily packing away the geo-scanner, tying the leads in neat bundles before putting them into the case. "I wouldn't worry about quakes now. We're inside the barrier."

[advice—]

Daniel cut off the internal voice. "A section of the inner ring just broke—Look, there, behind you!"

Black clouds billowed on the far side of the valley. Thick volcanic dust with flecks of orange. Damn it, an entire new volcano had sprung up—

[override command]

[emergency decision module]

[advice: 1. calm down, 2. prioritize personal survival]

Daniel ran, stumbling over the bucking ground. The neat white lines that demarcated the building site distorted under his feet. Rocks shook free of the yellow dirt.

To his right, a section of the outermost earthquake barrier flew out of the ground, a solid sheet of black plastic more than ten centimeters thick. The second barrier came up, buckled . . .

Yellowish sulfuric dust fell from the air, little specks of heat burning on his skin. Vision became murky. He switched to IR view. The rain of hot dust thickened. Daniel ran as fast as his human muscles and his mechanical frame could carry him.

Quick, the truck. He jumped up onto the caterpillar wheel, opened the cabin, crawled in.

[advice: 1. calm down, 2. shut cabin door]

Daniel froze. Shut the door and leave Oscar out there? He screamed into the billowing dust, "Oscar!"

[advice: volcanic dust is dangerous for equipment]

[advice: shut the—]

"Yes! Shut up!"

He grabbed his head. The module was wrong. Survival wasn't just about himself. Real people would look after each other. He wanted to be a real person.

[advice: 1. calm down, 2. shut cabin door]

It hurt, it hurt his brain. He had to obey; the stupid routine was part of him.

He slammed the hatch shut and sank in the driver's seat, jabbing at switches and buttons. Thoughts raced each other through his mind.

Oscar!

[advice: unit XRZ-26 is programmed to find his own way back]

There's no handle on the outside of the door.

[advice: unit XRZ-26 has excavation and cutting equipment]

I'm not leaving Oscar out there.

The truck powered up and displayed the surrounding terrain on the viewscreens, in IR vision. Most of the projection was a soup of gray, the regular scenery blanked out by an incredibly bright spot of spewing liquid. It looked like a water fountain, but was molten rock bursting from Io's molten interior.

"Do you copy, Oscar?"

Oscar's voice-cast came over the intercom, irregular, as if he was running. "Yes, I'm coming—" A silence and then, "Shit."

"Hang on, buddy, I'm coming."

Daniel crunched the truck into gear, but as the vehicle lurched forward, there was a sharp heave of the ground, followed by a snap. Something clanged against the outside of the cabin, and warnings flashed over the controls. A few seconds later the power flickered out. The floor tilted forward. Daniel scrambled over the seat towards the back of the vehicle, just as the front of the truck crunched into stone, and hung there, metal creaking. In the pitch dark cabin, Daniel could see nothing except the red glow of a button that said emergency.

"Oscar!"

There was no reply.

What now, what now? The inside of his head was quiet; he sensed the emergency routine was re-calibrating after he had ignored its commands and it was taking an extraordinarily long time in doing so. A moment of panic struck. Was it ever going to come back?

"Come on, tell me. What should I do now?"

Nothing. The cabin filled with eerie, throbbing darkness.

You wanted to be a regular human? Well, here you are.

Daniel hit that red glowing button.

****

President of Allion Aerospace Ltd, Eilin Gunnarsson, sat back in her chair and yawned so profoundly that tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. These last few days, at the pointy end of the project, sleep was too sparse and too short.

The picture on the forward viewscreen of the utility vessel Thor III was beyond surreal: in the blue-purple sky a hung a cluster of moons, the largest Io, roughly the size of the Moon on Earth, and behind that glimmered bright spots that were Europa and Ganymede, the conjunction a regular feature of the moons' choreographed dance around their giant planet. In the indefinite horizon between the sky and the white-pink mist of Jupiter below floated gray specks, millions upon millions of them: balloons, each filled with hydrogen and equipped with a tiny heating element and a remotely-controlled light. As the planet rotated, which it did in ten hours, the balloons distributed throughout the entire white cloud band that encircled the planet. The Thor III and two slaved robotic craft had been spewing balloons for days.

Eilin conceded that this activity might look completely nuts. Painting the Fenosa Communications company logo on the clouds of Jupiter, big enough for the well-heeled on Ganymede to see was only half of what they were doing here—the publicly-known half, which attracted ridicule, scorn and shouts about money wasted. But she'd never been much good at caring what other people thought.

The atmosphere on the bridge of the Thor III was one of intense concentration.

The pilot, Vivie Chan, only had eyes for the controls. Too high and the balloons would escape the cloud mass. Too low and the Thor III would enter the outer zone of the planet, where the thick soup of gases would create drag on the hull, heat friction and hydrogen embrittlement and all sorts of Bad Things would happen.

Next to the pilot, the two equipment operators were flat out deploying the balloons, and they could afford not a hitch in their schedule because every second of the dive towards the Big Red was carefully planned.

People throughout the system were watching this strange project, out of interest, out of curiosity, or because they'd paid millions to have it done. They were filming, from many angles, broadcasting throughout the human settlements, even to Earth.

And into this tense, concentration-filled silence, the comm beeped.

Vivie glanced aside, but kept both hands on the controls. The two equipment operators didn't stop their work.

But the comm was still beeping and after a few more you-deal-with-it glances from Vivie at the crew at large, it was Eilin who took the call, since she was no more than an observer on this flight.

She pressed the button underneath the flickering light and was blasted in the ear by the screech from an automated relay.

Ouch.

Another button, and the text scrolled over the comm screen.

mayday mayday mayday.

She stared at the screen.

"Is there a problem, Madam President?" Vivie said. She had pushed down one part of her earpiece and had half-turned in her seat.

"An alarm beacon," Eilin said, one eye on the forward viewscreen that Vivie at this moment wasn't watching and wishing she did.

"Cross-check it with base."

Eilin nodded and dialed up a different ID.

"Thor III to Forthright, do you copy?"

A moment later, a static-riddled voice came through. "Eilin, how are you going down there? I can't see anything yet."

She recognized the voice of Jacob, one of the latest batches of human-mechanical aggregates. A smile crept, unbidden, over her face. They were such nice and keen young men, always so helpful and friendly. None of this Madam formality.

"No, we haven't turned the lights on yet. We're about to release the last batch of balloons—but listen, did you guys receive an emergency signal?"

A reply crackled in her ear. The Allion Aerospace Ltd home base was on the other side of Jupiter, and it was only thanks to the satellite orbiting Ganymede that they had any reception at all.

Then Jacob again, "Can you repeat that, Thor III?"

Eilin did.

". . . cannot hear . . . very well . . . Heard . . . nothing here."

Vivie interrupted, "Madam President, according to the log, it's an Allion Aerospace ID handle. From Io. Do we have any crew on the ground there?"

"Io? ISF has contracted us for a number of projects on Io." And the International Space Force were the only ones interested in permanent settlements on the volcanic, dangerous moon. They controlled its airspace and surface, but they needed Allion technology for habitat protection. "We have non-sentient teams working to resurface the Prometheus Base dome, to measure geo-activity in a number of equatorial localities - too many to list—" Then she realized something else. Daniel and Oscar. A moment of panic. Eilin saw the two young men in her office, strong, magnificently black-skinned and prime examples of perfect men. No, it couldn't be them. She swallowed hard before continuing. "We have a team to install earthquake barriers for a new base. A tech-bot team with two aggregates, both X-class."

"I think that's our caller, Madam President." One of the techs, Jadie, brought up a map. The blue glow of the screen reflected in her night-black skin. "They're here, almost at the equator, about 120km or so SSW of Calico, probably within sight of this thing called Ruwa Patera—damn, I wish ISF provided better maps than this."

Eilin nodded; ISF were so secretive where Io was concerned. "Is that an active volcano?"

"I don't think I could name anything on Io that isn't an active volcano, Madam President."

Eilin wished the crew would stop calling her that. She wished . . .

She had sent the boys on such a dangerous mission, knowing that dangerous missions were precisely what aggregates were for, but—damn it.

Vivie shook her head. "Io's a crazy place at the best of times. I don't understand why ISF are expanding when they have enough trouble maintaining the current bases at Calico and Prometheus."

"Vivie, tell me, is there anything we can do from here?"

"Not without bailing out of this project," Vivie said.

Eilin shook her head; no, they couldn't do that.

Vivie continued, "I'll put a call through to base. Let them handle it—" She frowned. "Madam President, are you all right?"

"Yes . . . why?" But Eilin's hands were sweaty and her heart thudded, yet it would never do to let anyone know why these two men mattered so much to her. She was meant to lead the company, and not have favorites. She had not reached the top of the Allion Aerospace empire by being emotional.

****

After what seemed like an eternity of black fear, the ground stopped rumbling. Daniel moved gingerly inside the cabin.

It was still silent inside his head. Well, this was it, then. His assistance modules had picked a fine time to stop working, but thanks to his training, he knew what to do. He'd establish how precarious the truck's position was, secure it, call for help if necessary, and then look for Oscar—

[advice: 1. establish a safe area, 2. attempt to reconnect communication]

Ah, damn it. The routine was not dead then. And it said nothing about Oscar.

I'm only a machine made for self-preservation. I don't want to be a machine.

The subroutine had no answer to that.

And he was going to get Oscar.

He found the control panel by touch and memory, managed to bring two viewscreens on the side of the truck back into action. They showed a murk of black volcanic dust that was slowly settling. The comm link with the ISF Calico Base remained silent.

Strangely, the screen showed the sky, where Jupiter was tinted more red than usual by the volcanic dust. His subconscious registered the word 'pretty' before it became swamped by more urgent thoughts. He needed to assess the situation.

Engage diagnostic module.

[possible scenarios: 1. volcanic ejecta has damaged the antenna, 2. communications at Calico Base are out]

There was no way he could find out which option applied so he had to shove the scenario into the growing unresolved file.

