JIM BAEN'S UNIVERSE
Grantville Gazette, Volume 28

Grantville Gazette, Volume 28, 1 March 2010

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Grantville Gazette

A 1632, Inc. Publication
Grantville Gazette
P. O. Box 7488
Moore, OK 73153-1488

SKU: 1011250067

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

The Grantville Gazette originated as a by-product of the ongoing and very active discussions which take place concerning the 1632 universe Eric Flint created in the novels 1632, 1633 and 1634: The Galileo Affair (the latter two books co-authored by David Weber and Andrew Dennis, respectively). This discussion is centered in three of the conferences in Baen's Bar, the discussion area of Baen Books' web site. The conferences are entitled "1632 Slush," "1632 Slush Comments" and "1632 Tech Manual." They have been in operation for almost seven years now, during which time nearly two hundred thousand posts have been made by hundreds of participants.

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

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

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

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

Then, two big steps:

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

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

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

—The Grantville Gazette Staff

FICTION:

The Common Market

Written by Terry Howard

Grantville January 1635 Genucci's Funeral home

Vernon looked over the full house at his wife's funeral. The place was packed. Juliet, his daughter-in-law, sat between him and Zane holding Vernon's left hand in her lap like Melvina so often had. He'd put his hand there out of habit. Juliet was holding onto it tight, like it was a life line. Whether it was for his comfort or hers was an unasked and unanswered question. Melvina had been the family's anchor, the voice of reason, the grand matriarch. Oddly enough, this was as true, or more true, for her daughter-in-law but not for her son or husband. Vernon started to remove his hand once but Juliet didn't let go so he left it even though it didn't feel quite right; the chemistry wasn't there. Not once did Vernon, even once, start to lean over to whisper an aside into her ear, as he had so often and so commonly done with Melvina.

Instead, he was talking freely to his wife of fifty years . . . or at least to her voice, which was still there in his head as lively and insightful as ever.

* * *

"Even with Fran putting out the extra chairs there are still people standing," Vernon's thoughts said.

"Why's Fran doing that? Where's Freddy?" his wife's voice asked.

"He's a pilot in the air force, remember? Maybe we should have gone to the bigger funeral home."

"No, Vernon, I don't care. This is my funeral and this is where I wanted it," Melvina's voice answered.

"Back before the TV went dead, there would have been plenty of room for the family and friends."

"Vernon McCabe! When the TV died? You mean the Ring of Fire?"

"Well, yeah."

"Vernon, why can't you just say the Ring of Fire, like everybody else?"

"Cause that ain't the way I think of it. Now a big chunk of this here crowd is vendors and folks from down at the farmers' market."

"Vernon, nobody calls it the farmers' market anymore. Mostly the farmers take their wagons to the wholesale market out at the fair grounds."

"Well, back when I could watch ball games on TV they called it the farmers' market."

"Yes, Vernon," her voice drawled out in exasperation. She usually started anything she wanted to say to him with his name. The way she said it was most of what she wanted to communicate. The rest was usually commentary. "The town council wanted the farmers and gardeners to use the picnic shelter in the park next to the swimming pool to sell their produce on Saturday mornings.

"They called it a farmers' market even if it was mostly garden stuff. Back then, it was just a little extra money. Nobody was counting on the market to make a living. That first summer the Thuringen Gardens took the site over for a beer hall. No one much cared. There wasn't a whole lot extra. A lot of folks still had lids for their canning jars and the refugee center needed anything anyone could spare. The second year people started showing up selling produce and yard sale junk on Saturday and then Friday and Sunday too, and before long it was all week long. If you had stuff out of your garden you could take it down to the market early and someone from the grocery stores would be along to see if you had anything they wanted. After that you could leave it on consignment with one of the regulars or open your own table."

"Melvina, why are you telling me things I already know?"

"Because, Vernon McCabe, you're a forgetful old coot."

"But you were doing it even before we got married."

"Well, Vernon, back then you were still wet behind the ears. Someone had to look after you, make sure you remembered things."

"Right! You weren't but a year older. Shoot, for the month of December we were the same age."

"Hey, you were seventeen at the time. A year makes a lot of difference at that age. Besides, girls mature sooner than boys. That was back then. Now you're a forgetful old coot."

"Well, at least I'm not dead yet."

"Don't count on that taking very long. Besides when people catch on that you're talking to me after I'm dead and gone they'll lock you up in the loony bin."

"We ain't got one."

"So? They'll put a ten foot fence around the house, hire a keeper and make one."

"Look," Vernon said, "is that Adam Himmler? Ain't he the kid you almost had to throw out of the park to get him to clean up? Yeah, that's him. Remember, you told me all about it when you came home that first afternoon after Edith sent you down there to check on things back before they sent her off to Prague."

* * *

Adam Himmler looked at the old lady in the casket and his mind went back to the first time he ever saw her . . . .

"Young man, that table is filthy! You're selling things for people to eat. Take everything off the table and wash it down with soap and water. Tomorrow, if it isn't clear to me that you washed the table off before you set your veggies out, you won't be opening up again. Is that clear?" Melvina McCabe demanded.

"But, I don't have soap and water."

"There's a water spigot there," she pointed to the public restrooms. "You can buy soap there," she pointed to a table selling lye soap. "Ask the chicken-plucker to loan you a rag and a bucket and tomorrow bring your own."

Adam cautiously approached the stall. Janos asked, "Plucked or live?"

"What?" Adam asked.

"Plucked or live? Your chicken? Do you want it plucked or alive?"

"No. I need to borrow a bucket and a rag." He pointed to Melvina who was talking to the basket maker. "She said. I've got to wash my table off."

"You're lucky." Jano's answered. "I've got to bring a brush and scrub the floor tomorrow morning before I start, and wash everything else down too, and I can't just put the feathers and other things in the trash can anymore. I have to take them home, or I can't come back.

"Here's a bucket and a rag. Bring me two tomatoes and a cucumber when you come back."

At the stall where a woman who looked older than Melvina but wasn't much over half of her age offered cakes of lye soap for sale Adam asked, "What's the smallest piece you've got."

She pointed to a one-inch cube.

"I only need enough to wash off the table."

Gretta glanced at Melvina who was telling a used clothing seller to leave the space under the roof to the produce vendors, "The sunshine won't hurt the clothes and it is hard on the veggies." Gretta looked at the bucket and pointed to the rag.

"This?" Adam asked holding out the rag.

Gretta grabbed it out of his hand, gathered up a few flakes and a crumb in it and gave it back to him. "Thanks," Adam said. Gretta glanced at Melvina again and still did not say a word. After Adam returned the bucket to Janos, he gave Gretta two tomatoes and a cucumber also.

The next day Mrs. McCabe looked the table over and nodded her head in acceptance. "Tomorrow wipe the table legs off, too." Then she actually smiled. Adam breathed a sigh of relief. He knew his mother would be furious with him if he lost the right to sell the garden surplus in the park.

That was back before Momma remarried. They were living with an up-time family at the time. Both the up-timers worked. Momma cleaned, cooked and kept the garden although Adam did most of the weeding and picking. What she didn't put on the table or dry for the winter, she sent to the park to sell. The up-timers provided room and board in return for Momma's cooking and cleaning.

Adam's sister Anna's job was all the income the family had. So selling stuff in the park was important. He didn't mind. It was boring just sitting there most of the day but it got him out of the house where Momma would find something for him to do. He didn't need to push the reel mower over the front yard more than twice a week. Momma was still trying to get the up-timers to get a goat. She wanted the milk and there was plenty of pasture going to waste that had to be cut since it wasn't being grazed.

Mrs. McCabe looked at the table and laughed. He'd laid the tomatoes out like a face, with the cucumbers for hair and the herbs for eyebrows and beard. "You should bring a book to read, young man."

"We don't have any," Adam said.

The next day Mrs. McCabe stopped at his table. She looked at the legs and nodded to say it was clean enough, and then she reached into her bag and handed him a sketchpad with half the pages missing and a mostly full box of colored pencils. "Here, draw me a picture of the chicken plucker's booth."

The next day Adam had the pencil box sitting on top of the pad when she came by.

"Well, let's see how good you are," She said picking up the pad. "I thought so. The way you mixed the riper and greener tomatoes and the way you turned the yellow sides of the cucumbers to make your face look like it had depth . . . Now, can you do it as a single color line drawing that looks like a woodcut on a broadsheet?"

Adam nodded.

Melvina handed him the pad and went off to talk to other vendors.

The next day she told him to make it smaller. The day after she had him draw it on a block of wood four inches square and a half-inch think. Then she handed him a carving set and said, "Let's see if you can cut it into the wood shall we?"

When the article she wrote about the market ended up in one of the newspapers using his wood cut, Adam remembered his mother's surprise. When someone from the paper came by the market with a block of wood and a sketch, Adam thought the man seemed a bit put off when he found out how young the woodcarver was. But, there was a deadline.

"Kid, we need this when we open in the morning. Can you have it ready?"

Adam ended up making as much as his sister that summer. Momma was not at all happy when school started and the new paper stopped using him. "Sorry, kid. Look, come on back after school on Friday and you can cut a block for the Sunday paper. But Mrs. McCabe would have my scalp if I let you do this when you should be in school." Momma was real unhappy about him losing the job. But, there was nothing she could do about it. Now he was through the eighth grade and he was cutting wood blocks full time. "Okay kid, but you are going to take evening classes or I won't keep you on as a carver. Melvina wouldn't like it."

* * *

"There's Janos." Vernon thought. "He's doing a bang up business selling dumplings, ain't he? What's he up to now, five or six carts? How'd you ever finagle that one anyway?"

"Who said I did?" Melvina's voice replied.

"I've seen the way you smiled every time you saw one of his pushcarts. Shoot, that grin on your face almost made me think you had money tied up in it."

"The only money I put in it was to buy a gallon to bring home that first day he was selling them in the market."

"The only thing?"

"Well, I bought another gallon to send to Anne, and I suggested to a couple of people that they should have dumplings for lunch."

"You suggested dumplings for lunch? Just how strongly did you make that suggestion?"

* * *

Janos looked at the folded card the funeral home handed out. Mrs. McCabe's age was a shock. He'd known the bossy up-timer was old, but, he'd never dreamed how old. She was too full of life to be that old. Even laid out, it hardly seemed possible to think of her any other way than he remembered . . . .

"Young man, you can't leave your wastes in the trash cans. It draws flies." Those were the first words she ever said to him.

"The cans aren't that big and you fill them up too fast. You don't want flies around things people are going to eat. From now on you just plan on taking your wastes back home with you."

She looked over his booth. "And another thing, you've set up permanently. I guess that's all right for now. You might have to pay a fee in the future, though. But I'm telling you right now, if everything isn't washed down before you leave tonight and that floor isn't scrubbed before you start tomorrow, you won't be coming back. We have got to keep things clean or people will get sick!"

A week later she asked him, "Janos, what are you still doing here?"

"This is my job, Mrs. McCabe."

Melvina snorted. "When are you going to get a real job?"

"What else can I do? I tried the mines and they said I had closet phobia."

"Claustrophobia?"

"Yes."

"Well, there are other things in life."

"Mrs. McCabe, I am saving my money. One day I will lease a farm. I am too old to be an apprentice."

"You listen to me, Janos. This is West Virginia. You can be anything you want to be. Get your act together, young man. Find an opportunity and go for it. Plucking chickens for that cheapskate you work for is no way to live."

Months later Arch Pennock set him up selling dumplings. That first day Mrs. McCabe bought half a dozen bowls for different people and ordered three gallons. One she took home and the other two she gave away. She was telling everybody how good his dumplings were. The business was up and running almost overnight; the way she had of prompting people to buy them had a lot to do with it early on.

* * *

"Look there's Dietrich," Vernon thought.

"Poor man," Melvina's voice answered in Vernon's head. "He works so hard and has such big dreams. He deserves to get ahead. It just never seems to work out for him."

"Yeah," Vernon answered his late wife's voice. "When the canning lids from back home were all used up he started buying up jars and filling them with dried tomatoes and dried summer squash. He put them in an oven to keep the moisture out before he screwed the new, tinker made, lids down and dipped them in wax. Worked, too. We've still got a jar from three years ago."

"It wasn't that long, Vernon."

"Well, it seems like it. Then a canning company opened up with that line of glass lids with the wire to hold them down and a cork ring to seal them. Now Dietrich buys the empties down at the market and fills them back up with what ever he can get cheap when he can get new cork rings. Otherwise he's still filling them with dried stuff and sealing it with wax."

"Well," Melvina's voice said, "He and his wife are making a living out of their kitchen. Did you know that they found the evaporator in the basement?"

"Yeah, you told me."

"They're buying the place, you know, they're not just renting it."

"You've got to admit that beef stew he puts up is first rate."

"And his wife keeps a spotless kitchen too," Melvina said. "Every night at five he picks up his daughter and any jars she's bought, in that pushcart of his. Then he buys up whatever produce the vendors will sell cheap. He can't compete with the cannery's volume but the grocery stores take everything he puts up. If he could get a steady supply of cork instead of having to buy what's left with the cannery getting first dibs, he could stick with making the beef stew. One of these days somebody is going to come up with rubber for the canning lids and then maybe their business can take off.

"That daughter of his is reading from when she gets set up to when she closes down. Did you know she's reading for law?"

"Yeah you've mentioned it, two or three times."

"Don't get sarcastic, you old coot."

"Well, quit telling me what I already know."

"How am I supposed to know what you remember and what you forget?"

"You're in my head. You ought to know what I'm thinkin'."

"Yeah? What's our wedding anniversary date?"

"I forgot it one time and you've been giving me fits about it for decades."

"Only an absolute idiot could forget something like that!" Melvina said. But Vernon could hear the humor in her voice and it brought a smile to his face.

* * *

Juliet noticed the smile and elbowed her husband. She was sure Vernon was losing it. She'd even suggested they should think about getting a court-ordered competency test and put the old man in the nursing home. Just yesterday, she'd told her husband, "Zane, you know I love him, but he's going to need someone to look after him. He's losing it, I tell you. I don't think he's admitting she's gone. I caught him talking to her, I tell you." The smile on his face was all the proof she needed, as far as she was concerned.

* * *

"Look, there's Alois," Vernon thought.

"He looks funny in a suit." Melvina's voice said. "I don't think I ever saw him without his leather apron. I still think he's the best basket maker in town."

"That's just because he works out of the market. You can get a good basket in the grocery stores or the hardware store."

"Yes, but if you want something made to order instead of a stock basket you have to go find a basket maker and everyone knows where to find Alois."

"That don't mean his baskets are better," Vernon told his wife's voice.

"Oh, and I suppose that don't mean he's more flexible either? If he ain't better, why is he always backed up with people waiting when they could buy stock items off the shelf just as cheap?"

"You might have a point there," Vernon said.

"Might? You old coot! Humph! Look there's Maria."

"Who's she?"

"I've told you. She runs the bakery co-op booth. Different housewives make bread for her. She sells the bread fresh, and day old. At the end of the second day anything left goes to the Catholic church's free food bank. Look, there's Ludwig, he's got the milk and cheese co-op booth."

"You set up the co-ops didn't you?"

"Well, there wasn't any point of half-a-dozen people sitting around trying to sell two loaves of bread or a gallon of milk apiece."

"Melvina, you spent entirely too much time down at the market."

"I don't know what you're griping about. It was your idea to enclose the picnic shelter with straw bales through the winter. Otherwise, the co-ops and other regulars would've had to shut down when the weather got too bad. And you're the one who built that oil drum wood burner to keep the place warm."

"Well, you were bound and determined to be down there every day and I didn't want you getting sick."

"Like that worked," Melvina's voice laughed.

Vernon let out a soft moan and he closed his eyes trying, unsuccessfully, to hold back the tears. Zane elbowed his wife by way of saying "see, everything is normal." Then he joined his father in trying not to cry.

A few weeks later

"Dad, Juliet and I think you should sell the house and move into a room down at the nursing home."

"Zane, the only reason I'm going down to the nursing home is to look for a woman who still has her teeth and her mind and who doesn't have any family who wants her. I'm sure she don't want to be down there anymore than I do. Those places will kill you. Being around all of those old people is contagious."

"Dad, that's just plain silly. You shouldn't be talking about marrying a widow at your age."

"Who said anything about getting married? It was the twenty-first century and now it's the seventeenth. We could just shack up."

"Dad!"

"You're right. I know it. I ain't going to find a girlfriend down at the old folks home. They've already given up and they're just waiting to die. I don't need that in the house. Ain't no point to it unless I just want to pay for another funeral."

"Dad! Get real. Speaking of the house, Dad, the place is a mess. It looks like you haven't vacuumed or dusted in weeks. You need to hire a cleaning lady."

"Ain't nobody here but me. I'll pick up before I have company over."

"Are you even doing the laundry?"

"I do it when I need to."

"You mean when all of the towels are dirty or you're completely out of socks and underwear. If you won't sell out, you need to hire some help. If you can't afford it, you should sell the place and get a room. You really should anyway."

"Maybe I should find a young widow with kids and start another family. This house is rather on the empty side."

"Get serious, Dad."

"Who says I ain't?"

"The grass isn't growing on Mom's grave yet!"

"So, I should wait for spring?"

"Look, Dad, quit teasing. I know you miss her. But she's gone. You've been caught talking to her more than once."

"Zane, she don't need to be here for me to talk to her. After fifty years I know what she's going to say before she says it."

"So you admit it?"

"If you mean do I admit talking to your mother? No. If you mean do I admit talking to her memory, yes. It ain't the same thing."

August 1635 Grantville

There was a rapping at the back door.

"I'll get it." Zane said, leaving the couch and the evening's movie on TV.

"Dad," Zane asked, when he opened the kitchen door. "What's up?"

"Zane, I'm going to sell the house, unless you and Juliet want it."

"Ahhh . . . have a seat. Juliet, get in here."

"But, the movie is . . ."

"Juliet! Get in here now!" Zane demanded.

"Vernon? What's up?"

Zane answered, "Dad wants to know if you want Mom's house. He's ready to give it up."

Juliet sighed. "I know that its got to be hard, Vernon, but it's for the best. They can look after you at the nursing home and we can stop worrying about you."

"Who said anything about a nursing home?"

"Well, you're giving up the house and we assumed . . ." Juliet said before Vernon cut her off.

"Nope. I got a job offer in Finland. I'll be gone for at least a year. No point in leaving the house empty that long, and I don't want to rent it out."

"Finland! Are you crazy?" Zane said, looking flabbergasted.

"Well, the folks at the state department in Magdeburg say Finland is still part of Sweden these days. But, yeah, Finland. They're building a paper mill in Finland and they've offered me a job."

"Dad, that's a thousand miles away," Zane objected.

"Closer to fifteen hundred actually," Vernon answered.

"Vernon, Zane's right. This is crazy. You just tell them no. You've got no business going that far at your age," Juliet said.

"Look, you've been after me to give up the house. I thought you'd be happy."

"Vernon, we wanted you out of a house that was too big for you to take care of, and in an old folks home where you would be looked after. We don't want you goin' off somewhere and getting sick and dying with no one to look after you."

"No, you want me to move into the nursing home and get sick and die right here," Vernon said, a little harshly. "Look, I'm going to be their number one consultant. I'm sure they will take very good care of me."

"Dad, the trip alone could kill you."

"I don't see why; it's a train ride to Magdeburg," Vernon said. "The rest of the trip is by boat. But you might be right. On the other hand, moving into a nursing home will kill me for sure. Ain't nobody gets out of one of those places alive. Now, do you want the house or should I go see a realtor?"

"Tell them to get somebody younger," Juliet said.

"There ain't nobody younger. There ain't nobody else in town who ever saw a working paper mill, much less worked in one. It's settled. I've told the state department I'd go, and I'm going. The only thing you've got to decide is whether you want the house or not."

"The state department can't make you go," Juliet said.

"They ain't making me."

"Then why are going, Dad?"

"It pays well, it's something to do, and it will keep me from being stacked up like cordwood with a mess of other unwanted old geezers who are just waiting to die."

"Vernon, you aren't unwanted and the nursing home isn't like that. They don't stack people up like cordwood."

"Juliet, just you wait until nobody wants you around and your ungrateful kids want to stick you in one.

"I ain't going to do it. Somebody not only wants me, they actually need me, or at least they need what I've got tucked away in here." Vernon tapped the side of his head. "I've got a job. It pays more than I've ever made in my life. I'd be crazy not to go."

Finland Early Winter of 1636,37 KymiRiver Mill Works

Kristiina, Countess Anna Marketta Bielke's personal confidant and business manager, watched along with Vernon and Aappo, one of Vernon's three understudies, as the mill girls packaged the first run of market quality typing paper to come through the belt driven shears.

"That's it," Kristiina said with a smile, "paper, suitable for printing books, or running through a typewriter. What the count had in mind when he decided his wife was interested in a paper mill. We will have something besides wrapping paper and brown bags to ship as soon as the weather breaks."

The old man had been right. He said Grantville would buy the brown paper. They had a contract with a distributor in Grantville for an ongoing delivery schedule of wrapping paper and the brown paper bags.

But this was what the count envisioned. Printing quality white paper would be their bread-and-butter product line.

"Sorry it's taken so long," Vernon said.

"Vernon, it's only been six months. Our business plan allowed a full year for start up after the construction was done and we budgeted for two years. You're way ahead of schedule."

"Do we run the irregular rolls of white paper back through the pulp tanks?" Kristiina asked. Once the chemists got the color pale enough to call it white, they still had a struggle getting the desired weight and finish. There were almost as many rolls of white paper that weren't suitable for printing as there were of brown.

"No," Vernon said. "I had Carlo design the bag shop to be reconfigured to make a waxed paper. It won't be as good as what we had up-time but it will be as good as the handmade stuff they're selling in Grantville these days and it will be a lot cheaper, so you will have a good mark up. You'll need a boat load of paraffin from Wietze as soon as you can get it though 'cause you'll run out of brown paper for the bag line before mill number two is up and ready to cut its teeth on more brown paper.

"I'll see the second mill up and the waxed paper line running come spring and then head home when the summer weather gets here. I ain't going through another passage like I had getting here."

"Mr. McCabe, you were caught in an unseasonably early storm," Aappo said. "It is usually safe to take a boat in the spring and the fall. Not that you're not welcome to stay as long as you are willing to. You've told us you've taught us everything you know; but then something else goes wrong and you've got the answer and it's something you never mentioned."

"Yes, Vernon," Kristiina said. "What would it take to get you to stay at least another year? Would a raise do it?"

"Now that is something to think about," Vernon said.

Kymi Mill Complex Late winter 1636/37, Brown Paper Bag shop

"Psss, Kaari, the old foreigner is coming this way." Leena whispered.

Kaari smiled. The old man was kind and friendly; he liked to tell jokes. A lot of the time they were only funny because he mangled them when he told them in Finnish. Kaari laughed even when she didn't get them. Word was that the bag line was his idea. So she and her mother wouldn't have a job if he hadn't been here. Working on the bag line wasn't hard or heavy, but it was tedious and boring. The paper soaked the oils out of her hands and left them rough. Her shoulders and neck were always stiff at the end of the day. But working the bag line was definitely better than going hungry.

"Keeri?" Vernon asked, by way of a greeting. "How is the line running? Are there any problems?"

"Every thing is fine, Herr McCabe."

"Call me Vernon. Do you know why the man threw a clock out the window?"

Kaari shook her head no.

"He wanted to see time fly!" Vernon laughed. Kaari laughed too, while wondering why anyone would be so foolish as to throw something as expensive as a clock out of a window. True, foreigners were rich. But surely no one was that rich. The old man worked his way around the line, stopping to chat when he knew someone by name.

Back in the main office, Aappo—speaking in German since that was the language they had in common—asked him, "How was the bag line running?"

"Fine," Vernon said.

"Did you talk to Kaari's mother?"

"Yes."

"Did you ask her?"

"No."

"Vernon, you've got to do it sometime?"

"Aappo, this isn't like going out to dinner and a movie. I spoke to her. Let me get acquainted. You don't just blurt something like that out."