His beacon of hope was that the light on the control box for Oscar's unit blinked. That meant Oscar was out there and operational, but might be in a bad state.

[flashback interrupt]

Meeting Oscar for the first time. He sat on the couch in the clinic when Daniel came in. Eilin Gunnarsson was also there, wearing her usual stern expression, in which he could never make out whether she liked him or hated him. The Iron Bitch, competitors called her, but she had smiled at Daniel.

"Think of him as your younger brother," she had said to him, after having introduced Oscar. And he had wanted to ask, If he is my brother, then do I ignore my programming if it conflicts with his welfare?

But he hadn't asked, and she had sat on the couch between them, and had read a story from an old, old book about a boy hitching rides on a tram in a city on a planet called Earth.

And every now and then, he would meet Oscar's eyes across the book on Eilin's lap. He had wanted to ask Eilin, If he is my brother, then who are you?

[/flashback]

He had let the subject go, but the questions still lurked in his unresolved file, compounding all his current problems.

See? That was his human part talking. And unaltered humans were irrational.

[engage decision making]

[options: 1. get Oscar myself, 2 . . . #query aborted#]

No second option, then. This truck wasn't going to move anywhere. No one else was going to get Oscar.

He checked his internal functions at the medbay, connected himself to the truck's oxygen tank to replenish his internal supplies; he boosted his blood sugar level as far as it would go. He checked his skin. Any breach in the matrix of the flexible carbon-based outer layer would let in radiation or let out heat, both of which would damage the fragile human muscle tissue underneath. When he was satisfied, he scrambled up the sloping seats, and slid open the back door to reveal the star-spotted sky. In the thin atmosphere, most of the dust had already settled. A blue aurora shimmered across the sky.

The truck had fallen into a cleft that didn't used to be there, held into place by the weight of the trailer, insubstantial though that was in its empty state. Not even half the bots had made it back to their positions on the trailer. His IR vision showed two of them ambling through the dust, and a third going around in circles, mechanisms damaged by volcanic dust.

The landscape had changed irrevocably, the ground with the neat white lines distorted.

The earthquake barriers had mostly worked themselves out of the ground, and many of the plates had buckled into a useless mess.

Someone at Calico Base was not going to be impressed. Worse, Eilin was not going to be impressed.

Thick smoke billowed out of the crack that had opened up in the ridge at the far end of the valley, the main portions of the cloud now drifting away from the building site. When he lowered himself from the truck, his sensory unit flashed a warning before his eyes.

[geology unstable]

At times he really wished those modules would stop stating the flaming obvious.

"Oscar!"

Still no reply, but the locator on his wrist flashed a little faster.

Daniel plowed through the dust, which was knee-deep in some places, checking the light on his locator . . .

Safety precautions displayed before his eyes:

[stay inside, away from hot volcanic dust; it damages mechanisms, even artificial skin]

He disengaged the module. That felt good. That felt like he was a real human.

. . . and his heat locator found an elongated shape under the debris.

He dropped to his knees and plunged both hands into the ash.

Oscar's body was limp, his clothes sugar-coated with yellow dust. The LED lights on his wrist were still on, but flickering. Exposed skin wept with sores.

"Oscar!"

Of course there was no reaction. The pain would have caused Oscar's body to go into hibernation.

Daniel wriggled his arms under Oscar's knees and shoulders, lifted him up and carried him back to the truck. Hooked him up to the med station.

The news wasn't good. Oscar had sustained an unhealthy dose of radiation. His oxygen was low, his sugar was low, his metabolism had almost shut down, and the only thing that kept him alive was his mechanical core. Daniel did what he could, following the instructions on the medbay screen, and hoped it would be enough. Oscar needed assistance, and he needed it soon.

For that matter: why had there been no reply from Calico?

He re-entered his earlier call on the comm channel.

XRZ-25 to Calico Base. Request assistance. We have had an accident. Be careful when proceeding. The whole area is unstable.

He hated using his designation number. It was imprinted on his internal operation chips as per robotic laws. He never used it within Allion; he was never asked for it within Allion. It made him feel like a tech bot, but during his brief passage through Calico Base, he had received written instructions that he should identify himself as such.

Right now, he began to wonder if there even were people at Calico, or if the base was entirely mechanical, incapable of making decisions based on human emotions, like help.

****

"Utility vessel Thor III calling ISF Calico base." Eilin spoke softly, acutely aware that Vivie and the two techs, Jadie and Moira, listened.

The voice that responded was male, dry and emotion-less. "Received, utility vessel Thor III, expand identification."

"We're under assignation of Allion Aerospace Ltd, currently in low orbit around Jupiter." Eilin bit down on her irritation. Why did this prune pretend not to know who they were? Everyone in the system knew what Allion were doing, everyone knew where the Thor III was; they were probably watching her on the news right now. "This is Eilin Gunnarsson speaking, President of Allion Aerospace. I request an update on the rescue of two of our staff."

A brief silence. "Allion Aerospace doesn't have staff on Io, according to my data."

"We have a team at 1.22^oN, 3.54^oW, building an earthquake barrier consigned by ISF. They triggered an emergency beacon. We received the signal."

A small silence.

"And you want . . . what? Rescue?"

Eilin didn't like his tone of mock surprise. "Did you receive the emergency call and have you been in contact with the team? Have you had voice contact? Did they request assistance?"

Another static-filled silence.

"Calico Base, are you still there?"

"I copy, but can you clarify, Ma'am. According to my records here, the contract for the construction site covers tech-bots. According to the info I have, the team went out the air lock without life support, in vehicles with minimum radiation protection. Are we talking about the same project? There was no human personnel with that team."

"There are two aggregates in charge of the bots, both of them X-class. They have internal life-support." One of the things that made aggregates so useful. That and their artificial, radiation-shielded skin. People who didn't need space suits.

"Oh."

A small silence stretched into a bigger silence.

"Calico Base, can you confirm you have dispatched a rescue team? Allion Aerospace will cover all expenses."

Another silence. "Can I ask you to hold? I need to talk to my supervisor."

"Sure." Eilin kept her voice even, but within, she seethed. What the hell were these idiots clowning about?

Things had gotten so much worse in the last few years. After having found themselves on the wrong side during the Mars War, the International Space Force had set up as gung-ho space police on this side of the asteroid belt, ostensibly to prevent smuggling of goods and illegal arms trade, but with numerous ISF ground bases engaged in commerce, their principles were as compromised as hell. Fact was, ISF hadn't had a clear-cut charter since ISF admirals had fallen out with Earth leadership, which had accused ISF of being unreliable, prone to be influenced by empire-building nutcases. Which, in some ways, they were.

A click on the line. He had logged out.

"What the hell?" Eilin spread her hands. "What have you guys done to upset ISF?"

Vivie shook her head, wide-eyed. "Nothing that I am aware of, Madam President. Our relationship is quite good. Sure they annoy all of us commercial operators with their regulations, but—"

"Calico's being obtuse. More obtuse than usual. Of all the times they could choose to be difficult . . . We got people in trouble down there . . ."

Daniel was experienced, but Oscar was on his first assignment. She had sent them because they were the best and most suited to the hostile environment, but even they weren't indestructible. They might have mechanical parts, but they were very definitely people.

And ISF was stalling, for some reason unable, or unwilling to help.

Eilin stared out over the cloud mass, with the thousands of balloons floating by virtue of their internal heating element. They had a power pack, but when that ran out, they would stay afloat for a number of days at the most. They couldn't abandon their post. The whole of humanity was watching this experiment, and maybe future generations would depend on technology the company was testing here.

But . . .

Daniel and Oscar.

"Vivie, how long would it take us to get there?" Stupid, stupid question.

"To Io?" Vivie's voice showed surprise. "We'd have to pull out of the current mission."

"I know." Not smart, not good advertisement, not with all these people watching. "But just in case we have to, how long?"

Vivie raised an eyebrow, then checked the controls. "We're already powering up for the ascent. We're at 78% right now. We could achieve maximum thrust within about two hours. Once we get going, we're eight hours out." Totally the professional. Calm, collected. None of the crew knew who the men were. "But we can't get too close to Io."

Eilin nodded. The Thor III was one of the most powerful ships ever built, and there was no way she would take it close enough to Io for ISF to come up with some sort of silly regulation and impound the ship, with its revolutionary fusion reactor. That engine, that technology that could lift the vessel out of Jupiter's gravity well with minimal discomfort to human passengers, was Allion's alone.

But they did have the shuttle.

****

XRZ-25 to Calico Base, request immediate salvage.

Daniel entered his plea into the unresponsive radio. He wished he had voice-contact. He wished he could speak to someone, hear affirmation that help was on its way.

XRZ-25 to Calico Base.

Calico Base wasn't replying. And now the truck's power was low.

Soon he would be out of oxygen, and while his mechanical parts functioned, to a degree, without, his organic parts needed oxygen to survive. He would have to go into forced hibernation, like Oscar, and that would mean his power supply would be turned off. Since it didn't seem ISF were keen to rescue him and Oscar, it would be up to Allion, who would have trouble finding him when in hibernation. And if that state lasted too long, it meant death.

Oscar wouldn't survive half as long.

XRZ-25 to Calico Base.

Daniel pressed repeat, and repeat, and repeat. He had turned off the decision-making module, because the thing went crazy if it had no clear options to consider, or all the options it suggested were as ludicrous as they were dangerous. For the first time in his short life, Daniel was human. And as human, he didn't want to die. He'd been conscious for only a few years, not long enough to do all he could, to reach his full potential. There was so much more to learn, to experience. He'd never space-walked, he'd never piloted a craft, he'd never . . . taken a girl out on a date. What did people do with aggregates when they died? Did they take apart the pieces and re-create them? Did the mechanics go into someone else?

That thought made him shudder and he deliberately cut off the routines that led his thoughts in that direction. Another piece of the mechanical puzzle shut down.

And his human thoughts just . . . went around in circles; there were no decisions for him to make. There was no work to be done. This was the thing humans felt when they wanted to cry. But he couldn't do that, since his eyes weren't wet, but covered with a hard resin. He wanted to loose the anger coiled inside him, smash things up, but he couldn't do that either, so he sat, shivering, next to the med-station, holding Oscar's cold hand to his forehead.

The company had such high expectations of him, and he had failed. He had failed Eilin—

But—wait. The ground vibrated. Vehicles.

Daniel crawled over the sloping seats and opened the back door. He jumped onto the trailer, climbed on the empty crates and dialed his magnification up.

A convoy of trucks moved over the plain towards the building site, headlights piercing the semidarkness and glimmering in occasional motes of remaining dust. The first vehicle was a heavy, armored truck with radiation shielding. A vehicle for transporting un-altered human personnel.

He jumped up onto the truck's roof, waving his arms.

****

Eilin stared at the image the Forthright had just sent her, an image all of seven minutes old. It came from one of Allion's spy probes, currently hanging around quietly in Europa's L5 LaGrange point, and which had, at the moment, a brilliant view of Io. The image was only in black and white, but it clearly showed the proposed base on Io outlined in white, the eight concentric rings of the earthquake barrier, some damaged. The familiar Allion truck half-hung in a crevice. Someone was on the roof.

There was a volcanic outbreak in the valley not far from the site, a column of smoke that had not been there before, but still a mere volcanic fart in comparison to the Armageddon Io was capable of unleashing. Most of the dust had settled in a ring, some over the planned settlement. A line of trucks approached in the adjacent valley, from where many tire tracks led to the building site. The trailers contained long sections of metal, prefab pieces of a length that couldn't possibly fit inside a dome.

"Damn it, Vivie, what is ISF doing down there?" The contract Eilin signed had only covered earthquake barriers, and had said nothing about the purpose of the base. Back then, she hadn't worried about it, but now she felt that she should have.

"Can I have a look?" Moira said.

Eilin patched the image to her screen.

The Thor III had released the last of the balloons and, fully powered up, was climbing to a higher altitude, waiting for the balloons to disperse. The deck under Eilin's feet vibrated with the power of the engine.

Jadie was taking measurements: how much the balloons moved, wind speeds, temperature, air composition.

That was the real value of the expedition: collecting a more complete set of data of the conditions. Previous attempts at floating habitable platforms at Jupiter had failed due to multiple difficulties: the considerable wind speeds, the huge weight necessary for radiation shielding. But radiation shielding was one of Allion's specialties, and new, much lighter materials had become available, materials that were thin and flexible, like human skin. More expensive to make, but also more lucrative to sell.

"They're carrying components of a launch pad," Moira said.

Eilin squinted at the image. Moira had worked at the space port on Ganymede before coming to Allion; she would know.

Moira continued, "It's not a base at all, but a launch installation. Makes sense, close to the equator. Io's escape velocity is low enough that you can launch from the surface without much trouble."

"What would they plan to launch?"

"I honestly couldn't be sure, Madam President, but since they're so secretive, it's quite unlikely that we will like it."

Damn. So much could go wrong.

This Jupiter project was vulnerable, and damned expensive. Any hitch might result in failure.

Allion Aerospace needed habitable platforms. The Forthright had become too crowded. Besides, Eilin had the vessel slotted into trials. It would be fitted with new engines and sent out into deep space for months at a time, to build up immense speeds as final test of the mass-to-distance ratio for micro-second FTL jumps. The ship had never been intended to function as habitat, and the company's workers, the breeding labs, the children and pregnant women deserved to be kept safe from experimental technology, which, when it went wrong would do so in a spectacular way. Yet ISF had successfully barred Allion from settlements on extra-terrestrial bodies.

The standoff between ISF and the commercial operators was tense. Allion needed a safe base to offload its worker population. There was no place safer than one no one else had the technology to reach. No other company could bring people down to the clouds of Jupiter. And whatever ISF was planning might stop Allion building those platforms. They might claim a military exclusion zone around the planet and back it up with the in-orbit hardware. They might be developing fusion engines of their own, in which case they, too, needed to harvest Helium-3 from Jupiter, but if they could get down there, they would almost certainly find some legality by which they could challenge Allion's presence. Get out or we'll shoot. Eilin had seen it all before.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Jadie said, "Madam President, if you excuse me. The system's now in operation. We can start the projection." Waiting for Eilin's go-ahead. She had the Fenosa logo on the screen ready to be transmitted to the balloons down there. A silly exercise indeed.

The silence on the bridge stretched.

Eilin added up the facts.

Daniel and Oscar were still out of communication. ISF were being obtuse; they had a column of equipment approaching the site. The operator had said, you have no personnel on Io, and had cut off communication. And, judging by the material on the trucks, ISF was building a launch installation which no one was supposed to know about.

Put like this, the reaction from Calico made sense: they hadn't realized that the Allion team to install the earthquake barrier contained sentients, possible spies for Allion Aerospace. And Daniel's call for help and her subsequent inquiry might well have brought the men into danger.

Eilin said, "Wait."

****

Daniel stood on the roof of the cabin and waved. He wasn't sure if the approaching convoy's drivers could see him yet. Maybe it was too dark, although most of the dust had settled. Could people see well by this level of light? The limited senses of natural humans puzzled him sometimes.

Something flashed at the edge of his vision. In the sky. Lights sparkled in one of Jupiter's cream-colored bands.

For a moment, Daniel forgot his own predicament. He knew of the company's project that was called the most futile waste of energy in human history by politicians and news commentators alike. He knew how important the project was to the company, to Eilin. Individual pinpricks flashed on and off until they all pulsed at the same time, and formed a line of sparkling blue letters:

CAREFUL DON'T TRUST THEM

Daniel stared at the text, even as the display winked off and was replaced by the Fenosa Communications logo.

What the . . .

[emergency override]

He couldn't stop the damn thing engaging.

[options: 1. it was a message, 2. it was a mistake]

[consideration: 1. Eilin was directing the operation and Eilin doesn't make mistakes, 2. someone else has accidentally displayed the wrong text]

Given those options, why would someone accidentally display a piece of text that was clearly a warning? An accidental display would have involved something nonsensical, like a piece of programming code.

[conclusion: 1. it is a message and 2. it is directed to someone who isn't aware of danger]

But who? The only people Allion had who could possibly read it were:

[conclusion: 1. himself and Oscar, 2 . . . Forthright]

No, scratch that; the Forthright would be in radio contact, unless contact had broken, which was not implausible, but . . .

[warning—]

"Shut up! I can think for myself."

The subroutine went silent.

Daniel peered at the horizon, at the convoy, and let a few very slow seconds pass.

Don't trust them. Did she mean . . .

The trucks had stopped a distance off. The doors opened and a couple of suited men came out. He zoomed in his vision as far as it would go, a setting which he could never maintain for long, because it made him dizzy.

One of the men carried a long object on his shoulder. A second man unfolded a stand, and the first man lowered the long object onto it. As they swung it around, Daniel knew what it was. He knew the type of laser gun. He saw where they were aiming it and knew that the truck's feeble exterior would offer no protection.

Daniel jumped off the truck's roof in knee-deep ash. He yanked open the door, crawled in. Oscar was still attached to the leads, but he pulled them loose, slung his brother over his shoulder and jumped out of the truck. All within ten seconds.

He ran.

There was a faint thud behind him.

****

Questions from the press rolled in almost immediately.

What did that warning mean, who was it for? While the Thor III was still climbing out of Jupiter's immediate pull, Eilin tried to deflect most of the news hawks to Jacob, but she spoke briefly to the Fenosa president, who demanded to know the reason for the errant text. After she explained the situation, the conversation was amicable. Like Allion, Fenosa resented the monopoly ISF had on interplanetary settlement. Unlike Allion, Fenosa didn't have the tech to do anything about it. Eilin spoke for a while about the balloons, without giving away anything about Allion's settlement plans, then the Fenosa president signed off.

Jadie said, "Madam President, a man from ISF wants to talk to you, on vid."

Eilin nodded, grimly. She had expected some shit to hit the proverbial. Calico Base would have seen the message. Seeing she had just contacted them, they would put the two together.

The man who appeared on the screen was a typical military officer, all stiff and proper, and, given the situation, not particularly friendly, which didn't surprise her.

"Miss Gunnarsson?"

Eilin attached the earpiece on her head. "Speaking." With an odd twinge, she realized she preferred Madam President. The title Miss made assumptions about her. Her crew and her staff never made assumptions about her.

That's because they all know I'm a cold bitch.

No, it was because long ago, her forebears had gone into the industry fighting a battle and with a point to prove: that women could work in space and do the tech just as well as men. More than eighty percent of Allion's workforce was female. Few were married. Miss was appropriate from his point of view, but not from hers.

"I am Base Commander Werner of Calico Base." Yes that was the guy she'd met at Prometheus, ISF's large mining and research base on Io. "I've heard you've made requests to speak with me. Can you explain your position?"

Nothing about the warning she'd just beamed across the system. Let's just pretend it hasn't happened, shall we?

"I'm on the Allion Aerospace Ltd utility vessel Thor III. We received a distress signal, and we've asked what is being done in the way of rescue of our personnel, because if nothing is being done, I will ask permission to send someone." That's right. Let them come out about any unpublicized military exclusion zones they might have designated around Io.

"That's not necessary. We have a team on site at the moment. They found the truck, but no sign of the two aggregates." He said the word as if he would have preferred to say something offensive, like cyborgs.

"Is the truck in working order? There are also a number of tech-bots with the team, all of them slaved to the aggregates. They will be able to locate other team members." The words bodies and salvage were not ones she could handle at the moment. Damn, she hoped her warning had come in time. She glanced at the communication crew on the bridge. Where was the next satellite image?