"Are you sure you don't want someone else to ask for you? Kristiina will if you ask her to."

"No, I'll ask her. But let me work up to it."

* * *

On the walk home after work Kaari's mother said, "The old stranger stops to talk with you every time he comes into the bag shop. Did he tell you the joke about the idiot who threw a clock out the window?"

"Yes, Äiti."

"I saw you laughing. Can you explain why being so wasteful is funny?"

"No. Äiti, I can't. But he laughed, so I laughed."

"Well, strangers should be strange I suppose. But if he can afford to throw a clock out the window he must be very rich. Do, you have any idea why he always stops to talk with you?"

"No, Äiti, I don't. I guess it's because I am nearest the door he comes through."

"One of the women, on my end if the line, heard he is thinking of staying. If he does, she said, he wants to build a house and get married."

"At his age?" Kaari laughed. "That's silly."

"He has no family, Kaari. Maybe he doesn't want to die alone. You could do a lot worse than marrying a rich stranger."

"Äiti, don't be silly. He's old enough to be my father."

"Child, he's old enough to be your grandfather, which is beside the point. Or it is the point. If he marries you, you would shortly be a rich widow. If he can afford to throw clocks away, you would be a very rich widow indeed."

"That is ridiculous," Kaari said.

"I thought so too. But today he stopped and talked to me. He called me as 'Äiti.'"

"Äiti, half the girls on the line call you Äiti."

"Yes, because I am old enough to be their mother. In his case, I am young enough to be his daughter. The women on my end of the line talked it over after he left. The others think it is the old stranger's way of announcing that he is interested in becoming my son-in-law."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of!"

"Think about it, Kaari. If he gets married, he will build a house. You would have a widow's rights. Would it be such a hard thing to be a rich widow?"

Kaari shuddered. The idea of sleeping with someone that old sucked the warmth right out of her.

Two weeks later

"Psssst. Kaari, here he comes." Leena's whispered words from the other side of the bag line were free of any lightness or mirth.

Karri knew from Leena's tone the "he" she was referring too was the old foreigner. The same words, with a different inflection, would mean Aappo was coming and would have caused Kaari to smile and glance about while her heart raced. Kaari concentrated on her work and fervently prayed, "Please, Lord. Please don't let him stop."

Kaari glanced at her mother who was working on the front end of the paper bag line. She saw her mother smiling and shuddered. Äiti liked it when the old man stopped.

* * *

"You be nice to him," Äiti told her repeatedly. "There is nothing wrong with being a rich young widow. And at his age you will be a widow very shortly."

"But, Äiti, we both have jobs, now. We aren't going hungry or cold. I don't need to be in a hurry to get married."

"You just want to wait for that young Aappo to get established. I've seen how you look at him and how he looks at you. Don't be a fool, girl. Five years from now, when he can afford to get married, what makes you think he will marry you? He is going to want someone with a dowry. Right now, he's too young, and a young man only wants one thing. What he wants now and what he wants five years from now are two different things. You watch yourself around that boy.

"Yes, we both have jobs. Thanks to the new countess. Yes, we're saving a little money. But a job that came out of nowhere can go away just a quickly. These paper bags are a new thing. What if people decide they're not good enough and won't buy them? You know cloth is better."

"But paper is cheaper, Äiti."

"If it won't do the job, then it is a waste of money. If people won't buy them, then we are out of work. Your father and his goat herd are dead and gone child. We have nothing to go back to; yes, there is a little money under the hearth. But, if one of us gets sick, it can be gone in a moment. You listen to me. You be nice to that old man when he's being nice to you!"

"But he's nice to you too!"

"Child, he calls me Äiti just like you do. That proves it. He's just being nice to the mother because he's interested in the daughter."

"Maybe he thinks it's your name."

"That is just plain foolish. You be nice to the old man. Do you hear me girl. And stay away from that boy Aappo."

* * *

Kaari saw her mother smile. She knew her mother's eyes would not leave her for more than a fraction of a second until the old man moved on. Working the bag line without looking was no real problem after the first month or so. Kaari's Äiti, Hanna, worked the front end of the line. She wrapped a piece of brown paper around a light wooden box and glued it into a squared tube. A quick glance to get the glue on right and the rest could be done by feel.

After the tube was set, the box went through an oven to dry the glue. Then it came out to the middle of the line where the box was set on it's end, the paper was slid up the right height, and the bottom of the bag was folded and glued before it went back in the oven to dry. When it came out of the oven the second time the third line took the bags off the boxes, folded them flat and stacked them for shipping. Then the naked boxes made the loop back to the front end of the first line.

The rolls of brown paper being used to make bags were an accident of development. They came off the paper-making machine while the old foreigner got the process working correctly. Eventually, what the old man called "typing paper," suitable for printing books, started rolling off the machine. The bag shop was something to do with the rolls and rolls of brown paper and a way of providing employment. It was simple work, if repetitive. It paid well enough to get by and once your hand roughened up and you got used to doing the same thing over and over again, it wasn't a bad job.

"Good afternoon, Kaari. Are you having a good day?" Vernon asked.

"Yes, Mr. McCabe," she replied without looking up.

"Any trouble with the conveyer belt today?"

"No, Mr. McCabe."

"Well, have a good day then."

"Yes, Mr. McCabe."

The old man moved on and Kaari breathed a sigh of relief. Later she saw him chatting and laughing with her mother and chills ran down her spine.

* * *

As they walked home after work, a very excited Hanna said, "We have a lot to do when we get home. The house must be spotless." The two of them were living in one of the dozens of log cabins built in the shadow of the paper mill to house the laborers in the new mill complex. Each cluster of four one-room apartments had a shared central room with a water spigot and flush toilets. Each apartment had a cast iron cooking stove and there were heat runs keeping the floors in the cabins warm in the winter and the lane running to the mills free of snow.

"Mr. McCabe asked if he could stop by the house tonight to discuss something important. He is going to ask for your hand. I'm sure of it."

"Please, Äiti, I don't want to marry an old man."

"Yes, I know. You want to marry a boy. He is no more than a child," Hanna said with a voice full of scorn. "We've been over that several times. It is not a decision you can make. Older, wiser people who are thinking with their heads and not with . . ." She paused. " . . . some other part of their body, know what is best. In the long run, you will thank me."

"But I have a job. I don't have to get married."

"Kaari, have you noticed that they are running out of brown paper? Do you see them making any more? What will happen to the bag line when the paper is gone? Be sensible, girl. Mr. McCabe is coming to ask for your hand. I will say yes and you will smile. What do you want to do? Spend all of our savings on new goats and go back to going hungry and cold and freezing all day while watching them in the fields?"

"That is what we planned to do when we first came here, Äiti."

"Yes, but this is better."

"But, Äiti, I . . ."

Hanna cut her daughter off. "Enough. I have decided! Do you hear me? This is how it is going to be."

"Yes, Äiti."

* * *

In anticipation of the day, having researched Vernon McCabe's preferences, Hanna opened the expensive coffee and sugar she bought at the company store. When the old American arrived, sugar cookies were just coming out of the oven and coffee was perking on top of the stove in the borrowed coffee pot. The floor was swept, every flat surface wiped down, and everything that could be put away was.

There was a knock on the door. Hanna brushed her clean white apron and opened it. Oddly, there were two men at the door instead of one.

"I will see you later, Vernon," Aappo said, and departed.

"Äiti Hanna, may I come in?"

"Certainly, Mr. McCabe," she said with a smile for Vernon, a glaring glance at the departing young Aappo and a second glance to the largish package tucked under Vernon's arm. "Let me take your coat, and please have a seat at the table. May I get you a cup of coffee or can I offer you something else?"

"Coffee will be fine, thank you." Vernon looked around, "Where is Kaari?" Vernon asked.

"She is at the neighbors. Important things are to be discussed."

"Oh, yes, they are and I need to talk to her," Vernon said.

A puzzled Hanna opened the door to the common bathroom and called out, "Kaari?" A second of the four doors into the common room opened.

"Yes, Äiti?"

"Come. Mr. McCabe is asking for you."

When she was back in the room she shared with her mother Vernon said, "Kaari, you look lovely as always. But, why are you looking sad? Here, this is for you." Vernon slid the parcel across the table. "I think it will warm you up."

Inside was the heavy wool coat with a linen lining she had been looking at in the company store. It was expensive and Kaari hadn't even mentioned it to Hanna. Their old fur coats would do just fine. It was a grand gift indeed, something she wanted and would never have bought for herself. But the look on her face reflected only anxiety.

"Kaari, there is something I wish to ask you. I am thinking of not going back to Grantville. If I stay here I will want to build a house and get married," Kaari's sad face looked even sadder. "With that in mind, I was wondering what you would think about my marrying your mother?"

The room was absolutely quiet. You could have heard a pin thinking about dropping. The loudest noise in the room was the perking coffee which competed with the mill noises in the distance. Kaari and her mother were both on the verge of fainting, one from relief and the other from shock. In the lingering silence, Vernon was beginning to think he had made a big mistake, that he had read all of the signs wrong and that they were going to say no.

Finally, in happy shock and surprise, wanting confirmation that she had indeed heard what she thought she had heard, Kaari asked, "You don't want to marry me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, girl. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. I'll be robbing the cradle if I marry your mother, if she says yes, when I get around to asking. But, I won't even ask if you don't approve. After all, you might not want a stepfather, or you might not like the idea of her marrying an older man.

"Besides everyone knows you've been making eyes at Aappo and he's so in love with you his tongue is practically hanging out."

"No," Hanna said, "Aappo is too young to get married."

"Nonsense," Vernon said. "He's years older than I was when I got married to Melvina, may she rest in peace."

"He is not established. He cannot afford a wife."

"This is a marriage we're talking about. It's not like he's wanting to buy a cow or something."

"No. It is not a good idea, I do not approve." Hanna said firmly.

"Well, that is something we had better talk about, because if I marry you," Vernon said just as firmly, "I'll have something to say about it and I think it's a great idea. He's got a good job with good prospects. She's got a job. They wouldn't have any trouble making ends meet."

Hanna shook her head and asked, "But how much longer will she have a job? They are running out of brown paper."

"Yeah, we'll be making more, but right now we can sell all the typing paper we can make. Besides, outside of Grantville bag sales are slow taking off. So, when we run out of brown paper for bags we'll turn the bag shop into a wax paper line. We built the drying ovens with that in mind. The bag shop will stay busy until we run out of white seconds. By then, we'll have the second paper machine up and we'll do another run of brown paper.

"As for being established, I'm going to build a big house with lots of rooms, the kids are welcome to one of them . . . shoot, I'll build them a suite. Then you can look after your grandchildren when they come along if Kaari wants to keep working, and I can watch the little ones play when I'm too old to work. When you get too old to look after yourself you can move into the suite, they can have the house and you can have some privacy if you want it."

"We thought you were going to ask to marry Kaari," Hanna said, still trying to deal with the blow to her schemes and dreams. "It would be a good match."

"And how long before she's a widow? Are you wanting to put me in an early grave? Besides, Aappo would never forgive me. Kaari would never forgive me. My late wife would never forgive me. My son back in Grantville would never forgive me. I'm not sure he will anyway, but what difference does that make? His wife would die of embarrassment if I gave her a stepmother who is younger than she is. It's bad enough to have one her own age. They're going to think I'm nuts just for getting married at all. But they're a long way off and they don't have a thing to say about it anyway."

The conversation was not going the way he thought it would. He had really thought she would have said yes to the question, even if he didn't directly ask it. "But that is another conversation for another day." Turning back to Kaari he asked, "What about it? Is it okay with you if I want to marry your mother?"

Kaari actually squealed, she threw her arms around Vernon and hugged him. "I think it would be a wonderful idea."

Vernon looked at Hanna, "I think we need to give your mother some time to think about it."

"B-b-but, in th-in the shop," Hanna stuttered slowly, "you called me 'Äiti.'"

"That's your name, isn't it? Äiti Hanna?" Vernon asked. "That's what all the girls on the line call you."

"No, Mr. McCabe," Kaari explained. "'Äiti' means mother. She's older than almost everyone else, they heard me calling her Äiti so they did too. But you're older than she is, so when you called her that she thought it was your American way of saying you wanted to be her son-in-law."

"Ohhhh," was all Vernon said. Again, the silence lingered. At last, Vernon said, "Well, I've asked what I came to ask, I'll be on my way. You talk it over with your ma—" Vernon briefly paused and chuckled. "Your Äiti, and see if you can't get her to warm up to the idea." Vernon left without having had a cup of coffee or a single cookie.

When he was gone, Kaari looked at her pale-faced mother. "It's different when it's you who will have to learn English and try and figure out all of his odd ways, and warm his cold feet on a long winter's night, especially when you think of having to look after an old man until he dies, isn't it?"

Her mother stared silently in shocked comprehension at the door Vernon had closed behind him.

Aappo was waiting out of sight, in the cold. As soon as Vernon turned the corner he asked, "Well, how did it go?"

"Not as well as I had hoped. Aappo, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"What happened?"

"You were right. Kaari liked the coat, and she liked the idea of me marrying her mother. Ait-I mean Hanna . . . she didn't say no, but then she didn't speak up and say yes either. So I didn't push it by actually asking.

"I don't know, Aappo. Are you sure this is going to work?"

"Don't worry, Vernon. It will work out. Give her a little time. She will say yes. All the reasons she had for it being good match for Kaari are just as good for her, and Kaari isn't about to let her forget a single one of them," Aappo insisted. "She isn't going to let you slip through her family's fingers now that she doesn't have to marry you herself. Give them a while, you'll see, she'll come around."

Vernon was sure he heard a hint of desperation in Aappo's voice.

Kymi Mill complex early spring 1637

Vernon was looking over the floor plan of the house he wanted to start building as soon as weather allowed.

"Vernon," a stern voice said in his head. "That won't work."

"Why not?" Vernon answered.

Then he thought, "Melvina? But, you're dead?

Then he demanded, "Where the hell have you been for the last four months?"

"Vernon!" the voice chided. Then, "Watch your mouth, you old coot! Surely you didn't expect me to hang around while you courted and married another woman? That wouldn't have been fair to me, it wouldn't have been fair to her, and besides there was no way you were going to get her to say yes once she figured out you spent all of your time talking to your first wife."

"Well, if you feel that way about it what are you doing here?"

"Because, Vernon, you're making a big mess of things and I'm tired of watching you screw up," Melvina answered inside his head. "It's not like I went anywhere. I've been here all along. Shoot, you old coot, you know I ain't nothin' but your alter ego.

"Now, take your pencil and mark out the stairs. Well go on, do it!

"Now go all the way to the left and put them back in. No Vernon, not there, put them on the outside . . . yes, like that. Okay, now draw the same floor plan to the left of that so you have a duplex with a common stairs."

"I don't want to be a landlord."

"You aren't going to. That's for Aappo and Kaari and their kids."

Vernon pointed to the two room suite with a separate bath and kitchenette, in the old plans.

"That won't do Vernon. Those kids'll need more space than that."

"But, Melvina, by the time they need it, I'll be gone and Hanna can move into the apartment. Then they can have the rest of the house."

He indicated the new plans, "That's going to cost a lot more money and . . ."

"Vernon McCabe, don't be such a skinflint. You've got the money, spend some of it."

"Well, I won't need this then." Vernon said as he started to cross out the second bath and kitchenette.

"Yes, you will. The housekeeper deserves a bit of privacy."

"Housekeeper? Who said anything about a housekeeper?"

"You listen to me, Vernon McCabe. You can't expect Hanna to take care of a baby and do the house work."

"Kaari can take care of her own babies."

"I'm not talking about Kaari's. I'm talking about yours."

"Mine?"

"Yes, Vernon, yours. Hanna's been sick every morning for the last week and a half. What did you think it was? Morning flu?"

"You never needed any help when you got pregnant."

"Vernon," the voice was stern and scolding, "I was a barefoot, dirt poor, dumb hillbilly teenager who thought she could live on love. I wasn't forty-two years old. Besides, if we had had the money, you had better believe we would have had a maid, and a cook and a yardman."

"A yardman?"

"Vernon, this is Finland, remember? It snows here. It snows here a lot. You hated shoveling snow when we lived in Michigan, and that wasn't a patch on what they get here. Who do you think is going to shovel it? You certainly aren't, not if you want to live long enough to hear Hanna's baby say 'Daddy' for the first time.

"So you just push that attic roof up another four feet and add some dormers for the help and you'll need a bathroom up there and another kitchenette."

"Is all that really necessary? A yardman?"

"Yes, it is. Vernon, look out the window. You aren't a poor dumb hillbilly in West Virginia anymore. You're gentry now and here the gentry all have live-in help."

"Hanna hasn't said anything about it."

"Of course not, Vernon. She's got this dumb idea that you are the man of the house and she's waiting for you to hire a maid or, better yet, tell her to hire a maid. And Vernon, I've got to tell you, the poor woman is bound to be wondering what's wrong with you that you haven't seen to it yet."

"Are you sure about that?" Vernon asked.

"Of course I'm sure about it. Look at the countess. Look at Kristiina. For that matter, look at the Rainaldis. They all have staff."

"The countess is filthy rich and she's a noble."

"Kristiina isn't rich and you aren't going to claim the Rainaldis are nobles. You're gentry here, Vernon McCabe. You married Hanna, so that makes her gentry and you don't ask a lady of quality to clean her own toilets. Not in this day and age. Not in any day and age."

"You always did!" Vernon said, setting his mind to get stubborn.

"Vernon, grow up. Listen to me. You might as well do it now. She's going to need help with a kid at her age. Besides, when you put in a for a land grant from the king of Sweden so you can open an acid-free, parchment-quality, paper plant you need to look like we're quality folks who will know what to do with the land and the people. You need to look like you're part of the upper-crust and you will have to have a staff to do that."

"Put in for a land grant? Are you sure they do that? Why would I want one, even if they do?"

"Vernon, you're an idiot. You're pushing eighty and when you're gone all Hanna is going to have is what you've managed to save up."

"Well, she's got a good job on the bag line and . . ."

"That's another thing, Vernon, it's past time you told her to quit. You can't have your wife working on the line, especially when she's pregnant. I know you were figuring she'd keep working for a living after you're gone or that with what you've saved up, and since she'd own the house, she could mooch off of Kaari and Aappo as a live-in babysitter, but that was before you got her knocked up."

"Are you sure she's . . ."

"Yes, Vernon, I'm sure. So are you; so quit asking. And quit changing the subject. I'm telling you, the only thing you've got left is the parchment process. Well, it's worth a fortune and you know it. They got the paper mill out of your head for nothing or next to it. You've either got to open your own plant or get the countess to give you a slice of the next one. And a whole loaf is better than half a loaf."

"But why would the king give me a land grant?"

"Why wouldn't he, if you ask? He's got enough sense to know a good thing when it shits gold in his pocket. Between plywood and paper, Kymi is going to be a real asset. Anyone can see that. He owns half of Finland. He can let the land sit idle or he can give you a thousand acres of raw forest and in a year or two, start collecting the taxes off of another paper mill.

"You just have to let them know that's the price for the next process. They've seen what you can do. They know what you're worth. All you have to do is ask."

"Melvina? I don't know about this. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Of course you don't know, Vernon. That's why I'm here. Like I said, you were about to mess up big time."

"Are you sure this is going to work?"

"Listen to me, Vernon McCabe. If you present yourself like genteel quality, they will treat you like genteel quality. If you want them to think you're worth the bother of being given a land grant, you're going to have to look the part and that means building an impressive house.

"Now quit talking to yourself, you old coot, and finish up that drawing like I told you to so that Rainaldi boy can draw the plans up for you before the weather breaks and he gets himself back off to Magdeburg."

Vernon picked up a clean sheet of paper. "Okay, Melvina. I'll do it your way; a big duplex with room for staff on the third floor. But there's one thing I want to know."

"Don't worry about it, Vernon," the voice of his wife of fifty years said in the back of his mind. "I ain't going to talk to you every day. But I'm not going to sit here and let you make a mess of things without saying something, either."

* * *

Time to Spare, Go by Air

Written by Jack Carroll

A pasture somewhere east of Eisenach

Brennermann was barely managing to hold onto the pile of mailbags between his arms. It was impossible to see what was under his feet.

"Here, let me help you with that."

Too late. His toe caught on the edge of a wheel rut. The whole load tumbled into the wagon with more of a thump than he'd intended. The unhitched mare over by the fence flicked an ear at the noise, then went on grazing.

He straightened up and passed the kneeboard he'd been carrying in his teeth to the postal clerk. "There you go, Franz. Inspect the seals, put your John Hancock here."

Dortmeir looked at him with a pained expression. "Who the devil is John Hancock?"

"Some politician. I forget what he signed."

"You've been hanging around the Americans too long." He eyed Brennermann's baseball cap, emblazoned with the Bamberg Charters winged BC. "You even dress like them."

"Try flying a plane some time, and you'll find out why."

Franz glanced at the mailbags and scribbled his signature on the receipt. "Anyway, Erich, I'm surprised to see you on the ground. It's usually just a drop-and-snatch out here."

"Couldn't. See the FRAGILE sticker on this box? The boss doesn't want any damage claims. Well, there's still some daylight left. I'll be off as soon as the outgoing is strapped down."

"Nothing today, except what went east on the train."

"Oh? No sense burning fuel just to deadhead back to Erfurt, then. I'll stake down the plane and sluice off the damn cow manure before it turns into rock, then go see Garsch about parking myself in his loft for the night."

"Dortmeir! Dortmeir, there! Is this the driver who can speed me to Mansfeld in time for the creditors' meeting?"

Erich and Franz both turned to look at the newcomer. The booming bass voice belonged to a beefy man in late middle age, dressed in a sumptuous but somewhat old-fashioned style. The floppy hat had probably belonged to his father. His full beard could have too, for that matter. He strode across the field like he owned it, which wasn't beyond the realm of possibility.

Erich raised an eyebrow. "You wish to charter my company's plane, Herr . . . ? That may or may not be possible, it's under contract to the Air Post at the moment."

"I am Councilman Felbers, and I have urgent business to attend to." The corner of his mouth quirked for a moment. "Just how strongly do you wish to have this expensive dirt-moving work done that I keep being pestered about?"

"You have it exactly backwards, Herr Felbers. If you wish to have air service to this cluster of villages with any regularity, it will be necessary to construct a landing strip that doesn't turn into a mud pit every time it rains. Not to mention putting it in a safer spot, especially if you want to be served by anything bigger and faster than this little butterfly here. Why do you think we pick up the mail on the fly? But that discussion is above my position in the company. On this immediate matter, when do you need to be in Mansfeld?"

"The meeting is at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Of course, I would need a little time to change out of traveling clothes and present a proper appearance."

"Well, then, it's simple. Is that your carriage on the other side of the fence? You need to get down to the trackside platform right away, flag the next eastbound train, and change at Jena. I hate to pass up business, but that's the surest way of getting there by that time. And it would certainly be far less expensive."

Felbers half-raised his hand, palm-down. "No doubt it would be. However, the mayor of Gotha is hosting a recital of nineteenth century waltzes and polkas tonight, and it's of the greatest importance that my good Frau and I should attend. Only then could I depart."

"Well, the plane couldn't. If we don't take off now, and I mean right now, the next opportunity will be at first light. That would be cutting it close, if there are any difficulties at all with the weather. In any case, I'd need to clear any new charter with my employer. Before this goes any further, I'd better go send him a radiogram. He should be at his desk right now."

Franz shook his head. "Can't. Something's blown in young Eckert's toy of a spark transmitter. He mailed an order for magnet wire this afternoon."

"Hmm. Well, I'll try the aircraft radio. Might be able to get a relay through somebody in flight."

"If you can find somebody still flying this late in the day. Good luck with that."

* * *

Erich stepped down from the lower wing and latched the pilot's side door. Franz raised an eyebrow. Erich shook his head. No radio contact.

He mulled over the situation as he walked back to where the two men were standing. Everyone knew the crash the previous spring was still having its lingering effects on the company's finances, so any chance to make some money was welcome—as long as it wasn't made under false pretenses. The boss had a reputation to protect.