Commander Werner continued, "Sadly, the truck has been damaged in what seems to have been an eruption. We've found no evidence that anyone occupied it at the time. If you're in contact with the aggregates, I would appreciate if you provide their location and vital stats. Do they need resupply soon?"

Vivie shot Eilin a warning look, one that said don't tell him anything. Eilin noticed she had something on her screen. The image from the spy-probe.

So she went into bullshit mode. "Whether we can locate the aggregates depends on their power level, and we don't have readings of that level of detail."

"You have their location?" Werner asked.

"My information is no more detailed than yours."

"Then we will do all we can to find them."

Eilin signed off and turned to Vivie, her heart thudding. "Is there any news?"

"Madam President. Have a look at this." She projected the image on Eilin's viewscreen. At first, Eilin thought the Allion truck had somehow managed to get out of the crevice, but then she noticed the debris: the truck had exploded.

Eilin stared at the wreck, sickness rising. "No. They can't have . . ."

"Excuse me, Madam President?"

Eilin felt like screaming at her don't call me that. "They've shot the truck to bits." She enlarged the image, fixated on a fuzzy man-shaped spot in the sand. Dead or alive?

"Madam President?" Jadie's expression was full of concern.

Eilin held up her hands, swallowing hard, fighting black spots in her vision. "I'm fine—really." But she wasn't, not by a long shot. People said she was cold and aloof, that she didn't care about people's feelings. But she cared a lot . . . about her boys, and she'd never even told them what they were. "Vivie, can you put something else up?" And then she added, "Please, call me Eilin."

****

Daniel crouched between the rocks and let Oscar sink to the ground. The convoy had started moving again and he hoped to hell the occupants hadn't seen him run from the exploding wreck. He raised himself on his knees, peering over the ragged stone.

The trucks came nearer, and nearer, and then rumbled past without stopping at the shell of the exploded vehicle. Daniel switched to IR view. There was only one manned truck, the first one, with three people aboard, and the rest were slaved vehicles.

The convoy came to a halt at the destroyed earthquake barrier. The human drivers would now realize that there was nothing they could do with the odd installation they had brought. The site was a mess, with the barrier destroyed and a new volcano still spewing ash. They would have to turn and go back to Calico Base.

Daniel had an idea. It was not an idea that came to him because of his decision-making modules; this idea was his, and it came from Eilin, because she had read him stories about naughty adventurous boys on Earth, boys who caught rides on trams. It was a human idea.

Flushed with excitement, he heaved Oscar into a position from which he could easily pick him up, and waited. The first truck was already turning, reversing lights flashing in the semidarkness. And then the second truck turned, and the third . . .

The column crawled into motion.

Daniel waited while the first truck rumbled past, and as soon as the second one followed, he heaved Oscar onto his shoulders and ran. The dust was knee-deep in some places, and catching up with the convoy was harder than he had anticipated. The flat truck-bed was stacked with crates of equipment and two enormous rolls of cable. He tried to shove things aside while running but couldn't, so he pushed Oscar on top of some packages on the trailer bed. He had to hold on to prevent Oscar's limp form sliding off while he clambered on himself, his calf muscles screaming.

Still holding onto Oscar's arm, Daniel collapsed on the bumpy and uncomfortable surface, black spots dancing before his eyes.

The convoy kept plodding at its slow speed. No one had noticed anything.

Daniel knew he needed to break into the cabin. At this speed, the trip to Calico would take at least six hours. He needed to get Oscar out of the exposure and kick-start his healing routines, but he didn't know if he had the energy. Yet he had to, for Oscar . . . for Eilin.

He stared out over the parched plain while gathering strength.

The glow of Jupiter gilded the rugged landscape. Text flashed across the surface.

DANIEL AND OSCAR I LOVE YOU

****

" So . . . we've finished here?" Eilin clenched her hands into fists in her lap. Years and years she had been reasonable, negotiated with ISF, even though their only aim was to get rid of Allion and other commercial operators. And now they did . . . this?

The Thor III was still climbing, but the ascent was in its final phase, and the pink surface of the gas giant had receded well below them.

Vivie said, "Yes, we can operate the lights from anywhere—"

"Then let's get ourselves to Io, as fast as this ship will go."

All those on the Thor III's bridge were looking at her.

Jadie frowned. "With the entire press corps watching?"

"Especially with the press corps watching. This . . ." Eilin made a furious gesture at the spy-probe image. "Is a gross violation of the Reasonable Force Defence Act. I'll take the shuttle and go down to Calico myself. I'll demand reason for this . . . hostile action. It's war, it's murder. Let them see what Allion can do when we are angry."

****

With the last of his strength, Daniel shoved the door open. His arms hurt, his back hurt. Plowing through that dust had run down his charge and he was operating on pure muscle strength, a part of him that didn't function well in a near-vacuum.

It had taken him more than an hour to get this damn door open with nothing more than his bare hands. And yes, his feet.

He lifted Oscar and, stumbled through the door, and then was surprised that it still shut. Of course it wasn't pressurized.

The truck was one of those live-in things with sleeping cabins and an office alongside a narrow corridor that lead to the control room.

This corridor was lit by only one small emergency light. Side doors were open, the cabins full to bursting with plastic-wrapped parcels. He squinted at the labels, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He needed a recharge, and quick. Into the control cabin.

A driver bot was at the controls, a simple non-sentient battered-up specimen that had seen many hours of service. Thank heavens, the med-station was located against the back wall.

He put Oscar on the bench, extracted the life support leads from within his lower stomach cavity and plugged them into the med support. Flashing lights showed life-saving processes in operation.

Now for himself. He dragged the power cords out of the wall-mounted charging unit. His hands trembled so much that he had trouble undoing the zips on his suit. Found the plug on his stomach, rammed the connectors in . . .

****

. . . Daniel must have passed out, because the next thing he knew he was on the floor, staring up at the light in the cabin's ceiling. The floor had stopped moving. That realization brought him wide awake. He jumped up, noticed that Oscar was stirring on the bed.

"Shh—rest." Daniel patted his brother on the hand. The hand was hot, feverish. Not good.

What was going on? Why had they stopped?

The driver bot was sitting motionless; the viewscreens were off, as they would be with a mechanical driver.

Activate outside view

[authorization denied]

Well, damn it.

Engage decision making

[possible scenarios: 1. vehicle arrived at destination, 2. mechanical problem]

But the routine had no further suggestions, and he felt stupid for engaging it in the first place. He didn't need a machine to tell him the obvious, and he should stop asking for answers, expecting the module to have them. It was as if the thing was jeering at him, You wanted to be human? You sort it out.

And that thought didn't cause Daniel quite as much panic as before. There was a data-logger on the control panel. Data-loggers always held useful information.

He disentangled himself from the charging wires and plugged into the truck's intelligence systems. His probes met a security wall, but it had a simple lock that wasn't hard to breach. The flash of information was immediate.

It showed diagrams of a ring of satellites in orbit around Jupiter, about ten in all, each with a long tail of wire. These were the things ISF wanted to launch from the new base, and they were the things that would be constructed from the material contained in the plastic-wrapped boxes in the truck's cabin. Why the wire? If the diagrams were to scale, there had to be hundreds of kilometers of it.

There was too much information for him to process, so he stored it all away, knowing that this would make him a spy.

Worse, the information was useless; he still didn't know why the truck had stopped.

There were clangs outside, and then something banged on the outside of the cabin.

From the med couch, Oscar mumbled, "Uh-oh."

Daniel took up position by the door. "Suppose you can say that again."

****

Eilin studied the landscape on the viewscreen, reading out changes in terrain, while Vivie steered the shuttle. They had checked the abandoned building site, but had found only the stricken truck, but no sign of Daniel and Oscar. They concluded if Daniel and Oscar had survived, they must have been taken back by the convoy. The tire tracks had led the way.

The radio crackled.

"Calico Base to unidentified shuttle: please state your ID and destination."

Well, that was to be expected. ISF had been remarkably silent so far.

Vivie glanced at Eilin. "If there is an ISF exclusion zone, we've probably just run into it. What do you want me to do?"

"Just confirm ID, but keep on track."

A curt nod.

Vivie spoke to Calico Base in flight jargon.

Jadie and Moira sat on either side of Eilin, determined expressions on their young faces. They wore body armor and carried vacuum-enabled laser guns. Their faces were those of soldiers going to war.

Most of the Allion Aerospace staff thought Eilin should have driven home the confrontation a long time ago, instead of catering to ISF demands. They wanted to fight, but Eilin knew that Allion could never win an armed conflict. The technology to take Allion out of ISF's way, out of the solar system was still several years off implementation. That's why they needed the floating platforms, as interim, before the big leap. But all that was classified information. Eilin didn't want a fight; Allion couldn't afford to spend energy on a fight.

****

Air hissed; the cabin door opened, letting in a shaft of artificial light and beyond that, a gray wall. The shadow of a man, not wearing a suit.

Daniel shuffled back. He could easily overwhelm a single man, even when armed, but if they had entered the base, as indicated by the pressurized environment, it was unlikely that the man was alone.

And indeed he wasn't. Two more shadows appeared on the floor, both holding weapons.

"If you can hear us, come out," a voice shouted into the door. Strong, but with an uncertain undertone. ISF didn't use aggregates; they said making human-machine combinations wasn't moral, and ISF really liked their morals.

Daniel stood against the wall, unarmed. Subroutine messages flashed before his eyes: [don't move], [hide], [contact base for orders]. All of which weren't exactly practical, and he willed the annoying interfering to go away. He was human now, and could make his own decisions. He would defend himself.

The cabin's ladder creaked.

Daniel yanked open the emergency cabinet, pulled out the flare gun and fired it across the entrance. The flash set off the auto-polarize function in his eyes. In darkness that resulted, he threw the gun aside and scrambled into the next room. He needed a better weapon.

****

There were many tracks in the dust now, all of them leading to the metallic dome that sat in the landscape like an upturned alien breakfast bowl.