"Well, Herr Felbers, the Imperial Post has nothing for me in the morning, and I have no orders from the company. It seems to be my decision."

Dortmeir smirked. "So what now, O Pilot in Command?"

Felbers snapped to alertness like a ram facing a challenger, one hand on his hip and the other flung out toward his carriage. "Command? My coachman doesn't command, I do!"

Brennermann had seen it all before. The local big frog was afraid to show any sign of weakness, for fear of losing his grip on affairs. Fine, he could sympathize, up to a point. But he wasn't about to start bowing like some well-trained servant. He shifted into a posture he'd picked up from some of his American friends. It wasn't superior, and it wasn't servile. It simply said nothing at all about status. It was just . . . plain. His tone of voice was equally plain.

"An airplane isn't a coach. I carry the same authority as the captain of a ship, and the same responsibility, for the same reasons.

"Under the circumstances, I can offer only a best-efforts contract. If the weather or anything else is unsafe to fly, we stay on the ground until it is safe. I want to make that perfectly clear. Now, with that understood, do you want me to dig a charter form out of my map bag?"

* * *

The sun was well up when Felbers appeared on horseback, spotted with mud, accompanied by a groom. There was no way anything with wheels could have made it. A thin blanket of mist hovered above the wet grass. Erich had long since finished his pre-flight checklist; now he was enjoying the Rotvogel singing in one of the trees at the upper end of the field. Felbers barely glanced up.

"Ho, Brennermann! You and your flying coach are ready, I see? I regret the delay. Unfortunately, there were difficulties on the road."

Erich sighed. "I can well believe it. It would have made no difference if you had been here at dawn. The way the heavens opened last night, it was like trying to sleep inside a drum. You can see all the puddles and mudholes here. It will be at least two hours before this field is firm enough for a takeoff. Let's get your baggage secured, and then I'll show you how to fasten and adjust the seat harness."

Felbers goggled at the heavy leather belts. "What on earth is this? You tie passengers up?"

"No, Herr Felbers. I could just say 'captain's orders,' but this is serious business, and you'd better understand what it's about. You see this lever coming up from the floor? It's called the stick. I control the plane with it. Now, right over there in front of us is a hill, and to get out of this field we have to take off straight at it. As soon as we clear the trees, I'm going to roll the plane steeply to the left and make a hard turn. If a wind gust hit us the wrong way, you could be thrown out of your seat and onto my right arm. We'd be dead two seconds later. So we strap ourselves into our seats."

* * *

Erich looked one more time at the peeled stake he'd driven in the ground to mark the go/no-go point. This wasn't going to get any better any time soon. If he'd had any sense, he'd have ferried the plane to Eisenach last night, or maybe Erfurt where they had something resembling a runway, and let his passenger join him on the first train. Well. He ran the engine up to full power and let go the brakes. The plane rattled like a haycart as the wheels bumped over the rough ground. The sticky, gluey ground. Even light and rolling down the field's gentle slope, the airspeed came up a lot more slowly than he liked, but after fifty yards or so, a grassy hummock tossed them up for a moment so the straining engine could gain them some airspeed. She lifted, accelerating in ground effect to best-angle-of-climb speed. Back on the stick, and up above the treetops into a crosswind that bounced them sideways. Then hard over on the rudder pedals and stick, into a perfect air-show turn that squashed them straight down into their seats.

Erich was impressed. For someone who'd never flown before, Felbers showed remarkable steadiness. He stiffened as the horizon tilted and the hillside flashed by, but nothing more than a momentary hiss escaped his lips, and he kept his hands and feet well away from the controls.

Brennermann turned his attention to holding the departure heading and best-rate-of-climb airspeed.

"This is most uncomfortable."

"I'm uncomfortable too. We can both loosen our harnesses a little as soon as we're above the hills and on course to Erfurt."

Felbers' forehead furrowed. "What? Erfurt? That's only a few miles away. Why would you stop there?"

"Because it's the nearest place where I can get fuel and decent weather information. At the moment, we have only enough to reach Grantville safely, and that's the wrong direction altogether. And everything about this trip will depend on the weather."

"Wonderful. A pity you couldn't have gotten it earlier. Well, we're traveling, at least."

* * *

Berthold Felbers turned to the side window, to watch the countryside pass by. It really was a glorious morning, with the dew still on the trees and the sun lighting a few puffy clouds to the east. Suddenly his eye fell on a new clearing a couple of miles away. What? I know for a fact that village doesn't have a right to cut wood there. Hmm. Maybe I'll pay them a visit, and pointedly do them the favor of not noticing it. Never hurts to be owed a favor.

* * *

By the time Erich got back to the plane, Felbers was leaning against the lower wing holding a bag of sandwiches from a workmen's cook shop across the road. He stiffened at the expression on Brennermann's face, and the railroad timetable clutched in his hand on top of a sheaf of handwritten notes and a navigation chart. He pointed his finger at it. "What's that supposed to be for? Some kind of a switch?"

Brennermann shook his head. "Unfortunately, the weather situation is marginal. I'd hoped that if we could get off early enough, we could get there before the usual afternoon storms and set down in the field outside Mansfeld that we use for postal drops. But it's impossible today. The railroad stations are reporting rain and low ceilings all the way up the Elbe valley, and the mountains are too close by to attempt a descent in those conditions. The alternative is to overtake the train that left last night and set you down at one of the towns that has a passenger station. From there you can get to Mansfeld. As of now, we have a good chance of success with that plan."

"Hmmph. And if that doesn't work?"

"Then we retreat to a safe airport where we can land without problems. Because we might still have to. For that reason, I'm loading the plane with all the fuel it can lift."

Felbers shot to his feet. His hand clenched on a wing strut. "What? I'm paying you to get me to Mansfeld, not make excuses. I expect results!"

"Herr Felbers, you had your spectacles on when you read that contract. You know exactly what it says. Do you fully understand why it says that? If not, I will explain. Flying is inherently dangerous. The only way it can be made even slightly safe is by unswerving adherence to the rules. Every one of those rules was learned at the cost of somebody's blood. If you think you're testing me, let me inform you that this is not a business negotiation. My first duty as a pilot is to keep us safe.

"Now, then. I will get you there if the weather permits. The weather is in the hands of the Lord Almighty alone. Still want to go?"

* * *

"Bravo Charlie Zero Five taking the runway at Erfurt."

"Charlie Zero Five, cleared for takeoff." That was a surprise. The tower controller must have come on duty a few minutes early. Erich clicked his mike twice, to acknowledge.

Because of the nearby army depot, this airfield was roomy and well graded. Not paved, but dry and fairly level. This morning he needed all of it. He taxied right up to the fence, pivoted around with his tail wheel in the weeds, and held the brakes until the engine was roaring. The takeoff roll went on and on, and the climb-out was anything but lively. But it was a good long way to the mountains. Once out of the airport pattern and on course, he got the plane trimmed out so he could take his hand off the stick, and settled into a cruise climb.

He looked over at his passenger. Felbers had pulled some papers out of the portfolio he was using as a lap desk and started making marginal notes.

"If you don't mind my asking, Herr Felbers, who are you suing?"

"Eh? No, this isn't me. It's my wife's feather-headed nephew, Matthias. She's a joy, but her relations!" He sighed. "They get themselves into hot water and it falls to me to fish them out. There isn't anyone else to do it."

"Someone is suing him?"

"Almost. He has no head for business. Didn't imagine that called for serious study, I suppose. He was doing admirably with his studies in chemical engineering at this new college, until he let himself be talked into investing his whole inheritance—all of it—in a venture to get gold and silver from copper ore."

"Oho. Fell in with some silver-tongued alchemist, did he?"

"That was my first thought, but no. I sent a man to make inquiries. The method is altogether sound, and it works. Rather, it's just begun to work for him and his associates—the Grantvillers have been doing it for years. Our copper ore, it seems, is impure. Impure! The up-timers are so avid for insanely pure copper, that at first they set aside the sludge where the gold and silver lurk, as a nuisance to be attended to later. No, what the young bungler and his dreamy partners did was fail to watch the money. They ran out of it before turning a profit. And now the wolves are nipping at their heels, hoping to feast on something tasty, and I must drive them off for a little while." Felbers looked like just the man to drive off a small pack of wolves.

"They really get gold and silver that way? We hear of something new every day, it seems. Hmm. Well, I'll bear all of that in mind if I ever go into business for myself."

* * *

Berthold caught himself. He was talking too much. What he'd said so far was harmless enough, but there was no reason this driver—no, pilot, that was the word—needed to know that dear, soft-hearted Grete had put some of their own money into this ill-planned venture. If she'd only consulted him first! The city guild masters were reaching with both hands for the fabulous industrial wealth that seemed to be springing out of the ground these days, but half their plans depended on the huge new-style millpond and everything that went with it. All the negotiating and cajoling he'd done to acquire the land and water rights! If he were unable now to put up his share of the capital, the damage to his reputation would be incalculable. In such fluid and unpredictable times, he didn't even want to think about borrowing. Well, maybe he'd better think about it. No, what he'd better think about this minute was how to take the measure of these strangers from Hamburg he was about to meet, and decide what tone to take with them. The last thing in the world he needed was to have them react as unexpectedly as Brennermann had yesterday. If he could keep the metal refining enterprise from being swallowed up, the family could at least sell out their share and not lose too much.

Having all this happen now was just . . . awkward. The man had been truthful enough, the train would have been far less expensive. But if he and Grete hadn't appeared among the prominent citizens at the recital last night, it would have been noticed. The impression would have been unfortunate. Very unfortunate.

* * *

The passenger was immersed in his legal paperwork again. Erich turned back to the chart on his kneeboard, and resumed checking off the landmarks against the clock on the instrument panel. There didn't seem to be much wind drift; the villages and fields were passing astern just about when he expected them to. Occasionally the sun glinted off a pond in the distance. The engine droned on reassuringly.

At the end of the first hour the hazy edges of a cloud layer appeared below. Far off to the northwest, the Harz Mountains stuck up above it. He climbed a little more.

* * *

A military plane on a high altitude flight came on the air and started relaying weather reports from far-flung postal stations, ships, hams, and the very few airfields where there was someone who knew anything about weather. Maybe someday professionals would be making the observations, but even this was far better than nothing. Erich took notes, and soon a picture emerged. Beautiful, clear skies over most of the Netherlands. Scattered at Nordhausen and Wolfsburg. Broken at Hannover, but that was too far away to matter much anyway. A slow, steady rain almost everywhere further north. Then Magdeburg Tower started transmitting reports from railroad telegraphers, which the air force co-pilot dutifully repeated for everyone's benefit. Halle was marginal, but the train would pass there before they did anyway. Feuchtenthal? It was raining cats and dogs there, they couldn't even see the top of the church spire. And they'd heard thunder. Bad. Eisleben? Maybe. Eisleben was reporting broken cloud cover, and there was nothing very tall there. Aschersleben might be possible as a place to catch a southbound train, if the rain let up. Magdeburg was their ace in the hole. The control tower reported a reasonable ceiling and decent visibility. They had CB direction finding equipment and the best runway outside of Grantville. Magdeburg also had a cathedral and some very tall antennas.

Erich weighed his options, checked position, and set course for Eisleben.

* * *

He circled once more, gazing longingly at the couple of remaining holes from all angles. He could even see a little of the ground; a couple of the farm fields had distinctive shapes. Too bad there wasn't a chart showing them. For that matter, too bad he didn't fly here regularly. He'd have known where he was and whether there was any obstruction close to those fields.

"Well, Brennermann, what exactly are you doing? Are you ready to take us down?"

"No, Herr Felbers, we are not going down here. That hole isn't big enough to manage it safely. We'd need one we could circle within, seeing out around us all the way. With some considerable margin, in case it started to close up while we were in it."

Felbers threw up his arms, narrowly missing the bill of Brennermann's cap. "For heaven's sake! You can see that there are fields right below us, and you've already shown that you can land in one. What's wrong with going straight at it?"

"Aside from this plane not being built to dive? Have you ever heard of cumulo-granite?"

"No. What is that?"

"Clouds with rocks inside. Great big rocks, like hills or mountainsides. Or trees for that matter. There are many tales from up-time of pilots who encountered them. I don't care to."

"You amaze me, Brennermann." He gave Erich a sour stare. "I believe you'd speak that way to the emperor himself!"

Erich couldn't stop himself from dissolving into laughter. "There was no need! The good Captain-General has no illusions about the nature of flying. Whatever the prime minister didn't explain to him long ago, der Adler did."

Felbers froze for a moment, staring wide-eyed at Brennermann. "You've driven for the emperor?"

"Flown. Yes, once. I was assigned to fly him and one of his advisers to a meeting, after I earned my multi-engine and instrument ratings."

"Interesting. Interesting."

Erich got back to work. He took a bearing with a hand-held compass on one of the distant mountain peaks, called for direction finder checks from Magdeburg and Halle, and turned for Aschersleben.

* * *

It wasn't even worth bothering the railroad for a weather update when they passed Aschersleben. All Brennermann needed was a look from above at the solid cloud deck. Without local radio aids, there was no going down through that. Magdeburg, it would be.

* * *

Magdeburg was solid overcast. The ceiling was reported to be acceptable. Not comfortable, but high enough for a DF steer descent through the cloud layer to a visual approach and landing. The procedure was within Erich's current qualifications. If conditions proved otherwise, well, the chart provided a course for that possibility. And there was one tenet of instrument flight doctrine he professed with the fervor of holy writ: the minimum descent altitude was never to be violated.

They crossed directly over the invisible control tower, and ran out the time to the turn point.

"Bravo Charlie Zero Five, cleared for the descent."

"Charlie Zero Five. Starting down." He hung up the mike. "Herr Felbers, we're about to enter the cloud deck. I'll ask you now to stow your portfolio under your seat and secure the netting."

"Hmm? I can keep working perfectly well, with those little lights you just turned on."

"Unfortunately, it can get very rough inside clouds, with no warning. We don't need loose objects hitting us in the head. Those two overhead lights are there so I can read the instrument panel and the approach chart. You'll notice that the board holding the chart is strapped to my leg. I'm sure you've noticed me tightening my seat harness just now, too." He looked pointedly at Felbers as he said that. "And there's one other thing I'd like you to do, while my eyes are mostly on the instruments. I'd like you to keep watch ahead, and tell me the instant you see anything outside the airplane."

"Very well, Captain."

The sarcasm didn't bother Brennermann in the slightest. He'd been treated to far worse by rich buffoons with inflated egos. It satisfied him that his passenger had the good sense to do what he asked. The sun vanished behind wispy clouds that rapidly turned a dark gray.

He made another five-second transmission, so the tower could check their bearing.

"Charlie Zero Five, come right another ten degrees, there's some wind drift."

"Charlie Zero Five."

Another minute passed. The plane bumped a couple of times. Felbers was about to say something, when it took a sudden drop, and then started bounding left, right, up, down, shaking like a wet dog. A couple of times the gauges themselves quivered for a moment.

Erich concentrated on scanning the instruments to stay upright, holding course, and keeping an eye on the altimeter to make absolutely certain they didn't stray below the minimum descent altitude until he had visual contact.

"Have no fear, Herr Felbers. I've stressed the plane harder than this, getting in and out of tight fields." He found half a second to glance at his passenger out of the corner of his eye. Felbers was staring rigidly ahead, jaw clenched, gripping his shoulder harness with both hands.

"Open that little paper sack there and hold onto it, will you? Nobody vomits in our airplanes."

Just in time. Suddenly Felbers jerked and bent his face over the sack. Finally the fit of coughing and spitting passed, and he caught his breath. "That miserable sandwich. It must have been tainted."

Not likely, the way the Erfurt city inspectors watched the food establishments these days, but Brennermann saw no benefit in arguing with his customer about that. Besides, this would be a stupid time to let his attention wander from the task at hand.

A couple more minutes passed. Now Erich was transmitting every thirty seconds. The turbulence seemed to be easing. Maybe they were close to breaking out underneath. They were still a little high . . .

"Charlie Zero Five, that last correction was the wrong way."

Alarm bells went off in Brennermann's head. The wrong way?? What's going on? Are we . . .

"Brennermann, what's that flashing red light out there?"

"Jesus Christ!" Erich slammed the throttle wide open, punched the stopwatch, and rolled into a twice-standard-rate turn, spiraling into a steep climb as the airspeed came up. "That was a radio tower. Take the mike. Tell them 'Missed approach, one-eighty.'"

Felbers must have caught sight of the expression on Erich's face. He bit off whatever he was about to say. "How . . . ?"

"A finger width from your mouth, squeeze the red button to talk, let go to listen."

Felbers lifted it from the clip on the panel and looked at it, then held it in front of his face. "And say . . . ?"

"Missed approach, one-eighty."

Felbers pushed the button and repeated it.

"Who was that?"

"Tell them 'Charlie Zero Five.'"

"Roger, Charlie Zero Five. Trans Euro One Six, maintain four thousand."

"Euro One Six, four thousand."

Silence.

"They're not saying anything to us now."

"They know we're busy. I'll call them in a minute. How in the name of all the saints did we get that low?" He kept scanning the instruments, waiting for the seconds to tick off so he could roll out on the opposite course. Finally he straightened out, at maximum climb, and he had time to think again. A sick feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. He looked hard at the altimeter, then put out his shaking hand for the mike.

"Charlie Zero Five. Climbing out. Confirm altimeter setting two-niner-eight-seven."

"Two-niner-eight-seven, confirm."

Damn! Damn!

"Charlie Zero Five. Altimeter malfunction, west departure on top."

"Roger, Charlie Zero Five. Euro One Six, watch for him to pop up. He's a yellow biplane."

"One Six."

The bouncing eased. The clouds started to lighten. A few seconds later there were wisps around them, then below them, and the sun appeared high in the sky.

"Charlie Zero Five, Trans Euro One Six. Rock your wings for me."

Brennermann moved the stick gently from side to side.

"Euro One Six. I see him."

"Euro One Six, Magdeburg Tower. You're cleared for the approach."

Erich pulled the power back to cruise-climb and held course. He looked at the mountains forty miles away, thinking.

"Well, Brennermann, what now? Figure out what happened and do it right this time?" Felbers was no coward, that was for certain. He had to have understood just how close that had been. But he waved the timetable at Erich. "There still seems to be time to catch the southbound local."

Erich shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, Herr Felbers, it's impossible. There's a more involved procedure that would stop us from ending up on the wrong side of the direction finder like we just did. But it would be suicide to go into clouds with a bad altimeter. Never heard of that happening to anybody. We can only fly visually now. And that means . . ."

He twisted the channel knob on the radio.

"Janus, Janus, this is Bravo Charlie Zero Five."

Felbers' jaw dropped. "What are you doing now, praying to a mythic Roman god?"

"No. Janus is the call sign of the government's main relay station. They talk in every direction." He held up his finger for silence.

"Bravo Charlie Zero Five, this is a military frequency. Are you declaring an emergency?"

"Charlie Zero Five, trying to prevent one. We've lost instrument flight capability. Is your little airstrip above the soup?"

"That's affirm."

"Request landing clearance. We're about half an hour out, departing Magdeburg airspace."

"Wait one."

A woman's voice came on the air. "Bravo Charlie Zero Five, if you have any military affiliation, give me your name, rank, and serial number. A mounted MP will meet you when you land. Follow him. Are you alone?"

"Negative, I have a passenger for Mansfeld. Is there any way to send him on his way?"

The voice chuckled. "I would certainly like to send him on his way. I'll see what can be done. Call ten minutes out."

Felbers was scowling at him from the right seat. "I believe I understood all of that, Brennermann. You propose to abandon the attempt? Is that what I just heard?"

"Yes, Herr Felbers. We gave it our best shot, it's over, and we're still alive. There's no way to get you there today without killing ourselves in the attempt. Now I'm concerned with getting us onto solid ground as safely as possible."

"What about that other plane we just heard? I heard the man say 'Cleared for the approach.' If they can do it, why not you?"

Erich sighed, and held course. "That's a TEA flight. They have navigating equipment this little butterfly couldn't carry, the fares from more seats to pay for it all, and two pilots to operate it. And I'm nearly certain they have two of everything, including altimeters. Maybe we will in a year or two. Maybe we'll have a lot of things. There are rumors of progress toward a real instrument landing system, instead of this makeshift business with direction finders.

"So, yes, they can get into Magdeburg today. The only remaining possibility for us is to send your Matthias a telegram. We could call AT&L by radio for that. They charge, of course. Maybe he can get them to wait for you to come over from the mountain."

Felbers was livid. "It will take at least another day to travel that far! More likely two. This is the best your airplane can do? What a fiasco!"

Brennermann nodded slowly. "I'm afraid so, and there's no point in waiting until I can fly again. I'll be stuck there until I have clear weather or working instruments."

* * *

A short way below the summit, somebody sent up a signal flare from a more-or-less level patch of ground. Erich went around the pattern once to look it over. The grass field boasted a wind sock and nothing else. It was just as well the charter plane was built more for agility and short-field landings than for speed; with a crosswind on the approach, he didn't dare fly it close to stalling speed. He came in hot, side-slipping so the wheels would roll straight, and dumped the flap lever just as he flared.

Two mounted troopers were waiting at the edge of the field. They waved the plane to a tie-down spot under a tree, near the beginning of a pathway. Up-slope a shepherd and two dogs watched the proceedings.

One of the soldiers dismounted and walked over to the plane as the two men climbed out. "You are Herr Berthold Felbers? There is a telegram."

Felbers froze as he read it, then let his hand fall limply to his side, and just stood there looking up to heaven.

"Are you all right? You look upset. Not bad news, I hope."

"No, no, Brennermann. It's from Matthias. 'Muntz and Schickelgruber delayed by bad weather. Meeting re-scheduled day after tomorrow.'"

Erich stopped unstrapping the baggage, and slid down to sit on the grass. After a couple of seconds he began laughing softly.

"What's the joke?"

"I wish I knew. If I thought we were important enough, I'd think God was playing a joke on all of us. But what can we do anyway, but laugh?"

Felbers looked at the telegram once more and began laughing too.

* * *

Or the Horse May Learn to Sing

Written by Virginia DeMarce

Christmas Vacation, 1634

The Reverend Al Green opened the back door into the rectory kitchen, stomped the snow off his boots, shook it off his hat, kissed his wife Claudette, looked around, spotted their adopted children Clemens and Emilia helping the maid accomplish various food-associated chores, and asked, "Where's Anthony? Isn't he going to be home for supper?"

Allen, the Greens' older son, looked up from the book he was reading and called through from the once-upon-a-time television room off the kitchen that was now his bedroom since they'd adopted Emilia, "Hi, Dad. Gone with some of his friends to look at the outdoor manger scene at the Lutheran Church. Back later."

Grantville's Baptist minister laughed. "That seems harmless enough."

* * *

"We really shouldn't be doing this," Anthony Green said. "Not here."

Carly Baumgardner giggled. "Why not? It's fun. Not as handy as Mrs. Genucci's gazebo was when the weather was warmer, but it's been pretty hard to find any place we can get together this winter. Over Thanksgiving, we didn't have a chance at all. And we never do when school's in session full time. Because you're either doing homework on weekday evenings or at church with your folks on the weekends."

"Even so." Anthony looked anxious. "Carly, it's a manger scene. Right here between St. Martin in the Fields church and Countess Kate school. It's religious."

She reached over and tickled him. "But it's still fun. Or . . . isn't it still fun, for you?"

"I worry about what could happen."

"We've lucked out so far.

* * *

Jonas Justinus Muselius locked the door to the upper-grades schoolroom at Countess Kate and looked across toward the church, thinking he had heard something. What? A girl's voice? From the manger scene?

Then there were footsteps. "Jonas," someone called. "I was hoping we could catch you before you left."

"Oh," he smiled.

Gerry Stone came around the corner of the church, his friends Denise Beasley and Minnie Hugelmair with him.

"We were wondering . . ."

The four of them moved away, down the slight incline toward the trolley stop.