"It looks like they reached the base," Vivie said. "Do you want me to try to get in?"

"Yes," Eilin said.

"What—damn, we've got company."

There were a couple of shuttles on each side, sleek military designs, older than the Allion ship, but more lethal.

A voice came through the comm. "Ms Gunnarsson, you are trespassing in ISF space."

"Let us take our personnel, and we'll leave," Eilin said.

"You're trespassing in ISF space," the voice repeated. "You'll be escorted to Calico Base for your safety."

Their safety—the hell. "Where is our team?"

"You'll be informed of the situation inside the base."

Ahead, the dome became bigger in the landscape. The hangar doors were already sliding open.

Vivie glanced at Eilin. "We go in?"

Eilin nodded. "We don't have much choice." She noticed Jadie unclipping her weapon. "No shooting if we can avoid it. But take it from me: we're not leaving without the men."

Grim nods all around.

Vivie guided the shuttle into the air lock and they cycled through in silence.

Gray military efficiency met them on the other side, a large hall with a few military vehicles, and a group of dust-coated trucks. One of them carried the components of the launch installation, and another huge coils of wire.

A couple of heavily-armed soldiers were moving towards the last truck.

****

Boxes and boxes of supplies. Daniel ripped open plastic. There had to be something he could use as a weapon. At least twenty of the boxes were big and flat and heavy. He tossed one on the floor and ripped it open. The box contained solar panel cells, all in one piece. Nothing he could pick up and swing.

There was a lot of noise outside, the clanging and hissing of the airlock door. Men shouted over the sound of an engine de-powering. And the clicks and pops of cooling metal. Someone had just arrived from elsewhere. Assistance for him, or assistance for the people outside?

In either case, he was screwed. There were far too many soldiers outside for him to have any hope of escape, no matter how many people Allion might have sent.

Then he heard a female voice he recognized. Damn, no. That was Eilin. What possessed her to come here?

****

Eilin climbed out of the shuttle after Jadie. She gestured to Moira at the controls, who nodded and prepared a message on her screen.

Two military men met them at the bottom of the stairs, guns out. More soldiers lined the perimeter of the hall, and a couple stood near one of the convoy's trucks. That's where the two young men were, inside that truck. Eilin had never seen so many guns. All of the soldiers, she noted proudly, wore radiation-resistant clothing made by Allion.

"Come with us," one of the two men said.

"I prefer to stay with the shuttle. I only want to pick up our personnel." She glanced around the hall, but couldn't see Base Commander Werner. Only trucks and behind them a number of huge rolls of wire and other equipment packed in the ubiquitous blue plastic that all space couriers used to pack their cargo. Ahead was the base command centre with a wall of viewscreens some of which, she was happy to note, displayed the outside sky.

The man gestured with the gun, "Come. The boss will see you."

"I want a guarantee that our shuttle won't be confiscated if I leave it."

"No guarantees. The men you call 'personnel' are spies."

"They're technicians, here on your invitation."

"They're intelligent beings of some sort, sent by you as spies."

"I object to that. No one specified that the team couldn't include aggregates. You can check the contract if you want. I'm sure Base Commander Werner has already done so and knows that I'm right. I included the aggregates because they work much more efficiently than an all-bot team. I'm not going anywhere until the two men are brought here."

Someone at the back of the hall shouted an order. Soldiers advanced into the hall.

Eilin didn't know what was going on, but the situation was fast getting out of control. She yelled, "Moira, now."

One of the viewscreens in the command center drew everyone's attention while the blue text flashed across Jupiter: SOS, IO 3.54^oN, 2.12^oW. Everyone in the hall saw it; every ship in the area would see it.

Soldiers exchanged glances. Some pointed at the screen.

In the command room, a man wearing a jacket with red shoulder epaulettes and a veritable galaxy of stars on his chest rose from his seat and came into the hall; Eilin recognized Base Commander Werner. "What's the meaning of this?"

"The meaning is that all the press teams out there reporting on our 'stupid, money-wasting project' will now know where to get their next bit of news. Unless you want to attract a lot of bad publicity, you had better hand the two men over to us and let us leave unharmed."

There was a profound silence, during which Base Commander Werner glanced at the screen, at Eilin's shuttle, at Jadie holding her gun at the ready.

Considering his options.

Under her clothes, sweat trickled down Eilin's back. He could easily order all of them to be shot. Yes, there would be bad publicity, but it wouldn't be the first time ISF had been heavy-handed.

But times were different. ISF was no longer backed by Earth's laws. ISF had a precious hold on public opinion this side of the asteroid belt, and their reputation was sliding. Especially Ganymede and Titan were no longer purely ISF bases; the civilian population in both was rising, and so was civilian influence.

He would be sensible.

Or so she hoped.

He breathed out heavily, and addressed a soldier behind him. "Tell those cyborgs to drag their sorry asses out of that truck and make sure the lot of them get the hell out of here."

Eilin let go of a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

He turned on his heel and strode back towards the control room, without acknowledging Eilin.

She said to his disappearing back, "So you won't need us to fix the earthquake barrier?"

He whirled around, glowered at her, but said nothing. Distaste flickered over his face. He did need Allion to fix the barrier, such was their constant dance of interdependence.

"I reserve the right for our company vessels to travel past Io to Jupiter," Eilin added. "In return for our continued assistance, I request no exclusion zones be imposed on the Jovian air space."

He didn't react to that either. There would be long negotiations about this later; she had no doubts about that. She also had no doubt that ISF had planned an exclusion zone.

This, though, was not the time for those talks.

After some shouts, two figures came out of the nearest truck, held at gunpoint by a group of soldiers.

Daniel helped Oscar down the ladder. They were filthy, covered in dust. Oscar looked in a bad way, but they were alive.

Eilin abandoned all semblance of self-control. She ran cross the hall, tears stinging in her eyes.

****

Daniel was still trying to process the puzzling facts. He felt his grasp of the situation slipping away, and gave control to his subroutines:

[fact: 1. Eilin has come to rescue us, 2. she cares]

[conclusion: 1. she doesn't hate me, 2. she's not blaming me for what happened]

He was so confused.

He helped Oscar up the steps into the shuttle's med bay and settled in one of the seats while the pilot started up the engine. Eilin was looking at him, and he didn't know how to react, so he said, "I am a spy, you know. He's right about that. I've downloaded some material from their truck. If you want, I can give it back—"

"Don't worry," she said, and she smiled and patted him on the hand, her eyes twinkling. "Patch it through to Jadie and Moira. They will look at it."

So he did that, while the air lock opened and the shuttle's engines increased their pitch, but all the while his memory re-played the sight of the tears in Eilin's eyes.

[resolve query: 1. who am I? 2. who are you?]

[resolve query—]

[flashback] Eilin in her office, looking sternly at him—

[flashback] Eilin sitting on the couch, reading a story about a boy—

[options:— #query aborted#]

[emergency override]

[resolve query—]

Shut the fuck up!

His fingers were digging holes into the armrests of his seat. His hands trembled.

Eilin was talking to the two techs, the three of them looking at the information he'd taken from the truck.

"The installation is an orbital launch pad for satellites," the one called Moira said. "They're planning to shoot a string of satellites into orbit around Jupiter."

"To do what?" Jadie said. "We could do with extra communication, but that many . . . That doesn't make sense—"

Eilin shook her head. "Those are not communication satellites. They're electrostatic traps. I've seen prototypes of those."

Moira frowned.

"You think what we are doing with the balloons is outrageous? What they're planning to build is much greater. Those satellites and all the kilometers of wire we saw in that hall will be launched into orbit around Jupiter. The wire will be charged to a high voltage using the solar panels. The electrical field generated will deflect high-energy particles to escape the radiation belt around the planet. If they launch enough of these things, they will create a giant radiation-free ring around the planet, a ring that contains the inhabited moons. Then radiation shielding for settlements, vehicles and clothing would be unnecessary—"

"But that means ISF would no longer need our services."

Daniel understood that. He and Oscar were testimony to what Allion could do with radiation shielding.

"Precisely. That's why weren't not supposed to know about this project. We were helping them make ourselves obsolete. With that and the fact that they've not allowed us to build any settlements on any moon or planet under their control, I'd say they're trying to get rid of us."

"Can we stop any of this?"

"Well," Eilin said, and she looked every bit the boss how she sat there, with her arms crossed over her chest. "They haven't implemented this yet. And I dare say it won't be as easy as they think, not now that every eye in the solar system is directed at Io. There is not going to be an exclusion zone. Nor can they chase us away when we get the platform habitat going; they haven't been able to float a stable platform on a gas planet's atmosphere, nor do they have engines that can take them there. And they haven't the faintest clue about the types of engines required to leave the solar system. Their best effort is nowhere near fast enough. I don't know what politics they're playing, but I think they expect us to cower, to be afraid to lose income, but they forget one thing: the only reason we have income is so we can buy things from them. Can you name anything we need to buy from ISF-controlled worlds that we can't produce ourselves?"

Moira shrugged.

"Exactly. We've been space-based for a long time and there's no need for us to hang around these pieces of rock. I'm thinking it's time we started looking for another piece of real estate."

It was silent in the cabin for a while. The pilot was at the controls, scheduling their hook-up with the Thor III. Eilin sat at the back next to Oscar. Daniel still had no answers. Worse, he realized that he would never get answers unless he asked.

And he was afraid.

She might be hurt that he'd been so stupid that he hadn't figured out their relationship.

She might not want him to know.

She might be disappointed in him, or angry.

And fear was the ultimate human emotion. Machines had no fear.

Nothing for it, then. He shifted to a seat close to Eilin and asked, his voice low, "Who are you, to us?"

"You figured out I'm not just your boss, didn't you?" The side of her face he could see wrinkled in a bittersweet smile. She didn't look at him, but continued to stroke Oscar's hand. "A number of years ago, when the aggregate program was just starting up, I took a close interest in it and . . . I probably shouldn't have done this, but I never realized that I'd care this much. I . . . allowed them to take my DNA and use it for the production of aggregates. They used it only twice, for the two of you. In a strange way, you and Oscar are my sons."