Ohrdruf, State of Thuringia-Franconia, February 1635

The silent household worship in the small section of Schloss Ehrenstein that the will of the late and last count of Gleichen had assigned to his widow as a residence came to a close. Not that anything had happened. The practice of worship in a faith that rejected both written scriptures and the sacraments tended to be quiet almost always. Direct revelations from the Holy Spirit were, in the nature of things, rare. The countess withdrew to her private chambers, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Fräulein Effler. Two maids, sent in the by steward, began to remove the chairs they had gathered in the center of the room to their usual locations, neatly against the walls.

"Her faith is greater than mine," Ezechiel Meth said to his mother.

Die Stiefelin looked after their patroness. "Her faith is remarkable indeed. Perhaps even greater than that of my late brother Esaias. She still lives in hope that since God brought about such a miracle for Sarah, he will bring about such a miracle for her. Not merely that God can, because of course he can. But that he in fact will."

* * *

"I hereby declare that Countess Erdmuthe Juliana of Honstein . . ." The voice behind the bullhorn continued to boom.

The woman looked out the window of her residence which was, effectively, a townhouse fronting directly upon the street. If she had been living at one of her late husband's castles, out in the countryside, the demonstrators could never have come so near.

" . . . Dowager Countess of Gleichen . . ."

She laughed, a little bitterly.

"Make that 'widow of the late Count Johann Ludwig of Gleichen,' why don't you?" she said to the window pane. "You need a lesson in heraldry, you insolent little man. It's impossible to be a dowager when there is no new count. When the county itself has become extinct and the lands have fallen to distant cousins such as Hohenlohe."

" . . . once again harboring in her household Ezechiel Meth, chymicus, relapsed from his solemn vow to return to the practice of orthodox Lutheranism . . ."

"Does our steward know who is speaking, Lämmerhirt?" The countess addressed these words, more or less, in the direction of an elderly man standing by the other window.

"Pankratz Holz, I believe, My Lady. A Silesian. For several years now, he has been an errand boy for Superintendent Melchior Tilesius in Langensalza. Most recently he has been in Grantville, I understand. I am somewhat surprised to see him here."

"Not if there is trouble to foment." The lady-in-waiting, at least as old as the steward, moved away from the fireplace to join him in looking out the window. "Neither of them has any jurisdiction here. Not even if the Erfurt city council gave them permission, as they claim."

"Who would have jurisdiction?" the countess asked.

Lämmerhirt shook his head. "I have no idea. First the New United States and now the government of the State of Thuringia-Franconia have refused to accept any responsibility for supervising the Lutheran churches of the county of Gleichen as it formerly existed. The peculiar entity that chooses to call itself Vasa County, Thuringia, which embodies all the parts of the former county of Gleichen that West Virginia County—that's the new name for the Ring of Fire, Grantville and its surroundings—had not already annexed, will, I suppose, set up a superintendency. When it gets sufficiently organized. Until then, the pastors and congregations in the cities are being supervised by the city councils. The villages are appealing to the various neighboring superintendencies for aid and assistance when they encounter any problem above the strictly parish level. Without any kind of authorization, I must add, which is probably why Count Ludwig Guenther has been so reluctant to become involved in the problem, even though he, in Rudolstadt, is as close to Ohrdruf as Tilesius."

"And why Tilesius has not been reluctant at all." The countess pressed her face against the window again. "He has been looking to destroy the followers of my prophet for thirty years now. He must see this as an unequaled opportunity."

A man standing behind Holz—behind the man who was probably Holz—bent over, picked up a stone, and threw it at the window where the countess was standing.

She flinched back. The stone cracked one of the panes several feet above her head and then rattled down the window before it bounced off the sill and landed on the ground next to the front steps.

Fräulein Effler moved across the room and grasped her shoulder. "My Lady, come away."

The countess shook her head. "Why won't the SoTF government take charge of this? Deal with this kind of thing?"

"It's in their constitution," the steward said. "Separation of church and state, it's called. That the government has no authority over matters of faith. The up-timers are said to be utter fanatics on the topic, which is why, so far, they have forbidden the city council to arrest us because of our beliefs."

The countess turned. "So the SoTF will not persecute. Will it protect? That might be too much to expect. But I am sure that this 'hands-off policy' shouldn't extend to permitting actual violence by one religious group against another. Does it? Do we know?" She looked toward the rear of the townhouse. "Has anyone summoned the watch?"

"Ezechiel said that he would send one of the stableboys. But I'm sure that whatever the SoTF believes, the city council of Ohrdruf has no interest in protecting us." The older woman sighed. "Rather, they are probably looking for a member of Your Ladyship's household to commit some kind of violence in return. Hoping for it, rather—which would give them an excuse to arrest us. Just as the Erfurt city council arrested us when we were in Gispersleben, at St. Kilian's. In Solomonsborn. So long ago."

"Arrest us, when we are the ones being attacked?"

"Who is there to testify to that? Other than we ourselves? Whose testimony the city council will refuse to accept."

There hadn't been any more stones. The countess returned to the window.

The man with the bullhorn continued to declaim.

* * *

"You just can't let it keep going on. Somebody's going to get hurt." Fred Jordan, right at the moment, dealing with the city council of Ohrdruf, was not appreciating his job as liaison between West Virginia County and outside-the-Ring of Fire law enforcement agencies. Which had led him into being, right at the moment, Ed Piazza's personal emissary to Ohrdruf.

"I don't believe you quite understand," the deputy mayor of Ohrdruf answered.

Fred realized that it was a status thing. They—being the deputy mayor and two other guys—were communicating that he wasn't important enough to deserve a face-to-face with the mayor himself.

"The countess has been residing in Ohrdruf quite voluntarily. She is under no obligation to remain here. Not the slightest. She could always go live somewhere else on the income she receives from her dower lands. Erfurt, for example. There are nice townhouses in Erfurt. Also, I understand, a significant number of your up-timers now live in Erfurt. Perhaps they would wish to take her and her household of extremists under their protection."

"The point," Fred said patiently, "is that she and her folks, whatever they believe and no matter how peculiar it is, have a perfect right to live anywhere in the State of Thuringia-Franconia. Undisturbed."

One of the other guys—the lawyer type, Fred remembered—rustled through a folder of papers. "According to the false prophet Esaias Stiefel," he said solemnly, "the countess was to be the designated mother of the Messiah at his second coming."

Fred swallowed. His parents weren't church members and he'd never gone himself, back when he was growing up. He'd had to take a kind of short course after he proposed to Bitsy. She was Presbyterian and wanted to get married in church. Old Enoch Wiley wouldn't do the ceremony unless he went through with that. Then, after the kids came along, he'd joined up, because Bitsy said it would be less confusing for them.

Not that he ever actually went, except for the kids' programs and such. But he was pretty sure that some lady giving birth to the baby Jesus again was not in the curriculum.

Even so. He looked at the lawyer. "If that's what she wants to think, she's got a right to. Weird just isn't a prosecutable offense, Mister."

"I beg to disagree," the lawyer type answered. "I have right here–my researcher found it at the state library—a discussion of the limits on freedom of speech under the constitution of the United States of America. One of the justices of your up-time supreme court wrote that the right of free speech did not extend 'to yelling fire in a crowded theater.' The beliefs of the countess and her household are the religious equivalent of that kind of provocation."

"I expect," Fred answered, "that you're going to need to talk to one of Ed Piazza's legal staff to iron this out. I was just a deputy sheriff. But I don't mind saying that I'm here to tell you that you've got to keep a handle on the demonstrations. Holz and his guys can picket and proclaim all they want, but if there are any more rocks, somebody's going to arrest them. If it isn't you and your watch, it will be the SoTF. We don't have a state police yet, but we do have the Mounted Constabulary and he'll send them in if he has to."

Grantville

There was a flash of light. April Lafferty put her hands on her hips, looked at the overhead fixture, and said, "Oh shit."

"April." A reproachful voice came from the next room.

"The bulb blew out."

"That doesn't excuse unladylike language."

"Sorry, Mildred."

For the five hundredth time, she wished that her mother's house had a basement, where she could work in peace. But the rock around Grantville didn't lend itself to basements. She looked at her work bench again, then up at the light fixture. She'd have to sweet talk Mildred out of another bulb.

She could predict it now. At least one more apology for the bad language. Up to three more apologies. Two serious conversations about keeping a closer eye on Carly. A couple of extra turns at doing the dishes, since Mildred thought Carly was sloppy about them. At least one trip to the Senior Citizens' Center to play games with the old folks. Mildred didn't approve of either cards or bingo, so a weekend wouldn't work. It would mean giving up a Thursday, which was their board games night. Mildred would play Clue or Chinese Checkers or Uno. Scrabble. That sort of thing. Scrabble was her favorite.

Mildred was really stingy with her light bulbs. After it had hit her what the Ring of Fire meant, she'd gone through her and old Horace's house and taken all but one bulb out of every lamp in every room. Wrapped them up carefully in wadded newspaper and stored them. Brought them along when she moved over to Mom's.

Which did mean, at least, that they were among the comparatively few families in Grantville that still had a stash of light bulbs.

* * *

"What do you think, Claudette?" Al Green asked. He relied heavily on his wife. On her common sense. On her good heart. He told her so often. "It's what Mildred Baumgardner wants. She's a faithful member of the church. So was Horace, before he died. But her grandson has never testified to his faith . . ."

Claudette frowned. What she wanted to say was that the Baumgardners had been so estranged from their son Zane, and so hostile to the woman he had, eventually, married, several years after Ronnie was born, that they hadn't made any real effort to give the boy a Christian upbringing back when it might have done some good. But she had to live up to the "good heart" bit, even if sometimes, in private, she thought that her husband was a more than a bit unworldly and needed a keeper just about as much as he needed a spouse. Or maybe more than he needed a spouse. Still . . . she supposed she had to talk him through it, to the point that his own good heart would override all the scruples that seminary had instilled in him.

"They don't want to make a big fuss about the wedding, do they? No gigantic production with white satin and the trimmings? Not so soon after the mine disaster."

"They couldn't afford it, even if they did want to. Megan and Mariah both—I have to give credit where it's due, even if they aren't from a churchgoing family—have been supporting themselves and pitching right in to help their grandparents ever since the Ring of Fire. Not by themselves, of course. Della Frost and Jennie Lou Burston help with Glenette's expenses, and Gayleen, Robyn, and Samantha with Sandra's, ever since John's been gone. Still . . . except for Della, their aunts all have children of their own who have to be fed and clothed and housed. I'm pretty sure the girls don't do more than just get by."

"Megan's not pregnant, is she?" Claudette thought that if she was, that might be what had Al worried. Part of the marriage counseling materials they used advised strongly against "have to" marriages as not being a good basis for an enduring commitment—too likely to lead to divorce.

"Not as far as I know. It's not a 'short notice' marriage. They've been engaged quite a while. Several months, at least. She's not very feminine, though. Is she likely to make a good wife? A heavy equipment operator for the Streets and Roads Department?"

"So's Crystal Blocker—Dorrman, now—and you married her to Walt here in the church."

"She's actually a member. So's Walt Dorrman. Megan Collins isn't. Neither is Ronnie Baumgardner."

"It doesn't seem very . . . welcoming . . . to tell them to go to city hall and get it over with."

"They want Ronnie's brother and Megan's sister as the attendants—witnesses. Garrett's still in high school. Allen says he's planning to join the army as soon as he graduates. It's all right legally as far as being a witness is concerned; he's over eighteen now. As a member of the wedding party, though . . . Neither of them is a member of the church. And Mariah went off to be an actress last summer. My father always thought . . ."

"That actresses are immoral. And I'm sure that some of them are. Anyone who ever stood in a grocery store line reading the tabloid headlines could figure that much out." Claudette paused. "But that doesn't mean that Mariah Collins is. I've never heard anything against her. Not that she's wild, I mean."

"What do you think, then?"

"Does Mildred insist on having it in the church sanctuary? Or would she be satisfied with the fellowship hall? Especially since they won't be having a lot of guests. Thirty or so people, maybe, including all the kids? That way . . ." Claudette paused. "You could think of yourself as just being an officiant, not a minister. After all, it's the state that licenses you to perform marriages, not the church. Well, it's West Virginia County now, but it will probably be the state again once they get new legislation covering matrimony in place. So . . ."

"Closer to fifty, probably," he said, picking up on the number of guests expected. "They don't plan to have a reception, so they won't need the fellowship hall to set one up."

"Even fifty people will look a little isolated up in the church. So suggest the fellowship hall. We—the Ladies Aid, I mean—can decorate it for them. Tell them that it will be a friendlier atmosphere downstairs, considering the number of guests they're inviting. After all, we want 'friendly.' Maybe they'll come back and actually start attending church if they see 'friendly.' I'll talk to Mildred—explain your reasoning."

"Soft-soap her, you mean." Al Green smiled. "That will work. We can do it that way."

* * *

"I feel really strange being here," Carly whispered. "In a church, I mean. Thanks for sitting next to me, or I'd have freaked out by now."

She hoped that the piano would drown out anything she said.

"Good grief, Carly. It's your brother's wedding. You're not in the church, anyway. This is just the basement."

"Even so, Anthony. I don't think I've ever been in a church before. I'm glad we're not upstairs. I'd feel even worse. I guess it never sunk in, quite, before, that your father really is a preacher."

Mildred Baumgardner turned around in her chair. "Hush, you two. Here come Garrett and Mariah. Ronnie and Megan will come in right after them."

* * *

"Thanks for everything," April Lafferty said. The rest of the family had gone. She'd stayed behind to gather up anything that needed to be carried back home. A couple of vases with bittersweet and cattail arrangements in them. A pine cone wreath that she'd put colored candles in. She looked around. She'd done her best, but she hadn't been able to find a lot of festive stuff in the middle of winter. "I'll write a note to your Ladies Aid thanking them for bringing the rest of the decorations. Ah, just in case . . ." She didn't want to say just in case that Ronnie and Megan didn't. It wasn't the sort of thing that was likely to occur to either of them.

"It's too bad that the rest of Ronnie's family couldn't be here." Claudette Green switched the subject of the conversation tactfully.

"Ray's in Wismar; so's Mom. Vance is with the army in Erfurt and couldn't get away. That's what he said, at least, and it would have been three days, I guess. One to get here, one for the wedding, and one to go back. Right in the middle of the week. Uh. I meant thanks for everything, Mr. and Mrs. Green. Not just for doing the wedding. For back in January and all. With the mine."

"You did very well," Al Green said. "Kept your head. Did everything you could have. Several people said how well you kept your cool."

"That was on the outside. Not the inside."

"If you ever feel like you need to talk about it," Claudette offered, "come and talk to me. Any time you need an ear."

April looked a little guilty. "I'd hate to use up your ear when I don't belong here at your church. You know, the three of us Lafferty kids are on the rolls at the Church of Christ. At least, Grandpa Dave put us there when we were little. Maybe Ray got himself taken off—Christina's a Lutheran and I'm pretty sure he joined that church up there in Wismar so they could get married. But I've hardly been to church since Grandpa Dave died, and that's when I was two years old. Ray was ten, then; Vance was four."

"Come anyway," Claudette said. "I don't care where you're officially enrolled, so to speak."

"I might then." April took a deep breath. "Sometimes, living with Mildred—sometimes I could bend your ear right off, I bet."

* * *

Zane Baumgardner opened one eye. "I'm not drunk, y'know," he said. "Just lazy. Haven't been drunk for months."

The down-timer standing next to his bed looked down at him. "Probably because you can't afford to be. You left your door unlocked again."

"Oh, damn. Somebody would probably rob me blind if I had anything worth stealing." He opened the other eye. "You're back. You're not going away, are you?"

"Not yet."

"Who the hell are you? I know, you told me the last time you showed up, but I managed to forget it. Tried real hard. Took a lot of doing, but I managed it."

"My name is Ludwig Kastenmayer."

"Don't mean a fucking thing to me."

"I am the Lutheran pastor at Saint Martin's in the Fields."

"Still don't mean a fucking thing to me."

"When did your ancestors cease to be Lutheran?"

Zane groaned, sat up, and threw his legs over the edge of the mattress.

"I don't know if they ever were. Why ask me? Ask my righteous dad. No, wait, he's dead." He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Let me shave, will you?"

"Gladly. Shall I heat some water for you? I'm afraid that your electricity has been turned off for non-payment, but the gas stove appears to function still."

"Natural gas. Direct hookup. No point in paying for bottled gas if you don't need it." Zane stood up. "Ask the genealogy club."

"About what?"

"When my ancestors stopped being Lutheran. If they ever were."

"I did. They don't know."

"Oh, hell. Yeah. My grandpa was from up in Pennsylvania somewhere. Pennsylvania Dutch, they call them. Germans, though."

"That is obvious from your name."

"Then go look it up at the library. They probably stopped being Lutheran somewhere between when the Pennsylvania Dutch got to Pennsylvania and when my grandpa came down to West Virginia to work in the mines. And that's the best I can do for you." He grabbed for a shaving mug, brush, strop, and straight razor. "I have a safety razor, but I can't afford the new blades they're making down-time. This, I can just sharpen. He died when I was three—my grandpa. This is all I have that was his. We weren't exactly in the family heirloom category."

* * *

"I brought cheese sandwiches."

"You don't give up, do you? Pastor Klicketyklack or whatever you're called."

"Rarely."

"Why the hell do you care? Talk to Dad's sisters. Kit Fisher and Ila May Thornton. Maybe they remember something. They'll remember more than my mom. Ila May married one of those Mormons. She'll be your best bet. But her husband will try to convert you."

"I am prepared to do the same to him."

"Hell. Wish I could see it." Zane choked and laid his sandwich down. "That's the first time I've laughed for longer than I can remember."

"Why are you living without electricity? I have become very fond of it. Of the telephone, as well. Which you also no longer have because no one has paid the bill. Would you be interested in selling the telephone set? Or the remaining light bulbs? There are customers for such items, you know."

"I'm living without electricity and the telephone because Cheryl Ann isn't around any more to pay the bills. And to tell the truth, no, I don't really mind doing without them. I've rigged up a cistern on the roof, so unless we have a real drought, I'll still be able to flush. Now, that I would miss. Does that shock you, Pastor Klusterfucker or whatever you call yourself?"

"Not really."

"About those bills. I'm not going back into the mine. I'd rather live without than go back into the mine."

"I understand that you have other skills. Another trade."

"Because of the last few years—hell, it's getting closer to fifteen years than ten—nobody's likely to hire me. Chad Jenkins sure won't and he's pretty much got the small appliance business here in town cornered. Once he gets the idea that a guy's unreliable, it's in his head for good. I've been doing some stuff for Ted Moritz—reconditioning, repairing, when he manages to get hold of used stuff to put into his new construction."

* * *

"If you're willing to try to convert old Harold Thornton from being a Mormon, not that you're having any luck, why aren't you trying to convert me?" Zane asked.

Ludwig Kastenmayer smiled. "I am a patient man. Also, I was informed before my first visit that you are not the religious type."

* * *

"Our family doesn't really do church," Mariah explained. "Um, I know you go to Pastor Kastenmayer's. The one out on the Rudolstadt road. Like Eddie Junker does. April said so. I, uh, well, I asked her. It's not that I have anything against it, you understand."

"Aren't you glad that Pastor Kastenmayer is helping Ronnie's dad," Hans-Fritz Zuehlke asked.

Mariah and Megan both looked . . . a little doubtful.

"Zane needed help," Megan offered. Tentatively. "It's not that we didn't know that. Everybody in town knew that. He's needed it for a long time. It's just . . ."

"We're not church ladies," Mariah said. "Maybe Megan can explain it better than I can."

"On our mom's side, the Baxters, our aunts and uncle got converted at some point, at a big revival meeting at the Church of Christ that Aunt Della's husband went to. Still goes to."

"Yes."

"After that, they hassled our mom to get converted, too. Mom didn't take well to being hassled. So after that, we didn't see much of them. I was actually surprised that they came to the wedding when Ronnie and me invited them. And the Collinses don't go to church at all, except for Samantha. She joined Steve Jennings' church when they got married. That's Presbyterian, but not the Reverend Wiley's church. They went to someplace in Fairmont before the Ring of Fire." Megan giggled. "Actually, there were probably more Collinses in the basement of the Baptist church for our wedding than had been in any church in the last ten years, all put together."

"So," Mariah said a little anxiously. "It's not that we aren't grateful to Pastor Kastenmayer. I know that Ronnie is—isn't he, Megan?"

Megan nodded.

"It's just that it's all a little strange to us."

* * *

"I'm not really sure that I am courting her," Hans-Fritz said to Jonas Justinus Muselius. "I am escorting her. Which is a fascinating word play in English—escorting, courting. How are they connected? Linguistically, I mean. Perhaps not at all. But if I were courting her. No, that is in the present tense, although subjunctive. If I were to be courting her, at some time in the future . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Saint Martin's is delighted to welcome new members. As with the weddings we are preparing to celebrate in April."

"Yeah, sure. But. As far as I know, from what I've heard around town, none of those guys actually resisted being turned into Lutherans."

"No. They proved to be quite cooperative. Of course, they were all heathen to start with."

"So is Mariah Collins. But I am not sure that she would be that . . . compliant. That is, I'm not sure that conversion-by-matrimony would work with her."

"Then, perhaps, she is not the wife you are looking for. If you are just considering that it is time that you get married, which it probably is, it would be simpler for you to fix your attentions on someone who is already a Lutheran. With your advantages, government position, salary—you shouldn't have any difficulty in attracting an appropriate wife."

Hans-Fritz picked a pen out of his shirt pocket and started playing with it. Looked down and noticed what he was doing.

"I like many up-time things," he said abruptly. "Shirt pockets, among them. And a world in which one can keep the things one needs openly available, on the outside of one's shirt, in view of others, rather than hidden inside one's doublet."

Jonas nodded.

"You're marrying Ronella Koch, aren't you? An up-timer?"

"Yes."

"If she hadn't been a Lutheran already—didn't want to be one—would you have given up the idea that easily?"

Jonas frowned. "It wasn't an issue, of course, so I hadn't really thought about it."

Hans-Fritz waited.

"I don't know." Jonas paused. "That isn't the truth. No, I would not have been dissuaded. This new world in which we are living can be very complex."

"So?"

"The first thing, I suppose—you will need to ascertain if Mariah would object to having your children baptized."

"That's not the easiest topic to bring up when a man's not even sure if he's courting a woman."

Jonas smiled. "You're not dumb. You'll figure something out, if it's important enough to you. Or when it becomes important enough to you."

Ohrdruf, early March 1635

"Damn, but these roofs have a steep pitch." Harley Thomas switched his grip from one rope to another. "I'm too old to be climbing around up here."

"Snow load." Fred Jordan shook his head. "You should have seen this place during the winter. It's a little basin, right at the foot of the Thüringerwald. The weather comes over the mountains and dumps on it."

"Who's the guy with the bullhorn today? I thought Pankratz Holz was gone."

"He is. Back to his little storefront church in Grantville. He just came over here, stirred the pot for a bit, and went back to making his other mischief."

"Then why isn't this tapering off?" Harley looked down from his perch on the roof of Countess Erdmuthe Juliana's section of Schloss Ehrenstein, peering around the false gables.

"Sometimes, once something starts, it just keeps its own momentum." Fred Jordan looked around. "We've got everyone in place. The countess and her ladies are on deposit in the mayor's house, and I've made pretty clear to him that any harm that he lets come to them there . . . Well, the guards I have on duty will let it come to the women in his own family, too. Okay, that's harsh, but I didn't see any other way, short of getting them out of town, and I don't have enough men to manage that. Meth and his men are out in back, in the courtyard. Even the old men, Joachim Rosenbusch and Lämmerhirt, the steward, insisted on staying. I've got to say that they're loyal to her. Fanatical. The windows are boarded up. The building is as secure as we can make it."

Harley beckoned. "Corporal Rempel, do you have the walkie-talkie?"

"Yes."

"Then you take my place. Benisch, you take Jordan's."

They started creeping across the steep roof with its slick slate shingles toward the ladder. One of Harley's feet skidded. "This blasted mist isn't helping."