Daniel stared at her.

[emergency decision module: 1. she cares about me, 2. she really cares about me]

And he didn't really know what to do with those feelings so he sat as frozen.

Eilin continued, "I never told you, because it never seemed . . . appropriate, but not telling probably wasn't the right thing to do. You needed to know. I needed you to know. Can you forgive me?"

Her sons. That was wrong; he wasn't even fully human, didn't know if he could ever be.

"I'm . . . I'm not worthy," he said, his voice low. "I've made a mess of this project."

"No, you haven't. I know I probably shouldn't have sent you, and I'm sorry. Io is a dangerous place, and you were genuinely the best team we could send. In hindsight, you may not have been ready. It's true that you have much still to learn, but the thing is: you will and you can learn to live without your routines. You are every bit as human as I am."

And Daniel did something he had never done in his life: he hugged a woman. He couldn't quite work out what to think about that, but her skin was warm, and it was altogether not unpleasant.

Then she said, "It seems that we both have a lot to learn about what it means."

Daniel couldn't help but agree with her.

****

The Walls Are Falling Down

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Well, it finally happened. For decades—and I do mean decades—I have wondered why science fiction hasn’t received the respect it deserves. Science fiction fans, in self defense, created a ghetto and then closed the walls of that ghetto so that anyone new who wanted to arrive via movies or television couldn’t get in.

Science fiction itself became exclusive, rather than inclusive, the way that put-upon groups often do. But as things evolved, the culture adopted more and more of science fiction’s tropes. I kept arguing that both sides could meet on common ground and have not just something to talk about, but a whole heck of a lot in common.

I made those arguments as recently as five years ago, in an essay titled “Barbarian Confessions.” [http://www.smartpopbooks.com/730] That essay, which was also published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, got me a lot of angry e-mail. Not from the folks who wanted to get into science fiction’s inner circle, but from the folks who ran that inner circle.

But now the barriers have lifted. Some of the old timers guarding the fort have died. Some of the publications that once comprised the center of the field have folded. Worldcon, once the most important science fiction convention in the world (quite literally), got overshadowed by two upstarts—Dragoncon, and Comic-Con. In fact in the battle for attendees, Worldcon lost. Dragoncon took over Worldcon’s traditional weekend—Labor Day—and Worldcon eventually threw in the towel, losing so spectacularly that it now gets held (most of the time) in mid-August.

But what I’m talking about here really wasn’t a battle royale. It wasn’t even really a battle. No one stormed the walls. No one forced themselves on the folks in the ghetto.

What happened, really, was that the wall crumbled. For years, everyone operated as if there was a wall. In fact, some people still do. But if you go looking for a wall, you won’t find one. It’s not there.

The analogy is more akin to that classic science experiment every biology student hears about at the beginning of their college career. Fruit flies have an accelerated lifecycle, so fast that we can study generations over the space of weeks.

The study places fruit flies in a large clear jar with a lid. The fruit flies try mightily to get out. But after a few generations, they realize that the jar is their world and there is no getting out. So they stop trying. Then a few generations after that, the scientist removes the lid of the jar.

And the fruit flies don’t notice.

They no longer test the limits of their world. They believe that the lid is there, and act accordingly.

Now, I’ve never seen a version of the study in which someone puts a new subgroup of fruit flies into the jar, introducing them into the mix, teaching the existing fruit flies that they can leave.

But that’s what happened in science fiction. The walls ceased to have importance somewhere around the late 1960s, but the people living inside that wall defended their fortification against the newcomers for decades. Eventually, however, a lot of us bullied our way inside anyhow. We were raised on Heinlein and Star Trek, Niven and Star Wars. We read The Sword of Shannara as well as The Lord of the Rings, and enjoyed both, even when we knew that Shannara was just Lord of the Rings retold. We played video games and Dungeons & Dragons. We were the generation that combined them into Worlds of Warcraft. In fact, my generation was the one that developed the flip cell phone because we wanted a phone that looked like a Star Trek communicator.

Some of us realized the walls were there and breached them. But the rest of us just continued to live our lives, enjoying our geekiness and our cultural savvy, reading Bill Gibson and Sandman as well as watching both versions of Battlestar Galactica.

My generation didn’t understand why we had to divide into the True Fan and the casual fan. Many folks in my generation got mad at the distinction and started making fun of the folks behind the walls. That William Shatner Saturday Night Live routine, in which he told sf fans to move out of their basement, came from this anger. In the movies and on TV, geeks got portrayed as surly, churlish smart people whom no one liked and no one wanted to hang out with anyway. So there.

But even as that stereotypical geek image pervaded the culture, so did another. The geek as unconventional hero. Real Genius made an entire movie about them—and it became a cult favorite. Back To The Future gave our somewhat cool hero a geek mentor, Doc Brown, who could marshal the forces of space and time (and in Back To The Future III, even gets the girl).

By the time Galaxy Quest came along, the tables got turned on their head. Now the character worth ridiculing was the blow-hard Captain Kirk standing, played by Tim Allen. And the person who saves the day, who truly saves the day? A geek kid in his basement, and all his cool geeky friends.

Now the number one comedy in America is a show about four geeks who are not creatures of ridicule, but the actual stars of the show itself. The Big Bang Theory expects us to sympathize and understand our four heroes, all of whom are brilliant scientists. They collect science fiction paraphernalia, quote Isaac Asimov’s Laws of Robotics as if they are canon, talk about everything from the physics of Superman to the actual physics of the Big Bang, and—here’s the key—expect the audience to keep up.

Early in the first season, the fifth star of the show, an “average” girl named Penny was supposed to act as our conduit to this geeky world. She would ask what the Big Bang was or why anyone would care about Star Trek. But by the third season, she understood and gained some geek cred herself. She ceased being our conduit, and became a foil for another character, Sheldon, not to make fun of her per se, but to show that intelligence takes different forms. Hers is a version of street smart that most geeks don’t have, and his is a version of intellect that grasps the entire universe but misses the grain of sand.

But it isn’t just in the media that this change has occurred. Harry Potter isn’t quite a nerd—he’s too good at sports, for one thing—but his friends are, particularly Hermione Granger. Hermione likes studying. She enjoys being smart and, as the series has gone on, Hermione’s intelligence and knowledge has become part of her physical beauty.

Everyone, it seems, has read Harry Potter, from kids to teens to adults. As I write this, the penultimate Harry Potter movie is opening nationwide to long lines. The people in line are wearing costumes or clutching their Potter books. They are, in fact, behaving like science fiction fans on Saturday night at a science fiction convention.

If it was just Harry Potter, I would say that the change hasn’t happened yet. But Twilight invokes discussions—sponsored by Burger King of all places—as to whether you’re on “Team Edward” or “Team Jacob.” (Me, I go for the age-appropriate werewolf.) Those books are also an international phenomenon.

And the only other international phenomenon in the book side in the past five years isn’t science fiction or fantasy, but it might as well have been. Stieg Larsson’s trilogy that begins with The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo is ostensibly a mystery series, but everything about it screams sf. Lizbeth Salander, the “girl” of the title, is brilliant and independent. If she had a functional family, she would live in their basement. Instead, she’s alone in the classic science fiction way—the alone, misunderstood kid who is smarter than anyone else although no one knows it.

Salander is a mathematical genius. She’s also spectacularly good with computers. She can outthink everyone. And she’s physically strong in a way you wouldn’t expect from a woman of her size. When she takes on a “giant” who feels no pain in the second book and beats him, she goes from being a realistic (kinda) character into being a superhero. No one can best Lizbeth Salander, and the neat thing is that by the end of the three books, no one tries.

Even if the three top-selling book series of the past five years hadn’t had the sf elements, I still would write this essay. And not because of the games that you can download everywhere from your Wii to your iPhone. But because of young adult fiction. From Scott Westerfeld’s The Uglies series to Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games, young adult fiction is full of true science fiction, the kind an editor friend of mine calls “pure quill science fiction.” Romance lines from Bantam to Sourcebooks have “futuristic” romance subgenres. Bestselling author Jayne Anne Krentz, whose futuristic romance pen name, Jayne Castle, nearly disappeared several years ago due to lack of sales, has published new Castle books in the past few years. I just sold some futuristic romances as well, under a pen name that I might or might not reveal.

Futuristic romance is mostly space opera—the whooshing-in-space kind that true blue science fiction fans would turn their noses up at if they weren’t secretly reading those books. Nora Roberts helped readers develop a taste for this genre when she started publishing her J.D. Robb books, which are mysteries set in the future, starring Eve Dallas and her husband Roarke, a couple who manage—in between solving serious crimes—to have hot hot hot sex at least four or five times a book.

Then, of course, there’s steampunk. Steampunk, which started twenty-five years ago as a sub-subgenre of science fiction, has become so cool that in large cities, entrepreneurs have opened bars that cater to the steampunk crowd. Even that bastion of insular science fiction, Locus Magazine, has published a steampunk issue. Now that Charles N. Brown is gone, Locus has moved into the 21^st century, taking on not just steampunk but urban fantasy and all of those things that are both popular and have science fiction/fantasy ties.

I think the thing that clenched the changes for me is a book signing held at Powell’s Books in Beaverton, Oregon, in November. Held after Orycon, Oregon’s premiere science fiction convention, the signing had thirty authors from all over the region. Some were pure quill science fiction people, some had written Star Wars novels. Others wrote steampunk and showed up in costume, and still others signed their paranormal romances. No one dissed anyone else, at least that I could tell. Readers came by my table carrying hard science fiction and a futuristic romance novel, steampunk novels and Star Trek books.

The walls are down. People are walking back and forth across that ruined barrier and not even noticing they’re doing so.

And that’s a good thing—which will take us forward, into an even better future.

****

A Martian? Odd, I See (or A Taste of Milwaukee's Finest)

Written by Bud Webster

"There was a racket like a flock of crows eating a bunch of canaries—whistles, cackles, caws, trills, and what have you. I rounded a clump of stumps, and there was Tweel!"

"Tweel?" said Harrison, and "Tveel?" said Leroy and Putz.

"That freak ostrich," explained the narrator. "At least, Tweel is as near as I can pronounce it without sputtering. He called it something like 'Trrrweerrll!'."

"What was he doing?" asked the Captain.

"He was being eaten! And squealing, of course, as any one would."

Well, I certainly would. That's from the first few pages of "A Martian Odyssey" by Stanley Graumen Weinbaum, originally published in the July 1934 Wonder Stories. A year and a half later, Weinbaum died of throat cancer. In between, he published a dozen more stories, including "Valley of Dreams," [i] which also featured "Trrrweerrll," his enduring (and endearing) ostrich-like alien. More would come later, bringing the total to twenty-seven shorts; he would publish only one novel during his short life[ii], The Lady Dances, and that as a newspaper serial under the pen-name Marge Stanley. Again, a few more would follow his death, but clearly his métier was the short form. The root of this is simple, if crass: short work was easier to sell to the pulps than long, and this was the middle of the Great Depression.

So what's the big deal, anyway? Just another dead writer, hacking away at pulpish bug-eyes, right?

No. Not by a long shot. Weinbaum wasn't prolific, but he did something no other sf writer had done before him: he created an alien that really was, y'know, alien. Prior to Trrrweerrll (or Tweel, or Tveel, depending on whether or not you're a Putz[iii])—and for quite a long time afterwards, in the case of less adventuresome writers—most aliens tended to be thinly disguised humans in rubber suits with the zippers plainly visible. And funny hats; can't ignore those funny hats.

There was a reason for this, above and beyond a lack of imagination on the part of half-cent-a-pop wordsters more concerned with the rent and groceries than creativity: aliens are frequently used as fun-house mirrors of human frailties, foibles and foolishments. A good reason, don't get me wrong; but suitable more for allegory and/or satire than nutzenbolts science fiction. Some are still doing it, to greater or lesser effect, depending on the madness of their skills.

Skill was something Weinbaum had. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of rough edges in his work, but he was a consummate story teller, and that's of far more use than mere smooth prose. As you may have noticed, storytelling is a thing I value quite highly, and also something I keep separate from grammar and spelling. I can forgive quite a bit of the latter if the former is strong enough.

Stanley G. was born in Kentucky in 1902, or 1900, depending on which unassailable reference you use for research. His family moved to Milwaukee, and he attended the U. of Wisc where he studied chemistry. He did not, however, graduate; stories differ, but the one I hear the most concerns his having taken an exam for another student on a bet and getting caught. Hey, I did worse stuff than that, I kicked in my dean's door once. Or twice.

But this made it even harder for him to make a living for himself and his wife, Margaret. So, he started knocking out witty, eminently readable yarns, exactly the sort of thing editors wanted. Believe me, as much as editors love to say they want the cutting-edge, the cold actuality is that the majority of their readers want stuff that they can, in effect, fall through without hitting the sides—i.e., stories that are fun to read without making their skulls sweat. That Weinbaum's were also damn good stories, written so well that they still work after three-quarters of a century, is both beside the point and tribute to his innate sense of what makes a narrative work.

This is not to say that he was the only pulpster who transcended the medium: C. L. Moore, Leigh Brackett, Manly Wade Wellman, and Clifford Simak certainly did, among others. Weinbaum, however, managed to do it in eighteen short months, and almost from the very beginning. One gauge of his skill is the fact that when Robert Silverberg went to the membership of SFWA to assemble the first volume of The Science Fiction Hall of Fame, the earliest story they chose was "A Martian Odyssey" and it received the next to the highest number of votes. This means more than you might think on first consideration. The contents weren't just picked to fill a book, but to present to the world those stories published before 1965 that were of Nebula quality, as determined by the very people who would have awarded that honor had it existed at the time.

(Useless, if inevitable, speculation on my part: what could Weinbaum have turned out, had he lived long enough to become aware of Alfred Bester [who debuted with "The Broken Axiom," 1939]? Or Robert Heinlein ["Life-Line," also 1939]? Or, for that matter, Cordwainer Smith ["Scanners Live in Vain," 1950]? Would he have gone with it, producing better and more venturesome work? Or would he have been daunted, writing less and less before fading from the scene entirely? I would like to think the former, but whatever the case, I'd be grateful for the extra Weinbaum.)

Isaac Asimov was highly impressed by Weinbaum (which should tell you a lot), even though he missed reading that monumental first story when it originally appeared. In his introduction to The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum, he said:

["A Martian Odyssey"] had the effect on the field of an exploding grenade. With this single story, Weinbaum was instantly recognized as the world's best living science fiction writer, and at once almost every writer in the field tried to imitate him.

The Good Doctor didn't confine his comments to just that book, however. When he reprinted the story in his most excellent anthology Where Do We Go From Here?[iv] (Doubleday 1971), he commented in his end-note:

It was not just the realism of his alien other-world creatures, but it was his light and easy style, a far cry from the creakiness of the writing of most of the s.f. authors of the early thirties.

That would be a big ten-four, stfnal good buddy. Reading some of the Gernsbackian science fiction of the period (no matter where it was published) is a bit more than a minor chore; characters are tissue-thin, plots contrived and unbelievable, and dialogue filled with clumsy "As you know, Borm-123K, here in the Future we . . ." tropes. Stanley Weinbaum, practically all by himself, changed all that. The other writers in the field had to run damn fast to catch up.

Asimov wasn't alone, either. Praise for Weinbaum's style came from the most . . . well, eldritch places. In his introduction to the 1962 Lancer collection, A Martian Odyssey, Sam Moskowitz quotes none other than the Gentleman from Providence, H. P. Lovecraft:

Somehow he had the imagination to envisage wholly alien situations and psychologies and entities, to devise consistent events from wholly alien motives and to refrain from the cheap dramatics in which almost all adventure-pulpists wallow.

Maybe you're inclined to argue with the father of The Great Lord Cthulhu, but I'm sure as hell not, so deal.

What makes the story even more remarkable is that it preceded and anticipated the Campbellian Age of sf. Campbell is famous for giving his authors story ideas, frequently passing out the same suggestion to multiple writers and thus getting utterly different takes on that single germ. One legendary dictum would seem to fit Weinbaum's first story perfectly: "Write me a creature that thinks as well as a man, or better than a man, but not like a man." Weinbaum, who predated Campbell's tenure at Astounding, would seem to have been prophetic in fulfilling that request.

Everything Weinbaum wrote is measured against "A Martian Odyssey," which is, perhaps, unfortunate. Nothing unusual about this, of course; everything Asimov wrote for a couple of decades was compared to "Nightfall," and I'm sure that Richard Matheson is weary of everything he wrote being weighed against "Born of Man and Woman."

In Weinbaum's case, though, it's even more unfair because he didn't live long enough to accumulate a body of work that would outshine his initial foray into the field. Damn shame, that, because there's enough shine on his other stories to light up a total eclipse.

The fact is that Asimov, who wouldn't publish his first story ("Marooned Off Vesta" in the March, 1939 Amazing) until four years after Weinbaum's death, didn't see any of Weinbaum's stories until he broke into Astounding with "Flight On Titan" in the January, 1935 issue. He had this to say in his head note to Weinbaum's "The Parasite Planet" in his anthology, Before the Golden Age (Doubleday 1974):

I liked it ["Flight On Titan"], of course, but "The Parasite Planet," in the very next issue, was what hit me with the force of a pile driver and turned me instantly into a Weinbaum idolater.

I'll mention one more Asimovian riff and then shut the hell up about him. He posits in his intro to The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum that the early history of science fiction was illuminated by three supernovae, stories which succeeded in ". . . altering the nature of science fiction and converting every other writer into an imitator"; the first being Edward Elmer "Doc" Smith's collaborative[v] first story, a serialized novel beginning in the August, 1928 Amazing titled The Skylark of Space, and the third being Robert Anson Heinlein's debut in the August, 1939 Astounding with "Life-Line."

Need I say that the second super-nova was Weinbaum's inaugural foray into scientifiction? I didn't think so.

"So what's happened to Kyra Zelas, by some mad twist I don't understand, is that her adaptive powers have been increased to an extreme. She adapts instantly to her environment; when sun strikes her, she tans at once, and in shade she fades immediately. In sunlight her hair and eyes are those of a tropical race; in shadow, those of a Northerner. And—good Lord, I see it now—when she was faced with danger there in the courtroom, faced by a jury and judge who were men, she adapted to that! She met that danger, not only by changed appearance, but by a beauty so great, that she couldn't have been convicted!" He paused. "But how? How?"

That's a quote from "The Adaptive Ultimate," originally published in the November 1935 Astounding under the pen-name John Jessell. Now, I'm going to be honest here. This ain't the best-written tale I've ever read, not even close. It's not even Stanley G.'s best. But there a decent story hiding in there, and it's worth the minor hassle of coping with a little clumsy phrasing and awkward syntax. I've seen infinitely worse in a couple of decades of sitting in on convention workshops and writers' groups (not mine, of course—my guys are terrific).

The conceit is fairly simple, and echoes the sort of super-science yarn Hugo Gernsback got all sweaty over. A physician fiddles around with putrefied fruit-flies and creates a serum that he claims will cure anything. He and his buddy, another doctor, inject a dying woman with the serum, and, whaddaya know, it works.

Too well, as it turns out. See, she adapts. Instantly, and to anything and everything in her environment. And so it goes.

There are, of course, unforeseen circumstances, but there wouldn't be much of a story if there weren't. Said circs verge on the tragic, but there's love in the air and in the end, lessons are learned by all and sundry, and a sort of normality is restored.