"Do you suppose that 'secure' is the operative word?" Fred said as he crawled. A wind gust blew the next rope he was supposed to catch just out of his reach. "Damn."

"What do you mean?"

"These guys . . ." Fred grabbed onto a slightly projecting shingle with one hand and waved the other in the general direction of the mob gathered in the street. "They've had a lot of changes to deal with the past few years. Their job security is all broken down, a lot of them. Tailors, shoemakers, people like that. People talk about all the new opportunities, but how many are there, really, for a man up in his fifties with a family to support and the only job he knows is the trade he learned when he was a teenager. What's he supposed to do? Go be an unskilled laborer? These are the people who survived the war, weren't killed off by mercenaries, didn't die of disease. Now we're digging the foundations right out from under a lot of them."

"Which doesn't mean they can come in here and riot against people because they don't like their religious ideas. It's not as if the freaking countess and her oddballs have anything to do with economic changes."

"They're familiar," Fred said. "They're a familiar enemy. And they're here. Ohrdruf's not exactly on the frontier of economic progress. If there was a shoe factory here, they could riot against that. But the factory shoes are coming in from somewhere else. If there was a clothing factory here, they could riot against that. But the sewing machines are in Badenburg and Arnstadt and Rudolstadt. It's just the clothes that are coming in here. Mostly through the Wish Book. How can you riot against a mail order catalog? All they've got is that hammer mill, the Tobiashammer, and it can't employ them all." He pushed himself up on his knees to look down at the street again, groping for the rope. "Oh, hell."

That was when the shingle he was using as his handhold came loose.

* * *

"I hate doing this," Preston Richards said. "I really, really, hate it. I did it for Ralph and the others last week. Not that one of the Hansens had anyone to notify. Now I'm doing it again."

Bitsy Jordan opened the door. Saw that there were two of them. In uniform. "Press? Harley?"

"Can we come in?"

"Sure. We're back in the music room."

They followed her. Daniel and Leah, her and Fred's kids, were both sprawled on the floor, doing homework. A man was seated at the piano.

"You know Signor Carissimi. He . . ."

" . . . wrote the song about Hans Richter's death." Press reached out his hand. "I haven't had the pleasure, before. Pleased to meet you. Um . . ." He looked at the children.

"Whatever it is," Bitsy said, "they'll need to know. Bad or the worst?"

"The worst," Press admitted. "They're bringing him back."

She sat down on the end of the piano bench. "What goes around, comes around, I guess. Last week . . . Last week I was actually feeling—sort of good, maybe even a little bit smug—that Fred was over there in Ohrdruf. Safely away from what happened at the hospital and the synagogue. As safe as a man could ever be, in his line of work."

She gestured vaguely with her hand. "I'll need to call Jenny Maddox at the funeral home, I guess. To be expecting him. I don't know who else, really, since Reverend Wiley is dead."

Carissimi stood up. "Orval McIntire," he said. "The man who preached the state funeral. Admirable eulogies—the ones he delivered for the mayor and your minister. Stay with Daniel and Leah. I will call them both. That much of the burden, Elizabeth, I can take from your shoulders."

* * *

"I have decided," Countess Erdmuthe Juliana said.

"The household is leaving Ohrdruf?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the countess should reconsider. The rural castles are even less safe from attack than we are in town. Think of what the farmers did in Franconia last year, even to strongholds that were in good repair, and defended. Most of the old Gleichen castles are decaying, in poor repair. For decades, there has been no maintenance at all except to the bailiffs' quarters. No staff except one bailiff in each to collect the dues." The steward paused.

"We are moving inside the Ring of Fire. To West Virginia County, where the authorities feel obliged to protect our religious rights. As they have now proved to us. Amply—more than amply, by sacrificing one of their own men."

"Into Grantville?"

"Not into the town itself. Some distance outside of it. The real estate broker to whom their chief of police sent me described it as a 'big, huge, ugly house, out off the highway.' The owners did not reside there permanently. They were from a nearby imperial city, I understand, called 'Washington D.C.' It escheated to the government after the Ring of Fire. There have been different tenants several times in the last few years, but has not been truly convenient for any of the residents." She looked at the paper in her hands. "This Mr. Colburn has assurances from one of the officials, a Mrs. Trout, that they will be delighted to sell it. To 'get it back on the tax rolls,' he said. Hohenlohe will be delighted to have us out of Schloss Ehrenstein. We're ruining the value of his real estate with all these unpleasant events. He's paying me enough to vacate that I can afford to buy the house outright."

"Is it suitable for Your Ladyship?" her elderly lady-in-waiting asked anxiously.

The countess smiled ironically. "For a time, there was consideration of locating Princess Kristina's household there if she came to live in Grantville permanently, so I believe it should be adequate for the needs of a widow and her small retinue."

"Yes."

"It needs repairs, however. Not the repairs that it would need after decades of neglect, like the Drei Gleichen castles. A few years, only. There will be new requirements. I do not want to rely upon outsiders who are not of my household." She looked at the only man in the room. "Let our steward find and employ a man who knows how to repair and maintain the up-time 'appliances' as the real estate broker calls them."

April 1635

"The man we need bargained," Lämmerhirt said. "Bargained very well. Very shrewdly. He has a great deal to offer us and knows it. Not just the necessary training and experience. Also several of these 'light bulbs' that are necessary for the lamps. The former tenants stole all the ones that were originally in the house, it appears, if they had not 'burned out.' I need to ascertain the meaning of that term. Also, a telephone set that can be fastened into this 'jack.'" He walked across the room, bent over, and pointed to a small box affixed to the wall near the baseboard.

"So the household has a new majordomo?"

"Assistant steward. I will not live forever. Perhaps, not even for long. Long enough, I hope, to train this Zane Baumgardner in the necessary duties." The old man paused. "There should be a certain . . . prestige . . . for the countess in having an up-timer in her employ."

"If he does not start drinking to excess again," Margaretha Effler said. "Once he is receiving sufficient wages for him to pay for it."

"Where did you hear that?"

She smiled. "From a friend of a friend who has a cook who knows a cook who works in the household of the pastor of a heterodox church in Grantville." The old woman smiled. "As heterodox as we are, I am sure, from the perspective of Superintendent Tilesius or Pastor Holz. But much more securely placed."

"As we hope to be."

"Baptists," they call themselves.

"This man, though. He is not one of us. Not a believer. I ascertained that."

"No," the lady-in-waiting said. "But his parents were—his mother still is, she is still living—among these 'Baptists.' So perhaps he will have some understanding of our problems. Or can learn, if he cares to." She paused. "What is he like? In person? What does he look like? Short, tall, fat, thin?"

The steward paused. "Tall, like most of the up-timers. Thin. Otherwise? Weathered. Not unattractive, but well-worn."

* * *

"The great mistake of Martin Luther," Ezechiel Meth said, "was his attachment to the literal word of the written scriptures."

Zane Baumgardner raised an eyebrow. "You folks don't believe in the Bible? I can sort of see how that would get you in trouble."

"Not, um, exactly. To some extent, the concepts go back to Karlstadt. De spiritu et littera. Christ lives in everyone—or, at least, in everyone who accepts him. And in the created world, immanently. It is this living spirit of God, not the dead letter of a book that is the true faith. Not any written down scripture. Not even the Bible. Although, of course, there are many useful precepts to be found in it. But those precepts cannot be made into a law. That contradicts the notion of Christian freedom."

"Which you define just how?"

* * *

"I'm feeling a little stupid, Reverend. I think I need to read a book. And I haven't learned to read German, so asking that busybody Pastor Kastorbean out at Saint Martin's isn't going to be any help."

Al Green looked at Zane Baumgardner. Talk about an unexpected visitor.

"Well, from what you say . . ." He got up and started looking up and down the bookshelves in his study.

"The guy Meth calls himself a chymicus. I don't think that's 'alchemist' at all. I think it's an apothecary. The countess' personal pill peddler, which she takes too many of, if you ask me, not that I'm in a position to criticize. His father was a doctor. Uh, these people aren't a batch of snake handlers from up in the hollows. His uncle, this Stiefel guy, was a merchant. Fish. Woad, that blue dye stuff. It's big business up around Erfurt. Wine. They had property. Money. He was supposed to be immortal. You'd think that when he died it would have sort of undermined the whole project, but . . ."

Green was muttering to himself, pulling various books of the shelf and then putting them back. "Anabaptist origins, of course. Probably, here in Thuringia, some early connection with Thomas Müntzer. Um, rebirth from the spirit. From what you say, their teachings seem to have some things in common with the Quakers."

"That I've heard of. William Penn, right? Pennsylvania."

"But the Quakers don't exist yet. Not in the sixteen-thirties. I'm bound to have something here that should help, if only I can find it." He shoved another book back into its place. "Maybe the Schwenkfelders," Green muttered.

"The who?"

* * *

"I'm going to have a baby, Anthony." Carly buried her face in her hands. "I guess the Christmas spirit got to us in that manger. I wasn't ever morning sick or anything, so I tried to tell myself it wasn't happening. I didn't want it to be happening. Oh, god, I'm so sorry."

"It's not exactly just your fault. It's not as if I didn't notice what we were doing. What we've been doing."

"We can't tell anybody." She grabbed his arm. "You understand that, don't you? April's really still upset because of—everything, really. The mine explosion, still. What happened last month. And Mildred will put the blame on her, which she doesn't deserve. Dietrich and Hans-Fritz will preach at me. And Mildred will try to make Mom come home from Wismar and 'deal with it,' when she's actually happy, I think. Not just coping with what life threw at her. Maybe happy for the first time in her life. For the first time since I'm old enough to remember—that much I'm sure of. I won't let Mildred ruin it for her."

"It's not your fault. You're really still just a kid."

"I'm old enough to know what I'm doing.

"You're fifteen. That's not exactly ancient."

"Well, you're sixteen. It's not that much older."

They looked at each other.

"We've got to tell somebody. Whether you want us to or not Like you said, it has to be from Christmas vacation."

She nodded.

"Then pretty soon, people will notice. I know that much."

Carly shook her head. "We can't tell anybody." She grabbed his other arm and started to shake him. "I mean it, Anthony. Your dad will skin you alive."

"Uh, no. He won't. He'll just be 'deeply and gravely disappointed' in me. Which is a lot worse, sometimes. But he's that most of the time. Did you know that when they adopted Clemens and Emilia, they let Allen move downstairs and have the room off the kitchen, but they made me stay upstairs, sharing my old room with Clemens."

"You've mentioned it a time or two."

"Allen's just a year and a half older than I am. Clemens is six whole years younger. Which pretty much shows you where they classify me. Still a kid. A kid who's not reliable enough to trust to sleep in a downstairs bedroom. Still has to stay right under their parental eyes. What do you bet that when Allen moves out, they'll keep it for him? Not let me get out from under the kid's toys."

"That just makes it more important for us not to tell them. Your dad won't let you go to the university if he finds out, I bet. I won't do that to you."

"Do what?"

"Make it so you can't go to the university. Jena. Like Allen's going to do as soon as he graduates this spring. And you're planning to do, after next year. I'm not going to muck that up for you."

"I could quit school, I guess. Get a job."

"No." This time Carly screeched. "Your dad went to college. So did your mom. Your brother's going to. And you, too." She socked his shoulder with her fist. "Nobody in my family's ever gone to college, did you know that? Never at all. I won't ruin it for you. Your folks will go ballistic if they find out. You're not even allowed to date yet."

"Uh, yeah."

"And if you were, your dad wouldn't want you to date someone like me. Not even if Mildred belongs to his church. Do you think I couldn't tell how sort of . . . chilly . . . the atmosphere was when Ronnie and Megan got married? Maybe I'm white trash, but I'm not stupid."

"You're not . . ." he started to say. "What about your dad? Will he skin you alive? Your mom's up in Wismar, but he's around here, isn't he?"

"I don't have the vaguest idea. He walked out when I was three years old—about that, anyway. I hardly know him at all. But he's not likely to take enough interest to skin me, no."

"That's a relief. Would your grandpa have?"

"What?"

"Skinned you?"

"Well, Mom's father died when she was a baby, so I don't have the vaguest about him either. Horace would have disapproved just as much as Mildred. He was pretty rigid, from what Mom says, but he wasn't into skinning, as far as I know. Or beating people up."

"Why do you call your grandparents by their first names?"

"Well, until Mildred moved in with us, I'd hardly ever seen her."

"Even though you all lived right here in the same town?"

"Yeah."

"That's really odd. Dad's parents lived in Shinnston. We saw them all the time. Mom's folks were in Kentucky, but we visited a couple of times a year. They were all left up-time. I've missed them a lot."

"If Mildred finds out, she'll probably throw me out."

"How could she? It's your mom's house. Mrs. Baumgardner's the one who moved in. She was in assisted living until your mom came up with that idea."

"How'd you know that?"

"Mom makes nursing home visits to church members. It's just, sort of, one of the things that she does. And takes us kids along, sometimes. And the dogs. Not the cat—she's too cranky." He stood up and started down the path. "We've got to tell somebody."

Carly followed him, grabbing the back of his jacket. "Hell, no."

They stared at each other.

* * *

"What's the matter with Anthony," Al Green asked. "He's seemed sort of distracted the last few days."

"End of the school year syndrome, I suppose," Claudette answered. "Some kind of teen-aged angst, maybe. He could be upset about Allen's going off to college next spring." She moved a stack of Red Cross handouts off the table. "I'll try to talk to him one of these days, if I can find the time."

* * *

Denise Beasley braked her bike. Minnie Hugelmair, following closely, did the same.

"Boy, if the two of you don't just look like a little puddle of misery."

Carly looked up, her face smeared with tears and—upon a closer look—little bits of charcoal gray acrylic fuzz from Anthony's sweater.

"What the hell is going on?"

* * *

"I ought to be thinking clearer," Denise said. "You know I ought to."

"You've got an excuse. You're still sort of reeling from your dad getting killed last month. Which isn't an excuse that Carly and Anthony have." Gerry Stone shook his head.

"They've got to do something. It's not going to go away. Maybe it could have earlier, if Carly hadn't been too chicken to go to Doc Adams. But she's left it too long, now. Somebody's going to have to cope. Why didn't Anthony have the sense to use something?"

"I'd be surprised if he'd had the birds and bees talk, beyond what we get in health class in school. His dad's not as practical as mine. Sort of disconnected from the real world."

"We've still got to come up with something. I wish to hell they'd tell someone."

"We could talk to Dad and Magda. If they were here."

"Yeah. To Daddy, too, if that goon hadn't axed him." Denise stared morosely at her toes. "'If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.' Daddy used to say that. I don't think Mom would have any sympathy for them, right now. She's taking things pretty hard, down underneath."

"The first thing we've got to do is figure some way to get Carly out of sight, just as soon as school's out. It's still fairly cool. She can wear sweatshirts up till then. She's got that tall and skinny build, like her mom."

* * *

"It's a temporary fix," Minnie said. "Sending Carly out to spend the summer in the country with her dad. She says that April's suspicious that something's going on."

"If you ask me, April will be so glad she doesn't have to spend her whole summer babysitting a teenager that she'll let it go."

"What about when she has to start school again in the fall?"

"It's better than nothing," Denise said. "Daddy used to tell this story." She stopped.

"Story," Gerry prodded. "Your dad."

"About a guy, a stable hand, I think, back in the middle ages who offended some high muck-a-muck, who was going to chop his head off. Not clean, but with all sorts of fancy and painful tortures associated with the process. But the man said that if they gave him a year, he could teach the caliph's horse to sing. That was what the muck-a-muck was called, the caliph."

"Arabian Nights," Gerry said. "Probably."

"Dunno. Never heard of them."

"Probably."

"Doesn't make any difference. Anyway, another stable hand asked him what the point was. The guy answered that a year could make a lot of difference. The caliph might die. He might die. 'Or, who knows, the horse may learn to sing.' That was Daddy's point. There are times when a temporary fix is a lot better than no fix at all."

June 1635

Salome Piscatora bent over and kissed the bald spot on the top of her husband's head. "Now Ludwig," she said. "It is not so bad. The man has stopped drinking excessively. He has a responsible job. Admittedly, that is because the countess of Gleichen thought that it would be an ornament to her household to have an up-timer in the position of majordomo. Still, it isn't as if your efforts have accomplished nothing."

"But for the wrong reasons." Pastor Ludwig Kastenmayer continued to stare gloomily into his beer.

"What have you done for the wrong reasons?"

"Nothing. Herr Baumgardner has agreed to be, as Gary Lambert calls it, 'rehabbed' for the wrong reasons. Not because he has come to recognize that his body is a temple of the Holy Spirit which should not be abused. He mainly listened to my exhortations to reform, I think, because he otherwise could no longer find a consort to pay his bills and his bar tab."

* * *

Carly, on the way from the kitchen to the cottage with a handful of early plums, stopped in the middle of the driveway. In mid-dash. Looked at her stepbrother. Horrified. "What are you doing here?"

Hans-Fritz Zuehlke looked back. At her face, her stomach, then her face again. "The state government is moving to Bamberg.

"Everyone knows that."

"Including the personnel office, where I was working. I didn't want to go. For various reasons. So I transferred to the West Virginia County tax office." He waved a clipboard. "Which sent me out to reassess the Countess of Gleichen's new property."

"You'll tell, won't you? Mildred and April and Dietrich and . . . everybody."

He looked at her again. "Not until I have spoken with your father. Who, clearly, since you are with him, already knows about the problem. It's his responsibility, after all."

* * *

"I agree," Pastor Kastenmayer said. "It is Zane Baumgardner's responsibility. Clearly, he has accepted it. Which, I must admit, is more than I would have expected of the man, given his . . . past history." He steepled his fingers together. "The rest of her family do know that she is with him, I assume. They aren't worried about her."

"Oh, sure. They were pretty surprised when he invited her. Mildred and April, that is. Ronnie and Megan too, I guess. Surprised, but sort of relieved. She's not been the easiest person to live with, the past few months."

Kastenmayer nodded decisively. "It's her father's responsibility. Unquestionably. You don't have any obligation to tell her grandmother anything more than that you saw her and spoke with her."

* * *

All three of them leaned against the new fence behind the countess' stables.

"You teach them to make rail fence?" Gerry asked.

"Naw." Zane stubbed out his cigarette on one of the posts. "I guess guys from around here brought rail fence making to the good old USA when they came over."

"Pretty nice-looking horses," Hans-Fritz said.

"Yep. Ezechiel came along with me to help pick them out. He may be the countess' personal apothecary, but he's also a fair horse-doctor. Good at spotting the things that a used-horse salesman would rather you didn't notice."

"Meth? The enthusiast? Spiritualist?" Hans-Fritz raised his eyebrows.

"You think that this Meth guy is a religious nut?" Zane asked. "Come to think of it, someone did say that's why the countess separated from her husband. That would have been about four or five years before the Ring of Fire. Because he went back to being a Lutheran after Ezechiel's uncle died, but she still had faith in him."

Gerry Stone frowned. "Meth's a whole religious fruitcake, all by himself, according to Jonas. And so was his uncle."

"Heretics," Hans-Fritz Zuehlke said. "Even heretics think they are heretics. Jakob Böhme has written several pamphlets designed to confute Stiefel's teachings. Refute them."

"Böhme? Who's he?"

"I'm sure that either Pastor Kastenmayer or Paster Rothmaler over at Rudolstadt would be happy to explain it in a lot more detail than I can. He's from Silesia. Or was. A shoemaker at Görlitz. He's been dead ten years or so, but he has sons who keep his ideas going. A few years before he died he looked into a reflection in a pewter pitcher and started to see mystical visions."

Gerry blinked.

"Oh, hell. That's too oversimplified. These little sects pop up all over the place, all the time. I picked up some of this information while I was over at Danzig. Böhme started out as a Lutheran, just like Stiefel and Meth did. There was a Lutheran preacher at Görlitz who said that religion should be the development of the whole spiritual person rather than what he called 'blind obedience to empty Church law.' He started a little semi-secret society called the 'Conventicle of God's Real Servants.' I guess you up-timers would call it a discussion group. It involved quite a few people and not just tradesmen. Members of the local nobility. Gentlemen of the leisure class who had some academic training. Böhme was part of it. The minister made a lot of enemies on several university theology faculties. When he died, the authorities replaced him with a 'by the book' kind of Lutheran pastor who tried to wipe out the discussion group and its ideas. Böhme started to write down his visions a few years later and the other guys from the group backed him up. Some of his stuff is still circulating in manuscript form, but a lot of it's been printed."

"Visions," Zane snorted. "Don't these people come with crap-detectors?"

"How do you mean that?" Gerry asked.

"Like the countess. She's not bad to work for. But talk about gullible. You could use her to define the word, if you ask me. She got involved with Meth and his uncle, this Stiefel that even Hans-Fritz's Silesian thinks was out of it, maybe ten or a dozen years ago. About the time she realized that the one thing that a noble's wife was really supposed to do—have babies—she hadn't managed to do and wasn't likely to do. So the counts of Gleichen, who had been around for centuries, were going to go extinct with her husband. Which they did, just a few months before the Ring of Fire happened. Because none of the women married to his brothers or cousins managed to have kids, either. Not boys, at least." He leaned down and picked up a piece of straw to chew on.

"How old was she?"

"Back then? About thirty-five, I guess. She's forty-eight, now."

"A woman of thirty-five is still of child-bearing age," Hans-Fritz said.

"Yeah, but she'd been married for years and nothing had happened." Zane leaned back against the fence. "She talks to me a lot. She's as lonely as hell. Her mom died when she was three and her dad when she was six. She had four brothers and sisters, but they all died as kids. Her stepmother got married again and had another family. She married a man more than twenty years older than she was and, like I said, didn't have any kids. And wasn't likely to. I gather that he wasn't getting it up any more. For that matter, before she got involved with the fruitcake, just about everyone else died."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Her husband had half-sisters and she'd made friends with them, but they both died. Her mother's sister died. One of her female cousins on her mom's side died—the only one close to her age. The kids from her aunt's second marriage are younger. Her dad's sister died and so did her son, the countess' cousin. He'd been married twice. His first wife is dead—the second one's still alive, but they don't visit, because she lives somewhere over on the other side of Brandenburg. No uncles. One of her stepsisters died—no, not even that close, her stepmother's stepdaughter by another marriage, or something like that. Her husband's brother and his wife died. All of them between 1615 and 1622. All she has left are a couple of male cousins. They're married and have children, but they live over to the west of Hesse. Nowhere around here. I could have all this upside down and backwards, but that's the general idea."

"Bleak," Gerry said. "I mean, I'm worried about the way things are going in Italy and I haven't seen any of them except Ron since last fall, but at least my dad and brothers are still around."

"I guess it is." Zane tossed the now-well-chewed straw down. "Used to drive me nuts, having my mom and dad and sisters and then Tina Marie, Cheryl Ann after her, all nagging me. Maybe I shouldn't have complained." He picked up another straw. "Now. The reason I asked you two to come talk to me is, really—what's this Green kid like? The one who knocked Carly up?"

* * *

"Okay. So this Tilesius guy who caused all the trouble in Ohrdruf, and now Fred Jordan's dead because of it, is trying to make trouble right here in town. Holz's little storefront organization, fussing that Kastenmayer baptized Jarvis Beasley's baby, yelling about the Countess of Gleichen harboring dangerous Anabaptists. Getting the Erfurt city council to send letters to all and sundry. So I figured that I needed to know and you'd be the most likely reliable source. Are Anabaptists dangerous?"

"It depends on how you define the word 'Anabaptist,'" Al Green said to Preston Richards.

Grantville's police chief sighed. "I am not following you, Brother Green. I'm a member of your church. So's Melanie. We come on Sundays—almost every Sunday, not just holidays. We both went to Sunday School. We send our kids to Sunday School. But I'm not a theology student and I'm never likely to be one." He paused. "Could you dumb it down, please? At least a little bit."