As I said, it's a better-than-fair story, but there are lumps and ridges where there shouldn't be. For example: "Somehow it angered him that she should be so beautiful and at the same time deadly with an inhuman deadliness." Yeah, that's lumpy prose. Nevertheless, the story is well worth reading, if you can bear in mind the context: 1935 pulp fiction. Believe me, there's worse out there.

"Bah! Would you mention them in the same breath with the name of van Manderpootz? A pack of jackals, eating the crumbs of ideas that drop from my feast of thoughts! Had you gone back into the last century, now—had you mentioned Einstein and de Sitter—there, perhaps, are names worthy to rank with or just below) van Manderpootz!"

That's from one of my favorite Weinbaums, "The Worlds of If," which originally ran in the August '35 Wonder Stories. It's a good enough introduction to Prof. Haskel van Manderpootz (jeeze, I love Weinbaum's character names! I mean, if you're gonna be slapstick about it, go ahead and leap over the top, right?), Stanley G.'s entry in the Mad (or at least quirky) Scientist rodeo.

As you might have gathered from the quote above, the Prof isn't shy. Of course, he's convinced that he has no reason to be, as viewpoint character Dixon Wells describes:

It seems he'd transferred to N.Y.U. as head of the department of Newer Physics—that is, of Relativity. He deserved it; the old chap was a genius if ever there was one. . . .

The premise with this one is almost recursive—van Manderpootz invents a "What If" machine, the subjunctivisor, which shows What Might Have Been just like his fellow crazed scientist Hubert Farnsworth's[vi]. Based on the (equally fictitious) "Horsten psychomat," one plugs oneself into the machine, watches the blobs of color floating across the screen, twiddles a dial, and . . . well, it's a pulp story, and it doesn't have to make much sense. Just sit back and enjoy the story and forget the science for once, okay? Just like a Robert Sheckley story.

The problem is, our friend Wells is habitually late for everything, so no matter what the subjunctivisor shows him might happen, he manages to blow it. Gee, none of us have ever done that, have we?

There are three van Manderpootz stories, and they're all fun to read, something I’m finding rarer and rarer these days. I suppose I could make the case that van Manderpootz was a precursor to such later characters as Henry Kuttner's Gallegher, Nelson Bond's Lancelot Biggs, or Sterling Lanier's Brigadier Ffellowes. Problem is, none of them are practitioners of insane-o-science. They're certainly all quirky as hell, though, and even van Manderpootz has his literary ancestor in the person of Arthur Conan Doyle's Professor Challenger.

Weinbaum wasn't the only writer in the Milwaukee area. Robert Bloch, Ray Palmer (editor of Amazing and flying saucer maven), Roger Sherman Hoar (who wrote as Ralph Milne Farley), Fredric Brown and a few others banded together as the Milwaukee Fictioneers, mostly to party hearty, but also to critique each other and talk shop. Weinbaum was a member in excellent standing, and upon his death, they arranged to have Conrad Ruppert, fan and printer, produce a memorial volume titled Dawn of Flame. Published in an edition of 250 copies, there were two versions: the first one with an introduction by Palmer, to which Weinbaum's widow objected; there were only five copies of this version issued. The second, far more plentiful (if you can use that term with any book limited to 250 copies) version replaces the Palmer intro with one by fellow Fictioneer Lawrence Keating.

The book, as you can imagine, sells for a significant sum when offered at all. A search of eBay turns up no sales of the title in the past year, but long-time bookseller and bibliophile Lloyd Currey recently sold a copy for $2500. In 35 years of collecting and selling sf/fantasy books, I've only seen one copy myself, and that one came from Ruppert's own library. The book itself is interesting, as Ruppert primarily printed and bound bibles. Thus Dawn of Flame is bound in limp leather with the title and author's name stamped in gold on the cover and spine.

Bloch, the youngest[vii] and later the best known Fictioneer, was not just an admirer a la Asimov, but a friend as well. In his afterword to The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum, he wrote about those meetings where the members would read aloud from works in progress and, they hoped, benefit from the comments of the others:

. . . Stanley Weinbaum told his tales almost as well in person as in print. He had a true storyteller's presence and dramatic delivery, and he seemed to enjoy the reactions of his audience . . . [His] questions usually concerned characterizations—ways to build credibility in his nonhumans as well as his humans.

Later in his reminiscence, Bloch praised Weinbaum's skill at building that credibility:

This, of course, was Stanley Weinbaum's greatest contribution to science fiction. He introduced empathy to the field. In an era of rising racial, religious and nationalistic discord . . . Weinbaum somehow found the courage and creativity to present—without plea or preachment—the case for brotherhood.

Indeed, the relationship between Jarvis and Tweel (however you choose to spell and/or pronounce it) is clearly one of equals. Jarvis might be amused by Tweel's actions, but he takes his companion in adversity seriously and gives him his props to the other humans.

Let me close this out by expanding on the first sentence of that last paragraph. People read for various reasons, both individually and overall. Speaking personally, I read for enlightenment, for knowledge, for entertainment. And, since I was just a kid reading about cats in hats and off-color breakfast foods, just for the fun of it all.

It's simple, really. If I'm having fun, if I'm enjoying what I'm reading, it matters less if the prose isn't elegant or the style is less than blank iambic pentameter. Don't get me wrong, now, I'm as big a fan of lobster thermidor and oysters Rockefeller as the next gourmet, but there are plenty of times when what I really want is a chicken-salad sandwich with American cheese, toasted, and a frosty mug of IBC root beer.

Cordwainer Smith, Harlan Ellison, James Tiptree, Jr.: they weren't just wordsmiths or craftsmen; they set out to create art. By and large, in my less-than-humble opinion, they succeeded. Stanley Grauman Weinbaum wasn't about art, he was about having a good time; and passing that good time along to his readers was his ultimate goal. Hey, I may know a lot about art, but I know what I like, too, and I like Weinbaum. Give him a chance, and I think you will, too.

[i] In the November '34 Wonder.

[ii] He had written two more, but they remained unpublished until after his death. This makes Weinbaum one of the very few writers, in or out of the field, whose posthumous output exceeded their life-time credits.

[iii] That, I say, that's a joke, son. Mary tells me I should let you all know about these more often, her words being "give them fair warning."

[iv] A title I hope to cover at another time, and in another place.

[v] With Mrs. Lee Hawkins Garby, wife of Dr. Carl DeWitt Garby, a classmate of Smith's at the U of Idaho. Like you'll remember that.

[vi] You do watch Futurama, don't you? Coulda been worse, too, it coulda been the FingLonger.

[vii] He was invited to join the Fictioneers at age eighteen after they saw a newspaper article about his selling "The Feast in the Abbey" and "The Secret of the Tomb" to Weird Tales in 1935.

A Stanley G. Weinbaum Bibliography

(I know I keep on about this, but for those of us who take bibliographic matters seriously, well, we take them very seriously. So if you have additions or corrections to the biblio below, please do take the time and effort to let me know care of this magazine so I don't look like a Putz.)

Novels

The Lady Dances—King-Features Syndicate 1933

The New Adam—Ziff-Davis, 1939

The Black Flame—Fantasy Press, 1948

The Dark Other (aka The Mad Brain)—Fantasy Publishing Company, 1950

The Black Flame (restored)—Tachyon Publishing, 1997

Short stories

"A Martian Odyssey"—July 1934 Wonder

"Valley of Dreams"—November 1934 Wonder

"Flight on Titan"—January 1935 Astounding

"Parasite Planet"—February 1935 Astounding

"The Lotus Eaters"—April 1935 Astounding

"Pygmalion's Spectacles"—June 1935 Wonder

"The Worlds of If"—August 1935 Wonder

"The Challenge From Beyond"—September 1935 Fantasy Magazine (round robin, Weinbaum wrote the opening 800+ words)

"The Ideal"—September 1935 Wonder

"The Planet of Doubt"—October 1935 Astounding

"The Adaptive Ultimate"—November 1935 Astounding (as by John Jessel)

"The Red Peri"—November 1935 Astounding

"The Mad Moon"—December 1935 Astounding

Posthumous publications

"The Point of View"—January 1936 Wonder

"Smothered Seas"—January 1936 Astounding

"Yellow Slaves"—February 1936 True Gang Life (with Roger Sherman Hoar, as by Ralph Milne Farley)

"Redemption Cairn"—March 1936 Astounding

"The Circle of Zero"—August 1936 Thrilling Wonder

"Proteus Island"—August 1936 Astounding

"Graph"—September 1936 Fantasy Magazine

"The Brink of Infinity"—December 1936 Thrilling Wonder

"Shifting Seas"—April 1937 Amazing

"Revolution of 1950"—serial, October-November 1938 Amazing (with Roger Sherman Hoar, as by Ralph Milne Farley)

"Tidal Moon"—December 1938 Thrilling Wonder (with Helen Weinbaum, his sister)

"The Black Flame"—January 1939 Startling

"Dawn of Flame"—June 1939 Thrilling Wonder

"Green Glow of Death"—July 1957 Crack Detective and Mystery Stories

"The King's Watch"—Posthumous Press, 1994

Collections of stories and poetry

Dawn of Flame: The Stanley G. Weinbaum Memorial Volume—Milwaukee Fictioneers (Conrad H. Ruppert), 1936

A Martian Odyssey and Others—Fantasy Press, 1949

The Red Peri—Fantasy Press, 1952

A Martian Odyssey and Other Classics of Science Fiction—Lancer 74-808, 1962

The Best of Stanley G. Weinbaum—Ballantine, 1974

A Martian Odyssey and Other Science Fiction Tales—Hyperion Press, 1974

Lunaria and Other Poems—The Strange Publishing Company, 1988

The Black Heart—Leonaur Publishing, 2006

Interplanetary Odyssey—Leonaur Publishing, 2006

Other Earths—Leonaur Publishing, 2006

Strange Genius—Leonaur Publishing, 2006