"Okay." Green stood up and started pacing. "Maybe I'm too much of a historian to be able to put this to you in black and white terms. Have you ever heard that poem about the six blind men who went to see the elephant? 'And each was partly in the right, but all were in the wrong.' Joe Jenkins is partly right. Pankratz Holz is partly right, too. Neither one of them's seeing the whole picture and I'm not sure, given how prejudiced they are, that either one is capable of seeing the whole picture."

"Are Anabaptists a threat to the public order?"

"To fix on what you're probably worrying about, Press—Joe Jenkins' batch aren't. Neither are the Mennonites who've settled inside the Ring. Their movement evolved out of Anabaptism, too."

"So far, so good."

"Then, may I please define the word 'Anabaptist' for you?"

"I have a feeling that you're going to, whether I really want to know or not."

"What sets our church—modern Baptists—off from most of the rest of the churches, both up-time and down-time?"

Press Richards thought a minute. "Believers' baptism. We don't baptize babies, for whatever reason. I'm a little vague on the 'whatever.'"

Green stopped pacing for a moment, leaned over his desk, and made a note in regard to a clearly necessary sermon, upcoming shortly. "Keep going."

"So we baptize adults. Or, at least, people the church council thinks have reached the age of reason and know what they're doing. Sometimes we stretch it a bit, for young teenagers, if their families are good members and we think they'll keep them pointed in the right direction while they finish growing up."

Green nodded. "These, our ordinary candidates for baptism, are people who have never been baptized before."

"So?"

"So, ordinarily, we Baptists are not Anabaptists. The word 'Anabaptist' means 're-baptizer.' Tell me what happens if an outside adult wants to join our church—someone who was already baptized as a baby, Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, whatever."

"Well, he—she if it's a woman—they have to be baptized as an adult. That's a requirement."

"Which is the point at which, technically, Baptists become 'Anabaptist' too. When the movement started, a century or so ago, everyone who joined up had already been baptized as a baby. Theologically, the early proponents of adult baptism denied the validity of just about every existing baptism in the world, excepting only a few adult converts from heathendom. Since the bible states, 'He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved,' they implicitly denied the salvation of everyone who had been baptized as an infant for a thousand years and more."

"Uh, oh. That can't have been good."

"It didn't have the most favorable impact, no." Green started pacing again. "You do realize that we still teach the same thing?"

Richards dropped his mouth open. "You mean, we think that, uh, Father Mazzare, or, um, Pastor Kastenmayer, is going to hell?"

"We do normally try to phrase it a little more tactfully. But when push comes to shove—yes."

"I don't think anybody ever told me that. Not, at least, quite that flat-out."

"Possibly nobody did."

"Now that I come to think about it, definitely nobody did." Richards stood up. "But we've got to get back to the question I came in with. Forget about who's going to hell. As long as they're nice people otherwise, that's really not the police department's problem. If Anabaptists aren't a threat to the public order, why does Holz think that they are?"

"To go back to the beginning again, or at least to a century or so ago and ignoring various claims to apostolic tradition for the various Baptist churches . . ."

"Dumb it down, please."

"Should I start with communism or polygamy?"

"Baptists!" Richards sat there, his mouth open.

"And, of course, there's always eschatology."

"Dumb it down."

Green thrust a fist toward the ceiling of his study and proclaimed in a deep, dire, voice, "The end of the world will be here just any minute, so prepare."

"You mean that cult stuff? Sitting out in an open field wearing white robes and staring at the sky."

"More or less."

"Baptists!"

Green nodded. "Yes. Which doesn't even start to get us into mysticism, visionaries, and the like. Joe Jenkins would like to forget those parts of the Anabaptist heritage. They're all that Pankratz Holz remembers. Which doesn't make it easier for those of us who know perfectly well that, historically, it was 'both/and' rather than 'either/or.' They didn't get things sorted out, about what was going to be 'mainstream' and what wasn't, until a lot later than the year we're living in."

July 1635

"I mean it," Gerry said. "Like I explained to Zane, it's not a romantic tragedy. Not like they were Romeo and Juliet or something. They're not crazy in love with each other."

"What is it, then?" Mariah asked. "Carly's pregnant, after all."

"Proximity," Hans-Fritz suggested. "Propinquity."

"Not that, either. Some, I expect, but not quite. They really are friends. They worry about each other. Don't want to hurt each other. Actually, they try to protect each other. They're not in love with each other, but . . . It's more like . . ." Gerry stopped, floundering for words.

"Look, Anthony's okay—not like the Partow kid, with a different girl every week and notches on his belt. It's more like Carly was a stray kitten someone had left out by the side of the road. Anthony's the kind of person who'll always pick up a stray. Feed it. Pet it. Tame it. Eventually make sure that he's found a good home for it. And if the kitten's actually a girl. Purring, cuddling up, rubbing against that kind hand. For months. And he's a guy. Oh, I don't know how to explain it."

"I think you just did," Mariah said.

* * *

Megan snapped her lunch box closed. "So that's where things are, Crystal. Carly's out there in the country with her and Ronnie's dad. Which is, I guess, okay, at least for the summer—he really does seem to have straightened up. But—don't you think that we ought to tell Anthony's parents?"

Crystal Blocker, now Dorrman, laid her container of cottage cheese down.

"No. Honestly, Megan. No, I don't think so. It's not because I don't think the world of the Reverend and Mrs. Green, because I do. But."

"But what?"

"They don't really see Anthony, either of them."

"What do you mean—don't see him."

"It's hard to explain. Those boys were, oh, maybe ten and eight when the Greens came to pastor at First Baptist. They're a lot alike, you know, Allen and Anthony. Not just looking alike, even though they both have that same straight light brown hair and gray eyes. Two stair steps. Faces alike, body build pretty much the same. Perfect for handing clothes down, don't you know?"

"Uh-huh."

"I'm not a psychologist. But I've been reading some of the stuff that Walt's dad uses when he does peer counseling. I think . . . well, the boys are so close in age. Both just about equally smart. A lot of the same interests. But . . . everything that Anthony ever did, Allen had already done it. Just a little bit before. Joined the Scouts. Made the team. The whole routine of growing up. They'd been excited when Allen did anything. They're always busy at the church, of course. By the time Anthony did the same thing, well, ho-hum. Even if he did it just as well."

She picked the cottage cheese up again and made a face. "I hate this stuff, but I guess I'd better eat it. Whether I want to or not. Calcium, you know. They make it out of milk that's already gone sour, so it's not like taking fresh milk away from little kids, or anything."

"Yeah, me too. Go on."

"You, too?" Crystal giggled. "Back then, I bet, in the nineteen-eighties, the Greens were thinking, two kids. A boy and a girl. They already had the boy. Then Anthony was another boy. So he's just sort of bobbed along in Allen's wake, like a kind of ditto mark. Or reflection in a mirror. The only thing Anthony's really ever done that Allen didn't was take drama class in high school. Which didn't sit too well with his dad. Pastor Green has his doubts about actors and actresses. So. Well, I just don't think that this is the best way for them to really focus on him for the first time—because he's gotten a girl pregnant."

"Maybe I see how you're thinking. You know the family a lot better than we do."

"I'd leave it be, Megan." Crystal nodded her head decisively. "As long as Carly's okay, and you say that she is, I'd really leave it be, as far as the Greens are concerned."

Late August 1635

"I'm really glad the two of you are back," Gerry said.

Denise pulled off her helmet. "Don Francisco's a nice guy. He knew how we felt about leaving for Prague. Going is fine, but it would have been bad, not to come home first. We brought Benny back to stay. He enjoyed doing the folklife festival, but he's too feeble to go to Prague with Minnie and me. He'll stay with his sister Betty. And I didn't want to go away for who knows how long without seeing my mom again."

"Carly had her baby two days ago."

"Boy or girl?" Minnie asked.

"Boy."

Denise frowned. "Isn't it early?"

"About a month." Gerry plopped down on an old bench in the storage yard. "She was still all stressed out, worrying about Anthony—maybe that had something to do with it. He's fine, though. The baby, I mean. A midwife delivered him, out at her dad's cottage on the countess' estate. Down-timer. The midwife, I mean. They didn't have to go to the hospital. Anthony's fine, too. He made it out there yesterday afternoon, all worried to pieces, and looked at the kid. He'll go again today, I expect. His folks are moving his brother into a boarding house in Jena and took the two little kids along. He stayed home on the excuse of feeding the pets—as if they couldn't have gotten someone else to do it."

"So why are you so glad we're back."

"We've got to come up with another fix. And I'm totally out of ideas."

Denise eyed him. "Out on that hippie commune when you were a kid—did your dad ever read The Cat in the Hat to you?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Have you ever read it?"

"Don't think so."

"Well, goddamn." Denise ran into her mother's trailer and came back a few minutes later with a book. "Now listen." She started reading.

"What's the point?" he asked after she'd finished.

Denise smiled. "Like that cat . . . Listen, Gerry. I have a doozy of a 'wonderful, awful, idea.'"

* * *

"We'll have to talk to Zane. Get him to set it up. He's Carly's fucking father," Denise said. "He ought to take some responsibility for her beyond just housing her for three months in an emergency, which we had to talk him into doing. Dads are supposed to be . . . more than that. A lot more than that."

"I know what you mean." Gerry nodded. "Buster was. Mine is."

"Benny is, too," Minnie said. "Even if he's not exactly my dad."

"Then let's go."

****

"If your uncle could come up with divine revelations, you can too." Zane Baumgardner looked at Ezechiel Meth. "Look, we—Grantville that is—are covering your ass. The countess' rear end too, for that matter. Making sure that Holz and his people leave you in peace. So pay a little back."

"But."

"This is a damned good revelation. I've spent days and days riding around these fields two steps behind the countess while she exercises her horse, listening to her talk. She believes it, damn you. She really believes that she's going to have a miracle child in her old age. Your uncle told her that. Got her to believe it. All you've got to do is . . . modify it a bit. She's lonesome enough that she'll bite."

"So I'm supposed to tell her that . . ."

"He was just a bit off. She's not supposed to be the Messiah's natural mother. She's supposed to be his foster mother. Hell, if she could keep believing that your uncle was an immortal prophet after he kicked the bucket, she can believe anything."

"The advantage is clearly to you, since the child is your grandson."

"You want her to die without a kid to love? It's not as if there's an inheritance involved, or anything like that. Once she dies, all of her dower income escheats to the state anyway."

Meth looked down the hill.

"By the creek," he said.

"Yeah. Got to be."

* * *

"Mariah, please," Denise said. "We need one more person. Minnie can't. She's just too recognizable. With her scar and the glass eye and stuff. You were actually an actress for a while, so we figure you can memorize." She looked at Hans-Fritz. "Tell her to do it, will you? Please? We need her, Gerry and me."

"I'm not a teenager," Mariah protested. "Ten years ago, yeah, this sort of thing would have made a kind of crooked sense to me. But my mind's outgrown that. It doesn't work that way, any more."

"Please."

"How the hell do I get myself into these messes? Who am I supposed to be, again?"

"Moses' mother. The baby's mother, anyway, who gets called in to be a nurse. I'm going to be Miriam. Gerry'll be Aaron."

"I'm not a nanny. I do silo site surveys."

"You don't have to be a nanny. Just agree to be the godmother or something. I'm not sure they have godmothers in that peculiar religion of theirs, but 'or something' should do it. Whatever she says. I'd have asked Megan, maybe, since she's Carly's sister-in-law, except that she's already starting to show, so the countess might not believe that she was the mother of a newborn, too. Plus, you went with Master Massinger's troupe last summer. Please, Mariah. Please."

"Oh, damn. All right. What are you using for the basket?"

"I don't know."

"It has to be waterproof. Just a minute." Mariah disappeared into the back room of her grandmother Collins' house and came back with a light blue plastic picnic cooler. Which had been molded to look like a fake basket. "This'll do. What are you doing for bulrushes?"

"There are cattails in the creek. Carly's dad found a good spot. A little pool. Right below it, the water runs over gravel, shallow enough that the basket with the baby in it can't get away from us. Here are your lines. Anthony wrote them, so they're pretty much straight out of the Bible story. The countess ought to pick up on how the script goes in a hurry. We hope."

Denise pushed a piece of paper into Mariah's hands, grabbed the basket, and hurried out the door, afraid that if she waited any longer, Mariah might change her mind.

Mariah, though, just buried her face in Hans-Fritz's shoulder. "Tell me," she wailed. "What am I doing here and why am I doing it with these nuts?"

* * *

"Meth's going to distract Fräulein Effler," Zane said. "Keep her and Lämmerhirt occupied with something up in the house. Carly's promised to stay inside, at the cottage. Can't risk her going off half-cocked right in the middle of things. The Green kid is with her, holding her hand."

Gerry took a deep breath. "Denise has the baby and the basket. Okay. Mariah's behind the willow trees. Go get the countess. I'll start the screen credits rolling. Or something."

* * *

"I've got to give Meth credit," Zane said. "The man has a golden tongue. By the time the countess got up to the house carrying the baby, he had the steward and lady-in-waiting all primed to make delighted cooing noises. Nobody in the whole household asked, 'What the hell?'" He looked at Mariah. "Uh, they kept the picnic basket. For a bassinet. And then someday a religious relic, I guess."

"Okay."

"I can't believe it worked," Anthony said.

"I hope he's all right. He was so little."

"The baby's going to be just fine, Carly," Denise said. "The countess is going to take real good care of him. Herr Rosenbusch is out beating the bushes for a wet nurse this very minute, before he even has a chance to get hungry again. She picked out a really pretty name. Immanuel Renatus."

"Sort of fancy," Carly said. "Real down-timey."

Anthony, who by now had three years of Latin under his belt, just looked dumbstruck.

"She'll cherish him," Gerry put in. "Adore him. He's going to be better taken care of than any kid since Jesus Christ was born, probably."

Carly nodded.

"Having him early was actually a good thing. You can go back to school next week, when the new semester starts after Labor Day, with the rest of the kids none the wiser. That's what you wanted for Anthony's sake, isn't it? You'll still be a little sore, maybe, but if you're creaking around the halls, you can tell people you fell off a horse or something while you were staying out in the country with your dad."

"I guess."

"Hell," Denise said. "We're going to be around town for another week or so, before we take off for Prague. If you need backup, I'll even embarrass myself by saying that I skidded and tipped you off my bike."

* * *

"If Pastor Kastenmayer ever finds out about this," Gerry said. "Or Pastor Rothenmaler. Or any other Lutheran pastor. Griep. Or Holz. Or anyone at Jena, I am going to be so totally screwed. My career plans will be totally derailed."

Minnie Hugelmair patted his shoulder. "Then just be glad that Jonas and Ronella got married and moved away before we finagled it, as Benny would say. That's a big consolation. He'd have been a lot more likely to catch on than any of the rest of the grown-ups outside of Carly's family. Except for Denise's dad, but Buster never would have finked. Hans-Fritz doesn't really count. He's family, sort of. Even if he wasn't, he'd keep his mouth shut because of Mariah. He didn't even tell his brother Dietrich."

* * *

Gerry watched Zane Baumgardner roll a cigarette. With a worried expression.

"Yeah, kid," Zane said. "I know that they're saving up-time newspapers like they were worth their weight in gold. But, I figured, who was going to miss the classified ads? So I kept enough out from the old ones Cheryl Ann left behind when she moved out that I can keep on rolling my own until some bright guy in Badenburg reinvents cigarette papers. They've done okay on toilet paper, after all."

"Ah, okay."

"I keep thinking," Hans-Fritz Zuehlke said, "that being a promised Messiah could be hard on the child."

"That won't happen for a long time," Gerry said. "Jesus Christ did not start his earthly ministry until he was thirty years old."

"But—isn't the countess going to have awfully high expectations while he's growing up?" Hans-Fritz protested. "It's hard enough for a child to live up to the expectations of an earthly parent. Dietrich and I sort of felt that way about Lucas, and he was just our stepfather and no saint, either. Or look at how Anthony feels."

Zane shook his head. "She'll spoil him sure. But look on the bright side. Maybe the countess will die before he's old enough for it to bother him. She's no spring chicken and she was awfully sick a year or so ago—everybody pretty much thought she was going to die right then and there. Hell, given how many kids die young in this day and age, maybe the boy will die before he's old enough for it to bother him."

He raised his head and looked through a break in the hills to the still-shiny wall created by the Ring of Fire as it reflected the evening sunlight. "And who knows? Given everything that's gone on the last few years. The stuff these people talk about." He looked back at Gerry. "Can you give me an absolute one-hundred-percent guarantee that Carly's kid isn't the second coming of the Messiah?"

* * *

On His Majesty's Secret Service

Written by Kerryn Offord

There were three gliders in the sky. Each was being towed by a Ziermann Flugzeugwerke Mayfly four-engine heavy transport aircraft. The lead glider was crammed full of soldiers sitting with their backs to the fuselage. At the front, right beside the door to the cockpit sat Commander Erik Zeetrell. His long curly blond hair framed his unpainted face. He made one final check on his pistol and holstered it before he turned to look down the length of the glider. In his eyes you could see his determination to complete his mission no matter what.

"Crash positions."

The shout from the cockpit broke the silence. Erik looped his right arm through a restraint attached to the bulkhead separating him from the cockpit and linked his left arm with the right arm of the soldier beside him and locked his hands together. Then he lifted his feet a few inches off the floor. A quick glance showed that all the soldiers had linked their arms with the men either side of them and lifted their feet as well..

The glider hit the ground with an enormous thump and there was loud screeching from the landing skids as they protested sliding on the rough ground. Erik felt as if he was being squeezed to death when the men seated on the bench seat beside him were thrown against him, and then his arms were almost jerked out of their sockets when the glider spun ninety degrees before finally coming to a halt.

Erik was one of the last men out. He paused briefly at the starboard-side door and looked out. Barely fifty feet away he could see the main tower of the fortress' keep. With his SMG held ready he jumped to the ground and hurried after the soldiers of the Stralsund Regiment's "Black Company" making for the main entry to the keep.

A man in front of him fell to the ground and lay motionless. Erik paused long enough to check that he was dead before he hurried over to the dubious cover of the keep's wall. The sappers blew in the portcullis and men charged through the opening and along the narrow passage to the inner courtyard.

In the inner courtyard Erik took cover while men of the Black Company sprayed a window with gunfire until a man fell through the window to land at their feet.

Erik turned to look at the massive tower they'd just passed under. He gestured to the men beside him and they lifted him onto the narrow timber walkway that led to the only door into the tower. He tried the door but it was locked. A sapper below him threw up a prepared explosive and Erik pressed it against the door before lighting the fuse and standing clear.

KA-BOOM!

Erik didn't wait for the smoke to settle. He was through the shattered door in a flash, his SMG ready to deal death to anybody who got in his way.

He'd barely started up the first flight of stairs before two guards appeared on a landing above him and raised their rifles to their shoulders. Erik fired from the hip, cutting them down. He didn't spare them a glance as he continued running.

He didn't slow down until he was confronted by a heavy door on the top level. With his back against the stone wall he reached out with his left hand and opened the door.

Gunshots from inside the room peppered the door. At the first pause in the gunfire, Erik threw in a concussion grenade and ducked back behind the wall.

Ka-Boom!

The blast slammed the door against the frame and Erik had to kick it open before entering the room. He was confronted by two men stumbling around with their hands over their ears. He cut them down with a burst from his SMG before heading for the door at the end of the room.

He kicked the door open to reveal Lord Vadmel and the princess.

Lord Vadmel pulled the princess close to him. "We meet at last, Commander Zeetrell. Drop your gun or the princess dies." He let Erik see the small pistol held against the princess' head.

Erik dropped his SMG.

"Very good, Commander. Now kick it toward me.'

Erik did as he said.

Lord Vadmel threw the princess across the room and reached for the SMG. He started to bring it to bear on Erik, but Erik was already moving. He drew his pistol as he threw himself to one side and fired once before he hit the floor.

Erik rolled quickly to his feet. He kept his pistol aimed at Lord Vadmel as he approached the body. A nudge of his foot rolled the villain over. He'd been shot right through the middle of his forehead.

Satisfied, Erik turned to the object of this rescue mission. The princess was slumped against the wall where she'd been thrown. Erik gently picked her up and carried her out of the room.

* * *

The fortress was a hive of activity with sailors and black clad soldiers leading prisoners away and medics tended to the wounded. In the waters below the fortress a warship lay at anchor with numerous motorized landing boats ferrying men and equipment to and from the shore. Erik felt a soft hand on his shoulder. He turned and stared down at the princess while she put her arms around his neck. Erik dipped his mouth toward hers . . .

Magdeburg, Late November 1635

Colonel Axel Gustafsson Lillie felt a soft hand squeeze his and knew his wife was pleased. He'd invested heavily in "On His Majesty's Secret Service" and he was nervous about how the movie would be received.

The lights started to come on and the audience finally started to react. There was loud applause when the actors and production staff mounted the stage, which turned into a deafening roar when the actors who played Erik Zeetrell and the princess stepped onto the stage.

Axel brought Christina's hand to his mouth and gently kissed her fingers. "Shall we join them?"

Christina shook her head. "Let them enjoy the fruits of their labor while we escape."

Axel was agreeable. He didn't need the exposure, and standing around for hours on his artificial leg didn't appeal. Besides, Christina was pregnant with their third child and she shouldn't stand around too long herself. He held up a hand so his bodyguard, Sergeant Jon Joakimsson, could help him to his feet before both of them helped Christina out of her chair and they made their way out of the opera house. Axel and Christina walked arm in arm, with Sergeant Jon Joakimsson, of the village of Rambo in Gothenland, Sweden, walking a couple of steps behind.

Christina called over her shoulder. "You looked good in your scenes, Jon."

Jon smiled. "Thank you, my lady.'

"But why did they call you Sergeant Rambo in the movie?"

Axel could see that Jon wasn't going to explain, so he did. "It's an up-timer thing. The movie's producer was checking the regiment's roll for possible extras and he came across Jon's name. He's recorded as Sergeant Jon Joakimsson Rambo and the producer felt it was a great joke having John J Rambo in the movie."

"But what's so funny about Jon's name?" Christina asked.

"No need to take offence on my behalf, my lady. Sergeant John J. Rambo is another up-time movie hero, rather like James Bond."

"But without the class," Axel muttered loud enough for Jon and Christina to hear.

She jabbed him with an elbow and he gathered her closer, not entirely in self-defense. They walked the rest of the short distance to the Magdeburg Towers apartment block in friendly silence.

"How much of what we saw is make-believe?" Christina asked while they waited for the elevator.

"Most of it," Jon muttered.

"Ignore Jon. He's still deeply offended by some of the things the movie people insisted on doing for dramatic effect."

"Oh? Like what?" Christina asked.

"Commander Zeetrell going in without a helmet or face camouflage . . ." Jon said.

"Jabe McDougal explained that. The audience needs to be able to easily identify the hero at all times," Axel said.

" . . . the explosions were nothing like the real thing. Men don't fall out of high windows like that, and as for the scene where Commander Zeetrell shoots the villain . . ." Jon left his words hanging.

"Artistic license," Axel said.

Jon snorted. "That's not what you said when Gino Bianchi first described what he wanted to do."

"What was wrong with that scene?" Christina asked. "I thought it was so romantic the way the hero dropped his rifle when the villain threatened the princess."

Axel exchanged a knowing look with Jon and both men shook their heads. "It was romantic rubbish."

Christina sniffed. "Well, what would you have done? Let the man kill the princess?"

"The princess is only any good as a hostage while she lives," Axel said.

"So if someone held a gun to my head and told you to put down your gun . . ."

"I'd kill the . . ." Axel throttled back on his language. Just the thought of that scenario scared him.

"But he has a gun against my head."

Axel reached out and hugged his wife. "Unless he can easily escape, at some point the villain will realize he has to either shoot me or surrender."

"Shoot you! That's horrible. And then he'd get away, wouldn't he?"

Axel nodded. "That's why you don't surrender your weapon to a hostage taker."

"So what would you do?" Christina asked.

"Wait him out," Axel said.

"And any female in that position would probably faint anyway," Jon said.

Christina glared at Jon. "I wouldn't faint."

"Maybe you could fake it, love, because it leaves the villain vulnerable," Axel explained.

"Why?" Christina asked. Then she smiled. "Oh! The villain would have to catch me."

"Or let you fall. Either way, as soon as he stops holding a gun to your head, he's dead."

"Well, I don't expect I'll ever find my self in that kind of situation," Christina said.

Doberan, Mecklenburg

Klaus von Bülow, of the now almost extinct Doberan branch of the mighty von Bülows, stood on the low rise and looked out to sea. He'd often shared the view with first his children and more recently, his granddaughter, but no more.

He turned to stare at the grave markers one last time. There was his wife's. Beside her lay his eldest son and daughter-in-law. Then there were the graves of his grandchildren. Joachim Vollrad, the baby and heir, and three year old Anna Sophie.

Klaus heard someone walk up beside him. "Is it done?" he asked without turning.

"Please reconsider, Your Excellency," Georg Mevius pleaded. "Not everyone in the village was responsible. Show some mercy for the innocent."

Klaus turned and glared at his man of business. "Mercy? Like they showed Anna Sophie? You saw what they did to her body? What kind of animals would do that to a sweet innocent three year old? What of Rutgers, has he returned?"

Georg nodded. "He's back aboard the Anna Sophie."

Klaus pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. There were three hours to go before sunset. "Then let us depart this blighted place."

Back on his private yacht Klaus walked over to the man slowly shedding his peasant costume. "All is in place?"

Johannes Rutgers cleaned the mud off his face before nodding. "And I bring news of Christoph Brockmann. He and some of his men will be in Magdeburg for the fourth anniversary celebrations of the forming of the Committees of Correspondence."

Klaus snarled and spat over the side at the mention of the man he held responsible for the death of his family and the destruction of his estate. "Your information is good?"

"The village CoC representative spoke openly of the event and how Christoph will be there with his CoC fighters," Johannes said.

"When are these celebrations?"

"The second week in October."

"After we have dealt with the murderers of Doberan, we will head for Magdeburg to deal with Christoph Brockmann and his men. For now I wish to rest. See that I am woken before midnight."

* * *

"Who is Christoph Brockmann?" Georg asked.

"The man Herr von Bülow holds responsible for all that has befallen him, especially his granddaughter's death. Without Christoph and his CoC fighters we could have held the peasants off long enough to safely evacuate everybody. Instead . . ." Johannes gestured toward the burnt-out house and estate buildings.

Midnight

Klaus stood on the deck of the Anna Sophie staring at the distant land where the village of Doberan slept. He held up his pocket-watch and tried to read the time in the poor light. "Rutgers, it is past midnight and nothing has happened."

Johannes Rutgers rushed over to his employer. "The man is reliable, My Lord. Maybe the timer is slow."

"If the charge doesn't go off I'll have him dragged behind the . . ."

Suddenly the night sky was lit up. Seconds later there was an almighty KAA-BOOM! Klaus smiled and patted the gunwale of the Anna Sophie. He mumbled, almost to himself, "Rest easier now, little one. The people who hurt you have started to pay."

"What caused so big an explosion?" Georg asked.

"We placed a wagon loaded with gunpowder behind the millhouse," Johannes answered.

Magdeburg, the first week of October

Jon Joakimsson woke when he felt the prostitute he'd hired for the evening move. He watched her disappear through a door without touching his processions. Well, he thought, he had been told the establishment was "safe." Less than a minute after the prostitute's departure a servant entered with a steaming jug and a lit lamp. She stood watching Jon until he showed signs of getting out of bed. Jon had no difficulty understanding her silent message. His time was up. Please wash and dress and leave so they could prepare the room for the next client. Jon rolled out of the warm bed and headed for the jug of hot water on the dresser for a quick wash before dressing.

He pulled on the dark blue, almost black, combat trousers, shirt, and combat jacket that had been a perk of appearing in the movie before pulling on his new boots. They hadn't been provided as a perk, but the money he'd earned had paid for them. They were handmade Calagna and Bauer combat boots with the new rubber soles, and they'd cost a small fortune, but Jon felt they were worth every thaler.

He stood in front of the mirror and patted his pockets. All he felt was a key and a piece of paper. For a moment he panicked, but then he remembered that the brothel had insisted that all weapons and money should be lodged in a safe-keeping box and left at reception. He fully accepted the reasoning about the weapons, but he hadn't been happy about leaving his purse. If the establishment hadn't come highly recommended he'd have left then and there. He pulled on a woolen hat and put on his overcoat before leaving the room.

Downstairs a woman was manning reception. She put a heavy box on the counter and waited for Jon to open the lock with the key he'd been given. "Could I see your receipt, please."

Jon handed over the receipt he'd received when he emptied his pockets of weapons and valuables and while the receptionist ticked off the items he pulled out his knives and put them into the sheaves on his belt. Then he picked up the pistol. He checked it was empty and checked the two magazines that he'd put in the box. Happy that they were as they should be he inserted one magazine and cocked the action. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and concentrated on the receptionist. She had a hand under the counter. He looked from her face to the pistol in his hand. He smiled as he slid the pistol into its holster. "What are you pointing at me?" he asked conversationally.

"Short-barrel scatter gun loaded with two ounces of birdshot," she answered in the same tone.

"Messy?" Jon asked.

"Messy enough." She gestured with her head toward the wall behind him.

Jon walked over to the wall and felt the pockmarked surface of the wood. "You have to replace this often?" he asked, pointing to the wall.

"Not lately. Word gets around. It's been six months since we last had any trouble. Now, if you'd like to check the contents of your purse and sign that it matches what you had?"

Jon counted his money and signed off on the receipt.

"Thank you. I hope you had a pleasant evening."

"Very pleasant, thank you." Jon gave the woman a casual salute and walked toward the door. He paused before leaving to button up his coat and tighten the belt, and to close his eyes to give them a chance to adapt to the night waiting outside.

Outside the alleyway was poorly illuminated. The only real sources of light were the red shaded gaslights above the doors of the more reputable brothels, as this late at night, or more correctly, this early in the morning, most of the street lighting was shut down. Convinced that at any moment someone was going to leap out of the shadows (this was the big bad city after all) Jon worked his way from shadow to shadow toward Magdeburg Towers.

Ten minutes into his journey a door opened just ahead of him and in the flash of light Jon thought he recognized someone. The face was definitely familiar, and with unpleasant connections, but he couldn't place it. He waited until the man was a good distance down the street before approaching the address he'd been visiting. He committed the street number to memory and then set out in pursuit of the man he thought he recognized.

At the first intersection he took time to note the street's name. Five minutes later the man he was following disappeared into a boarding house. Jon stared at the closed door for a while, but he still couldn't place the face. With the man's name still escaping him, Jon scanned the skyline for the silhouettes of Magdeburg Towers and the soon-to-be completed Karickhoff's Hotel. They were easily the tallest structures in the Neustadt and he found them easily. With the buildings to guide him, he slowly made his way home.

Second Week in October

Christoph Brockmann walked into the Magdeburg Freedom Arches with his arm linked through his wife's. He was met by a harried looking employee of the restaurant. "Christoph Brockmann, Brockmann party," he informed the young man.

"Your guests are waiting for you, Herr Brockmann. If you and your good wife would like to follow me." The man set off up a flight of stairs.

Christoph glanced down at his wife and they exchanged smiles. This wasn't the normal level of service one expected at the Freedom Arches, but tonight was likely to be very busy. They hurried to catch up.

They were guided into a sitting room where several of their guests were waiting. "Sorry we're late, but the babysitter delayed us," Christoph apologized to his second in command, who had taken over the duties of host in his absence.

"At least you're here at last and we can start eating," Daniel Hardenack said.

Five minutes later Christoph and his guests were seated around the table with waiting staff putting out food. He waited until they left before starting the round of toasts. Eventually the round reached his wife.

"To the good ladies of the first Committee of Correspondence," Anna proposed.

Christoph blinked. He glanced at his wife to check that she was seriously proposing a toast to a pack of prostitutes. Her clear eyes twinkled at him. Yes, they said, she was serious. He shrugged and raised his glass. "To the good ladies of the first Committee of . . ."

KAAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!

* * *

Across town, in the penthouse of Magdeburg Towers, the windows rattled from the blast and Axel Lillie spilled part of his drink. While he mopped up the spill, he looked across the table to his host.

Ron Chapman shook his head. "That wasn't normal." He put down his knife and fork, pushed his chair back and stood. "I'm just going out on the deck to have a look."

"I'll join you."

Ron picked up a pair of binoculars before they walked out onto the penthouse patio. From that vantage point, seven stories above the ground, Axel had a clear view south over the Altstadt of Magdeburg. The probable site of the explosion was easy to see with flames billowing into the sky.

"It looks like the fire is near the Freedom Arches," Ron reported.

Axel squinted while he tried to focus on the distant scene. He felt something being pushed at his hand. Ron's young wife had brought out a second pair of binoculars. He thanked her and raised them to his eyes. Immediately the scene leapt closer. "Where is the Freedom Arches?'

"It should be three in from the corner, but . . ." Ron lapsed into silence.

Axel stared at the horror before him. Most of the commercial block appeared to be burning. Even buildings across the road from the Freedom Arches were on fire. "What could have caused the explosion?"

"It could be a gas explosion," Ron suggested.

"Is there anything we can do?" Axel asked.

"No," Ron said.

Axel lowered his binoculars. Ron had his arms wrapped around his wife, Christine. Axel became aware of an arm around his waist and he reached out to hold his Christina. Together they stood watching the flames, their dinner forgotten.

* * *

Jon Joakimsson stepped out the door of the specialty restaurant "The American Kitchen" still licking his lips. He turned to speak to his dining companion, Nils Persson, an old army buddy.

KAAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOM!

Jon felt rather than heard the blast, it was so powerful. A quick glance around showed a red glow in the night sky. He and Nils stared at each other for a moment before running off in the direction of all the commotion.

Jon almost lost the very good dinner he'd just finished when he first saw the scene of the blast. Where once there had been buildings there was now just rubble being consumed by fire. Jon sniffed the air. "What caused the explosion?" he asked.

Nils Persson shrugged. "No idea. It could be the gas, or maybe something ignited the flour in the restaurant."

Jon sniffed again. He shook his head. "I don't think it was flour. It doesn't smell right."

"Then it must have been the gas. Come on, there are people here who need our help."

Next day

Axel stared at the photographs of the burnt-out remains of the block of the city and the aerial photos taken before and after the fire. He read the column beside it and could only nod in agreement at its conclusions. He glanced over to Jon and Ron, who were looking at their own papers. "This paper says that an unnamed up-time expert who has analyzed their photos believes that there is clear evidence of a massive explosion centered in the cellar near the rear of the Freedom Arches, and that the location of the center of the blast is inconsistent with a gas explosion. When pressed for further information, the up-timer declined to answer."

"That'll probably be Carl they're talking about. I wonder what he's not saying," Ron said.

"Who's Carl?" Axel asked.

"Carl Schockley. He's with Kelly Construction, and back up-time he had something to do with explosives in the army. If he says it wasn't a gas explosion then I believe him."

"Bornholm! That's it," Jon suddenly shouted.

"What's it?" Axel asked.

"The other night I saw a familiar face, but I couldn't place it until Herr Chapman mentioned explosives. Now I can . . . but what is Mad Mads doing in Magdeburg?"

"Who?" Ron asked.

"Mads Bendtsen, sometimes known as 'The Mad Bomber,'" Axel answered. "We ran into some of his handiwork in Bornholm last year." He turned to Jon. "Do you think he might have something to do with the destruction of the Freedom Arches?"

"He knows enough to do it, but who hates the Freedom Arches enough to pay him to destroy the restaurant?" Jon asked.

The men stared at each other. None of them had an answer to that question.

"The only way to find out what Mads is doing in Magdeburg is to ask him." Axel glanced over to Jon. "Do you know where he lives?"

Jon nodded. "I followed him to a boarding house while I was wondering who he was."

"Hey, guys. This is really a problem for the authorities. Why don't we wander over to the Rathus and talk to Otto Gericke?" Ron asked.

"You're on first name terms with the Bürgermeister?" Axel asked.

"What can I say? Rebuilding Magdeburg needs a lot of cement, and we make a lot of cement at Magdeburg Concrete. Otto's also in charge of rebuilding the city and he's been one of our best customers."

"That's nice to know," Axel said, "but we know Mads. He's more likely to provide answers if we ask, isn't that right, Jon?"

Jon flexed his fingers. "Yes."

"Just a minute Axel. They don't approve of using torture to gain information in Magdeburg anymore," Ron said.

"Don't worry. Jon won't leave a mark."

"Well, be careful. This guy might be dangerous."

"He's quite harmless, Ron," Axel said.

"I'd hardly call someone who might just have killed a couple of hundred people harmless."

Axel smiled. "Your Christine could probably beat him in a fight."

* * *

Jon squinted through the keyhole of the door into Mads' room. Across the room he could see Mads concentrating on something laid out on the bed.

"Well?"

Jon scowled at Axel for the interruption. "He's sitting on the bed doing something, and he's left the key in the lock."

"Can you open the door without alerting him?"

Jon reached under his coat for his tools and got to work. There was a slight noise when the key dropped onto the piece of parchment he'd slid under the door, but Mads didn't seem to notice. Jon smiled. He'd been counting on all the explosions Mads loved so much damaging his hearing. It seemed that they had.

He pulled the parchment back and triumphantly held up the key. "Like taking candy from a baby."

Axel sighed audibly. "Just get on with it," he whispered.

Jon quietly unlocked the door and pushed it open. He and Axel were able to sneak in without Mads noticing. Jon shut the door quietly and walked over to Mads, his rubber soled boots barely making a sound. He reached out and laid his hand firmly on Mads' shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here."

Mads Bendtsen jerked violently under Jon's hand. He turned to see who was holding onto him. "Who the . . ."

"Hello, Mads," Axel said.

"How did you get into my room?" Mads demanded. "I must insist that you leave immediately."

Jon noticed something had floated onto the floor. Still gripping Mads' shoulder he bent down to pick it up."

"That's mine, give it to me," Mads cried out.

Jon held Mads at arm's length while he examined his find. It was a Johnnie, one of the USE twenty-dollar bills. The last time he'd come across Johnnies in the hands of dubious people—and people didn't get much more dubious than Mads—they'd turned out to be forgeries. He passed the bill to Axel who, after a brief moment of surprise, pulled out a jeweler's glass and examined it closely.

"I do hope you weren't intending using any of these, Mads," Axel said.

"Why not? They accept paper dollars here in Magdeburg, you know."

"True, but they don't usually accept forgeries."

Mads stared at Axel in disbelief. He snatched the Johnnie back and the jeweler's glass Axel held out to him. "How can you tell?" he demanded.

Axel pulled out his wallet and extracted a Johnnie. He pointed to the fine work around the portrait. "Compare this area. The fine detail on your bill isn't as clear."

Mads looked at the bill in Axel's hand, then the one in his hand, his face paled and he dropped that bill to one side and turned to the bills he had spread out on his bed. He hastily grabbed one and looked at it under the glass. After a quick examination he tossed it to one side and picked up another.

Jon watched the panic develop as Mads worked through the bills on his bed. "Where did you get those bills, Mads?"

"He paid me with worthless paper. What am I going to do? They'll kill me if I can't pay them." Mads slid onto the floor and buried his head in his hands.

Jon didn't have to ask who Mads was talking about. He already knew. Nils had recognized the address he'd seen Mads leaving. It was one of the worst gaming hells in Magdeburg. He picked Mads up and placed him gently on the bed and placed a chair so Axel could sit facing him.

Axel smiled sympathetically at Mads. "Maybe we can work a deal. How much do you owe?"

"Twenty thousand dollars!" Mads sounded desperate.

"Two hundred thaler? We can afford that, can't we Jon?"

Jon sent Axel a pretend glare before returning to stare straight into Mads' eyes. "Why send good money after bad? I'm sure I can persuade him to talk." He struggled to hold back a smile when Mads tried to disappear into the wall behind him.

"Now that's not nice, Jon. Mads here is only too willing to tell us who paid him and what he was paid to do . . . aren't you? It's not like you owe your paymaster any loyalty."

Mads nodded, and then it all burst out. "Klaus von Bülow. He paid me to build a bomb to blow up the village near his home in Doberan."

"Nice try, Mads, but that doesn't explain what you're doing in Magdeburg," Jon said.

"I wanted a change of scene and . . ."

"You're lying." Jon grabbed Mads' jacket and shook him vigorously. "You blew up the Freedom Arches."

"No, I didn't," Mads wailed.

"You're lying, Mads. The Freedom Arches bombing has your mark all over it." Jon paused to glance at Axel for permission to continue. "Right now, me and the colonel are your only friends. Just think of what might happen if the CoC heard that you were responsible."

Mads' face turned pasty white. "They'd . . ."

"Me and the colonel, we can get you safely out of Magdeburg . . ."

" . . . but only if you're honest with us," Axel finished Jon's sentence. "Now, tell me, who paid you to bomb the Freedom Arches?"

"Klaus von Bülow, from Doberan, in Mecklenburg."

"And he paid you with the forged bank bills on your bed?" Axel asked.

Mads nodded.

"Do know why Herr von Bülow wanted the Freedom Arches destroyed?" Axel asked.

Mads shook his head. "He didn't say."

"And of course, you didn't ask," Jon said sarcastically.

"Easy, Jon. Now, Mads, Jon and I know about you, but how did Herr von Bülow discover your talents?"

Mads looked up at Axel. "The Lensmand. Herr von Bülow came to Bornholm and the Lensmand told me to work for him."

"Lord Holger Rosenkrantz of Glimminge, Lensmand of Hammershus Len?" Axel asked.

Mads nodded. "He made me do it."

This was an interesting development, Jon thought. They'd first run into Lord Holger Rosenkrantz when the regiment was part of a force tasked with invading the island of Bornholm. The defense had been stouter than expected, given the low esteem with which the Lensmand was held, and the defenders had prevailed. Later he'd been their host when the Hammershus, one of the largest fortresses ever built in Europe, was used as the villain's stronghold in the movie "On His Majesty's Secret Service."

"You'd better pack your things and come with us, Mads. We'll work out where to send you later," Axel said.

Jon had been thinking. "Would Viktor be interested?" Jon asked.

"Who's Viktor?" Mads asked.

"He is an arms dealer. And yes, Jon, I'm sure he'd be interested in adding an explosives expert to his organization," Axel said.

"Viktor has a reputation for looking after his own, Mads. If you work for Viktor, people will leave you alone," Jon said.

"I'll be safe?" Mads asked.

"As long as you don't let Viktor down." Jon smiled. "And you really don't want to let Viktor down."

Mads sent Jon one last terrified look before he started to put together his possessions.

The Vulgar Unicorn, Stralsund, Mid October

Lieutenant Colonel Erik Wachtmeister entered the Vulgar Unicorn, approached the barman and passed him his calling card. "I'd like to speak to Viktor, if he's in."

The barman looked from Erik to his card and rang a bell. A young maid appeared. "See if Herr Viktor wishes to speak to this gentleman." He passed the card to the woman and she hurried up a staircase. She returned a few minutes later and gestured for Erik to follow.

Erik followed the maid to a private apartment above the regular rooms. Once inside the apartment he easily put names to the men and woman he found waiting for him. They were Viktor, no known patronym or surname, and his partner Boris, also with no known patronym or surname. The young woman was Tat'yana. A peculiar name for a woman with a French accent. She also had no known patronym or surname. She was also a full partner with Viktor and Boris. Erik knew that anything he said to one of them might as well be said to all of them, so he didn't bother suggesting that he only wanted to speak to Viktor.

Viktor lounged in a padded chair. "Take a seat, Colonel. You wanted to see me?"

Erik sat opposite Viktor. "Yes, as you know Colonel Lillie and his wife are in Magdeburg . . ."

"How did the premiere go?" Tat'yana asked.

Erik was momentarily distracted. He'd forgotten for a moment that Viktor and his people had contributed to the movie and might be interested in how it had been received. "They had a full house and the movie received a standing ovation," Erik answered. "But that's not why I'm here. You've heard about the destruction of the Magdeburg Freedom Arches?" As the story had been front page news it was a good bet that they had. "Well, the colonel has the man who built the bomb in protective custody."

"Why would your colonel want to protect the man? Throw him onto the mercy of the people of Magdeburg and be done with it," Viktor said.

Erik shook his head. "The bomb maker is small fry. The person we're really interested in is whoever paid him."

"If the CoC ever learn your bomber's name . . ." Boris said.

"Which is why Colonel Lillie hasn't told anybody who he is," Erik said. "Even I don't know his name."

"Why're you so interested in the man who ordered the bombing?" Tat'yana asked. "The destruction of the Magdeburg Freedom Arches has nothing to do with you."

"That's true, and the colonel would happily have left the Magdeburg authorities to deal with their own problem, except for one thing. The bomber was paid with forged Johnnies." Erik was pleased to see the reaction to that little bombshell. Viktor and his people had only recently helped break a forgery ring operating here in Stralsund.

"How much?" Tat'yana asked.

"A neat fifty thousand dollars worth. Colonel Lillie says it was payment for building two bombs," Erik said.

"Two? Where's the other one?" Viktor demanded.

"It's already been used, to destroy the village of Doberan."

"Doberan? Why does that sound familiar?" Viktor asked his partners.

Tat'yana supplied the answer. "Doberan's where we sold weapons to Klaus von Bülow back in June."

Erik's interest was piqued. That was interesting news. Not that Viktor had sold weapons to someone to use against the CoC fighters. That was neither here nor there, as far as Erik was concerned. No, what was interesting was who they'd done business with. He coughed gently to clear his throat, as he wasn't sure how Viktor would take the news he was about to get. "Actually, Viktor, the bomb maker has identified the man who paid him as Klaus von Bülow."

Boris stared at Erik. "I don't suppose there's more than one Klaus von Bülow?"

"There are probably dozens of them, but not based around Doberan," Erik replied.

"He paid us with Johnnies," Viktor said with a vicious edge to his voice.

"Yes, well, that's all in the past," Erik said hastily. One thing he didn't want was Viktor hell bent on revenge chasing down von Bülow. He might kill the man before they could discover who was behind the forgeries. "Right now Colonel Lillie wants to know if you have a safe place in your organization for his guest."

"This man blew up the Freedom Arches?" Viktor asked.

"He made the bomb," Erik corrected.

"Details," Viktor snorted and waved the correction off as a trifling detail. "And he is not wanted by the authorities?"

"The colonel has obtained approval for his actions to date. So, no, the bomber is not wanted by the authorities," Erik said.

Viktor smiled. "If the authorities aren't after him, I might be interested in your bomber. But what's in it for us?"

"The undying gratitude of the colonel," Erik suggested tongue in cheek.

"That and five dollars will buy you a cup of coffee," Tat'yana quipped.

Erik took a moment to work out what exactly she meant. "I'll have to remember that one next time someone tries to offer me anything that is fundamentally worthless."

"Feel free. Johann says the Americans use the phrase all the time. But you still haven't told us what's in it for us," Tat'yana said.

"The colonel says he could use his influence to get you an aircraft."

Viktor whistled. "For the promise of Colonel Lillie's help procuring an aircraft, I'm sure we can find a place for your man."

"Somehow, I thought you could."

Stralsund, late November

Colonel Axel Lillie sat at his desk massaging his stump while he stared at the papers littering his desk. It was covered with reported sightings of Klaus von Bülow. Where was the man? He couldn't have just disappeared.

There was a tap on the door and a very bedraggled Lieutenant Colonel Erik Wachtmeister stumbled in with what looked like a wrapped rifle in one hand and a small drawstring purse in the other. "We almost got him."

"You're sure it was von Bülow?"

Erik nodded. "He was purchasing supplies when we disturbed him. He was paying with forged Johnnies." Erik tossed the purse onto Axel's desk.

Axel pulled a bundle of bank bills from the bag and reached for his jeweler's glass. After a short examination, he nodded. "Unless there are two people spending forged Johnnies like water, you're right. How did he get away?"

"They outgunned us. He only had a handful of men, but they had breech loaders. I lost two good men trying to stop him escaping on his yacht."

"Did you call for air support to follow the yacht?" Axel asked.

"The USE Air Force had nothing available," Erik answered.

Axel silently cursed the lack of a Swedish air force as he walked over to the map on the opposite wall. He selected a red pin from the edge of the map board and marked the small market near Reinberg where Erik had spotted Klaus. He stepped back and looked at the map. "There's no pattern to any of the confirmed sightings," he said.

"They're all near the coast."

"But there's a lot of coast. Where's he hiding?" Axel stared at the map for a while before returning to his desk. "Breech loaders, you say?"

"Yes, Colonel." Erik unwrapped the rifle he'd been carrying and passed it to Axel.

"A Cardinal?" Axel murmured before examining it closely. "No, it's got a Suhl proof mark. That makes it a Sharps clone. Now where would von Bülow get Sharps clones?" A memory slowly surfaced.

Erik beat him to it. "Viktor! Remember he said he sold von Bülow some weapons. It stands to reason he's probably the source of the Sharps."

Axel nodded. "Well, I'm not going to risk my men chasing a pack of outlaws who outgun them. Send a messenger to Viktor. Tell him we want to see some of his special stock."

Erik straightened. "Immediately, Colonel."

* * *

Axel was still quietly fuming at his second in command and Sergeant Jon Joakimsson as they walked to where Viktor and his team were arranging weapons on a bench. "There was no need for you to dress up as if you were refugees from a movie set."

Erik Wachtmeister brushed a hand down the black uniform he was wearing. "We thought it would be fitting, Colonel."

"Fitting? How can dressing like extras in a movie be fitting?" Axel demanded.

"Surely if we are buying special weapons then the men entrusted with them should have a special identity?"

"And you think dressing up like the 'Black Company' is special?"

Erik nodded. "Of course. Besides, we already have the uniforms. Think of the savings, and if we're buying some of Viktor's special stock we'll have to watch every thaler. I wonder what he has to show us."

Axel abandoned the argument and stalked off to greet Viktor.

"You intend forming your own Black Company?" Viktor asked. "That is most fitting."

Axel shook his head. "I have no intention of starting my own 'Black Company,' Viktor. What you see is just Lieutenant Colonel Wachtmeister and Sergeant Jon Joakimsson playing silly games.

"Of course you don't." Viktor grinned and waved Axel toward the range safety area. "If you and your companions will collect a pair of ear defenders from Tat'yana, Johann will lead the demonstration of what we have for you today."

Axel recognized Johann Hering as the NCO he'd unfortunately been forced to dismiss for political reasons earlier in the year. It was nice to know the man was serving Viktor well.

Johann gestured for everyone to gather around. "First things first." He picked up a forest green camouflaged flak jacket from the table and started to put it on. "Protection," he announced. "If you're going against von Bülow, you're going against serious firepower, and you're going to need body armor." Johann put on a pair of plastic eye protectors and his ear defenders and moved to stand beside the target. Boris picked up the revolver Johann had left on the bench and fired three shots at him.

Axel slowly uncovered his ears. He wasn't sure he believed what he was seeing. All three shots had hit within inches of Johann's heart, but he continued to stand. "That was amazing."

Johann removed the flak jacket and passed it to Axel. "It'll need the front panel and trauma plate replaced, but the central region on the back and front where the trauma plates are will protect you from anything short of a direct hit from an up-time rifle, while the layered silk alone will stop most up-time pistol cartridges."

Axel examined the damage to the flak jacket before passing it to Erik. "Very impressive. What else do you have?"

Johann led Axel along the bench. "SMG's just like you used in the movie, except these fire real bullets; the new H&K 'Marine' eight-shot revolver; and for longer range action we have Sharps clones with telescopic sights that can pick off a man at six hundred paces." Johann picked up the last weapon on the bench. "And last but not least, we also have cap-lock conversion kits for the standard service rifled muskets as well, if you're interested."

"Oh, I'm interested all right. I'm interested in everything you have, so let's put them through their paces so I can see if they're worth what they're all going to cost me," Axel said.

January, Stockholm

Axel stood watching the courier ship being loaded for the trip back to Stralsund. His arm drifted around his wife. "This is your last chance to change your mind."

Christina Ottosdotter Morner patted her bulge. "I'm leaving with you. I have no intention of wintering over in Stockholm while you're nice and comfortable in Stralsund."

Axel bit down on his lip. He wanted to get back to Stralsund as well. In his last communication Erik Wachtmeister had indicated that he had tracked Klaus von Bülow to a von Bülow estate near the fishing village of Klausdorf and was proposing to raid it. By now that raid would have been carried out.

"Did the army say if you were going to keep command of the Stralsund regiment?" Christina asked.

"Not yet. They just wanted a complete report on what we've been doing lately," Axel said.

"Well they should let you keep the regiment. You've worked so hard to train the men."

"The army doesn't work like that, Christina."

"Well it should."

Axel grinned at his wife. "Come on, I can see Jon waiting for us on deck."

"He looks good in black. It was a good idea of yours to dress your bodyguard that way."

Axel snorted. "That wasn't my idea."

* * *

Axel was concerned for Christina. The seas were rough and she'd had been badly hit by sea sickness. Both the nursemaid hired to care for the children and the EMT-trained member of his bodyguard team were concerned for her health. He made his way on deck and headed for the captain of the ship. "What's our nearest landfall?"

The captain stared into the distance and pointed. "That's Bornholm about ten miles distant. There's a sheltered bay where we can ride out this squall."

"Sandvig?" Axel asked.

The captain stared at Axel with some surprise. "You know the area?"

"I've been there before," Axel said, thinking of the farcical invasion of the island the previous year.

"You were there with the Black Company," the captain said. "I thought I recognized the black uniforms and those newfangled rifles."

Axel decided not to contradict the captain and tell him there was no such thing as the Black Company. Resigned to the false perceptions of the public, he just nodded.

Hammershus, Bornholm

Klaus von Bülow listened to the soldier's report with horror. "A detachment of the Black Company has landed at Sandvig? How did they trace me here?"

Lensmand of Hammershus Len, Lord Holger Rosenkrantz of Glimminge, laid a hand on Klaus' shoulder. "Easy, Klaus, I told you, the Black Company is just a figment of some scriptwriter's imagination."

Klaus shrugged off Holger's hand. "The men who almost trapped me at Klausdorf were not imaginary. I lost three men to those black-clad fiends."

"Coincidence," Holger said. "The Swedish regiment in Stralsund supplied the extras for the movie that was shot here. No doubt some of them have nothing better to wear than the uniforms they were given after the completion of filming."

"And the Black Company soldiers landing at Sandvig?" Klaus asked.

"The commander of the regiment was returning from Stockholm with his family and they have landed to get medical attention for his sick wife." Holger repeated what the soldier had reported.

Klaus swallowed. He very much wanted to believe Holger, but Klausdorf had been too close. He needed to get away from the cursed men in black. He left Holger to look for the leader of his bodyguards.

"Johannes, we need to move again. The Black Company has landed in Sandvig."

"I heard," Johannes Rutgerssaid. "It will take time to ready the Anna Sophie."

"Then we must create time. The commander of the Black Company has his wife with him. You will grab her for use as a hostage. As long as we hold her, Commander Zeetrell won't attack."

Klaus couldn't understand the look on Johannes face. Not that it mattered. He was an employee and would do as he was told. "Well, don't just stand there. Go and get the woman."

Klaus watched Johannes and four men ride out of the inner courtyard. Happy that all was in hand he retired to his chamber to supervise the packing of his things.

* * *

The first Axel knew that anything was wrong was the sound of screams and the pounding of hooves.

"The mistress, they took the mistress," the nursemaid screamed.

Axel shook the young woman. "Who? Who took Christina?"

"Five men. They took the mistress and carried her off," the near hysterical nursemaid wailed.

"What's happening?" Mogens Lauridsen asked as he arrived with Sergeant Jon Joakimsson close behind.

"Five horsemen have carried off Christina," Axel told him.

"I saw some horsemen heading for the Hammershus. I bet it was them," Mogens said.

"Why would Lord Holger take Christina?" Axel demanded.

"He might not know anything about it. Those men looked like some of his guest's retainers," Mogens said.

"Who is the guest?" Jon Joakimsson asked.

Mogens turned to Jon. "You wouldn't know him. He's some refugee noble from Mecklenburg."

Axel was rapidly connecting the dots. Hadn't Mads Bendtsen said Lord Holger had recommended him to von Bülow? "Is it Klaus von Bülow?"

"Oh, you do know him," Mogens said. "He's got seven retainers under the command of an ex-mercenary named Johannes Rutgers with him."

"Do you have horses for me and my men?" Axel asked.

"No horses, but I can round up enough ponies to carry you. Are you thinking of pursuing them?"

"Of course I am. Will the garrison at the Hammershus try to stop us?"

Mogens shook his head. "Not if I come with you. I have a brother who is a sergeant in the guard and my son Anders should be on gate duty. And besides, none of the garrison like the Lensmand's guests."

"Right, you round up the ponies while we get ready. Sergeant, order the men to arm themselves."

Axel didn't wait for Mogens to run off before he was opening his campaign chest and pulling out weapons. He was dropping a handful of loaded half-moon clips into a belt pocket when Jon tossed him a flak jacket.

"Better put that on, Colonel. Your lady wife would never forgive me if anything happened to you."

Someone had neatly sewn a black cover over the forest green flak jacket. Axel looked up to see Jon's jacket had been subject to the same treatment. With the black flak jacket over his black uniform he looked exactly like he had in the movie. Axel shook his head. Now wasn't the time to do or say anything. When Christina was safe would be soon enough to give Jon the tongue lashing he deserved. He checked the flak jacket was on firmly and holstered his revolver. "Right, let's get dangerous."

Mogens and seven black clad members of Axel's bodyguard struggled to keep up as Axel rode his pony the mile and a half to the Hammershus. They caught up when he slowed at the first gatehouse.

Mogens rode forward. "The colonel is here to rescue his lady wife from the scoundrels from Mecklenburg," he explained to the soldiers at the gate. "Let us pass."

"Right, Papa. And I'll signal the main gate to let you through." Anders Mogensen turned to the men manning the gate. "Let them pass."

* * *

True to his word Anders Mogensen had signaled ahead and they were let into first the outer courtyard and then the inner courtyard. Axel was riding up the slope toward the keep of the Hammershus when he heard a gunshot. He looked up, but there were no open windows or anything to suggest he or his men were the targets. He was met at the gate by members of the garrison.

"What's happening," the sergeant of the guard demanded.

"Von Bülow's men kidnapped the colonel's wife," Mogens said as he dismounted and handed his pony's reins to a soldier. "Well, don't just stand there, little brother. Show the colonel and his men in."

Sergeant Knud Lauridsen turned and led the way under the keep, past the unmanned murder holes and into the inner courtyard. He would have led the way into the tower, but three black-clad men pushed past him.

Axel followed his men into the first level and was met by the sight of men and women standing with their hands held high under the threat of his bodyguards' guns. "Who was shooting?" he demanded.

One man volunteered an answer. "Von Bülow has gone mad. He killed the Lensmand when Lord Holger tried to free the lady he had captured."

Axel looked across the room. Lars Andersson, the EMT medic of his bodyguard, was checking the body for signs of life. "Lars," he called.

Lars shook his head. "He died quickly, Colonel."

Axel turned back to the talkative civilian. "Where is von Bülow now?" Axel demanded.

"He's headed for the top of the tower. He claims there is a secret passage that will allow him to escape," Georg Mevius said.

Axel ordered three men to guard the entry to the tower, drew his revolver and started up the stairs. For a few seconds he led the way, but then the rest of his bodyguard surged past him with their SMGs held ready.

Two armed men appeared at the railings above only to be cut down by bursts from Axel's men. When he stepped over them Axel saw and recognized the Sharps clones they'd been carrying. That meant von Bülow was down two men.

Axel and his men slowed down as they climbed. There had only been five men involved in Christina's kidnapping, but that didn't mean von Bülow was down to three men. Axel cursed that he hadn't asked how many men had followed von Bülow up the stairs.

A shot rang out from a doorway and one of his men stumbled. Three SMG's erupted in fire and tore the door to shreds. A man with a rifle fell through the doorway and lay still. Axel paused to check his man who'd fallen, but Mats Olsson waved him on. The shot had missed the trauma plate, but had still failed to penetrate his flak jacket.

Axel left Lars Andersson treating Mats Olsson and followed his men up the next flight of stairs. He was a couple of steps behind them when shots rang out from rooms on the next landing. Sergeant Jon Joakimsson replied with controlled bursts from his SMG, but Olof Borjesson remained slumped on the stairway.

The doorway the enemy had been shooting from was the entry to an antechamber which was the only access to the last staircase that led to the chamber at the top of the tower. Jon charged toward the room, shooting single shots from the hip as he ran. Axel tried his best to keep up, but Jon was into the antechamber before him. Axel stopped at the door and looked in. Jon had tripped over a body by the door and was just getting to his knees when Axel saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung round. A man was behind a sofa and trying to aim a rifle at him. Axel fired two rapid shots into the sofa where the man's chest should be. The rifle slipped from his hands and the man fell out of sight.

Axel stepped into the room, his revolver held out in front of him in a double handed grip. There was a sound behind another sofa and Axel instinctively fired two shots at it. A cat tore out from behind the sofa and ran past Axel and out the door.

Axel lowered his revolver and he looked around the chamber. It was much the same as it'd been when they made the movie. He climbed the last flight of stairs with his back to the wall and his revolver held out in front of him, ready to fire, with Jon following him.

Axel let Jon kick open the door, but he was first in. He stopped in the doorway and took in the scene at a glance. There were two men and Christina. Klaus von Bülow held Christina and appeared stunned by his violent entry. The other man reacted faster. He almost had his pistol free of his belt when Axel shot him. He fired twice. One hit the man high in the chest and the other hit him in the abdomen as he fell.

Axel recocked his revolver and took aim at Klaus von Bülow. "The game's up, von Bülow. Drop your weapon and surrender."

Klaus laughed. "So we meet at last, Commander Zeetrell." He dug his pistol hard under Christina's jaw, making her wince in pain. "You have fired six times. Your revolver is empty."

"I have more men behind me. There's no escape, von Bülow."

"You are mistaken. There is a secret passage behind this wardrobe that will take me to safety."

Axel was worried. As long as von Bülow had that pistol at Christina's head he didn't dare do anything, but von Bülow was obviously unbalanced. There was no telling what the man might do. He spared a moment to glance at Christina. She was desperately trying to smile. Then she spread out her hand. First she showed five fingers. Then she curled one back, then another one. Axel wasn't sure what she planned, but he took aim at von Bülow and mentally matched her countdown.

On zero Christina closed her eyes and slumped. Von Bülow was caught off guard by the sudden deadweight. His pistol slipped from its place against Christina's head. Axel fired and immediately thumbed back the hammer for another shot, but he didn't need it. The gore splattered wardrobe was a clear sign that von Bülow was no longer a problem.

Axel ran to Christina. At first she looked unharmed, but a grimace of pain had him worried. "Are you all right?" He asked as he gathered her in his arms.

Christina ignored the question and looked at Klaus von Bülow's body. "That's something else from the movie that was unrealistic."

"What?"

"The movie. You know how you complained about unrealistic scenes. Well, the villain didn't lose half his skull when Commander Zeetrell shot him."

Axel relaxed. If she could make bad jokes she was okay. Suddenly Christina's body tensed and she winced in pain. She put her hands on her distended belly. "What's the matter," Axel demanded.

She smiled at him. "I think the baby's coming."

Axel felt faint for a moment. He swallowed and looked at the serene smile on her face. No, she couldn't be. Not here. Not now. Axel could feel the panic growing. He turned toward the door and screamed. "Medic!"

Epilogue

USE Department of the Treasury, Late January 1635

Balthasar von Brunne, the Deputy Secretary of the Treasury for the USE, looked up from the report he was reading and spoke to the up-timer seated opposite him. "Lord Holger Rosenkrantz, Lensmand of Hammershus Len, was responsible for the money franchise." He shook his head. "I can hardly believe it."

Phil Hart, the USE Treasury Department's special liaison officer to the Federal Reserve Bank of Grantville, put the photograph he'd been looking at back in the folder and placed it on Balthasar's desk. "All of the equipment for making the plates was found in rooms of the Hammershus."

"Yes, I realize the evidence is there, but have you considered the political ramifications of a senior Danish official running a forgery operation?" Balthasar sighed. "We have to try and keep his involvement quiet."

"General Lillie agrees, Balthasar. He thinks Lord Niels Gyldenstjerne will keep the actions of the late Lord Holger quiet if he is made the next Lensmand of Hammershus Len."

"I can make such a recommendation." Balthasar sighed again. "It's fortunate he was involved in the successful defense of Bornholm. That will make the appointment less contentious, but that still leaves General Lillie. We can't promote him again. Not when he's only just made general."

Phil pyramided his fingers. "You know, back up-time the old United States Treasury Department had a special service responsible for chasing forgers. Maybe you could recreate it and offer command of the service to General Lillie."

Balthasar shook his head. "The general is a true soldier. He insisted in continuing to serve even after losing a leg at Mainz. I can't see such a man being happy to chase forgers."

"Ah, but not only did the service chase forgers, they were also responsible for protecting heads of state." Phil smiled. "They called that branch of the Treasury the Secret Service."

Balthasar choked back a giggle. "General Axel Lillie of His Majesty's Secret Service?"

Phil smiled back. "And whenever he's on official business . . ."

Balthasar realized where Phil's questionable sense of humor was heading. " . . . he'd be 'On His Majesty's Secret Service.'"

Phil was the first to start laughing, then Balthasar joined in. Eventually they stopped laughing, and after several deep breaths to calm himself, Balthasar regretfully shook his head. "General Lillie would never go for it."

* * *

Interlude

Written by David Carrico

Magdeburg
Early December 1634

Johann Bach stepped into the room. He saw Lady Beth Haygood glance toward the door, notice him, and immediately begin moving in his direction even as she continued her conversation with a woman Johann did not know.

"Master Bach, so good of you to come." Frau Haygood held out her hand.

Johann knew enough not to bow over her hand; up-timers by and large were rather egalitarian, he had found. Instead, he simply gave her the warm handshake he would have given another master musician. "Thank you for inviting me," he replied. He looked around, then looked down at his plain coat. "I fear that I may be out of place."

"Nonsense." Lady Beth gave a lady-like snort, if there was such a thing. "You were invited, you came, therefore you are exactly in your place. Everyone knows the rules by now, but if anyone sneers at you, feel free to sneer right back at him—or her, as the case may be." The expression on her face could only be described as a grin, and a large one at that. Johann returned a smile to her grin, and nodded. "Now, find yourself a glass and join the throng. There must be someone here you know." She turned away with another grin.

The invitation to attend one of Frau Haygood's salons had been unexpected. Twice a month or so she would gather an eclectic mix of people from Magdeburg and its growing exurb for an evening of conversation, sometime collaboration, and occasional confrontation. The practice had actually been started by Mary Simpson early in 1634 in order to bring together people that she felt should know each other, and had been continued by Lady Beth after Mary had begun her travels. The attendees included some of the most influential, important, prominent, and accomplished people in the land, drawn from all manner of disciplines and offices.

Johann was aware that his being issued an invitation marked his arrival in the highest levels of Magdeburg society, and his approval by its guardians. It was flattering, and for all that he had dealt with influential patrons several times in his past, a bit daunting as well. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine, looked around once more, and stepped into the current.

"Would you care for wine, sir?"

Johann looked toward the voice and saw a youth dressed in a short white jacket and up-timer style long pants balancing a tray. He nodded. "What do you have?"

The youth pointed to various glasses as he spoke. "Black Muskat, Riesling, and Elbling."

Johann fingered his chin, read the name on the young man's pewter badge, and said, "What do you suggest, Barnabas?"

The young man looked around, turned slightly and leaned his head close to Johann's. "The Muskat is barely drinkable," he murmured, "and the Riesling and Elbling are not much better than okay." There was that American slang again, Johann thought. "The war, you know. But my friend Jacob is at the bar in the corner, and he has a couple of bottles of a good Hungarian Aszú under the bar. Tell him I sent you and he'll fix you up."

Barnabas straightened, and continued in a normal voice. "The bar also has coffee and purified water, sir." He pointed in the direction of the bar.

Johann nodded his thanks and made his way to the bar, which looked like nothing so much as a wide board laid over two barrels and draped with a table cloth. He knocked once on the bar. At the sound, the young man behind the bar straightened. In dress he was the twin of Barnabas, except that his badge read "Jacob." Physically, however, he was shorter and stockier, but looked to be about the same age as his friend.

"May I help you, Master Bach?"

Johann was taken a bit aback. "How do you know me?"

Jacob grinned. "Frau Haygood always makes sure we know who was invited, and usually sees to it that we have a description. Besides, I heard her greet you when you entered." He pointed to a couple of small kegs on stands. "I do have some schnapps and Weinbrand, as well as some fresh coffee if you desire it."

Johann nodded, impressed by the organization and attention to detail this implied. "Barnabas said you had some Aszú." He kept his voice low.

"Yes, Master Bach." Jacob busied himself, selecting a yellow wine glass, holding it below the level of the counter as he pulled a decanter from under the counter to fill it. He placed it in front of Johann. "Here you are, sir." He glanced at a clear glass jar at the end of the counter which contained several coins and a few of the Grantville bills. Johann took his meaning and felt in his pocket. He pulled a single one dollar bill from the money clip he was now carrying and placed it in the jar. Jacob smiled at him in return. "Thank you, sir."

The Aszú was good, Johann decided after taking a sample of the wine. In fact, from his limited experience, it was better than good; well worth his contribution to the "tip" jar—another innovation from the up-timers. It was not the kind of wine that an assistant small town music master was offered very often, and he decided that he would savor every drop.

With another nod to Jacob, Johann turned away from the bar and began a slow stroll around the perimeter of the salon. Frau Haygood, as had Frau Simpson before her, varied the locales of her gatherings. One night might be at the house of a prosperous burgher; another in the town home of one of the Adel. He had heard that an early salon had even been held at the newly rebuilt Rathaus. The salon before this one had been held at the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, where Frau Haygood was headmistress.

Tonight—Johann grinned for a moment—tonight was held at the guild house of the Brewer's Guild. He knew that the up-timers had a pronounced taste for beer over wine, so it didn't surprise him that Frau Haygood had chosen to favor this particular guild. Too, from what he could tell, the way the guild would license anyone to brew beer, from the largest brewery to the youngest housefrau who wanted to brew for her husband and his brothers, would appeal to the open-mindedness of the up-timers.

But the reality of it, he decided, was that the weightiest factor of the choice of the guild house as tonight's venue was the simple fact that it was one of the few spaces in Magdeburg, outside of the churches, that was with purpose designed for gatherings of people. There were rooms of various sizes in the building, and he knew from experience that the guild made more than a bit of coin from renting those rooms to families and groups for celebrations and meetings. He'd made a bit of coin himself playing with other members of the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra at wedding celebrations and other parties.

Johann looked into the various side rooms as he strolled past them. Here and there through his promenade he noticed people that he knew, most of whom were engaged in conversation with others. One or two who caught his eye nodded to him, but none offered to bring him into their immediate circles. But before long he heard the sound of a piano cutting through the hum of voices.

His attention firmly attracted, Johann followed the sound to a corner of the room. Where before he had drifted on the currents of conversation, now he was as a vessel driven by the wind to his destination where he found Marla Linder seated at the keyboard of a piano. It was not a grand piano; not of a length that would compare to the Zenti piano that had been gifted to the emperor by that famed Italian craftsman. Rather, it was of the type called a baby grand by the up-timers. For all that it was smaller, he decided, it had a nice tone.

Frau Marla was playing something very slow, not quite a largo tempo, but not far from it either, with a slow arpeggio in the right and plain chords in the bass, over all of which was a melody that almost sang. It was a simple piece, really; a child's piece, almost. Yet in her charge it was an offering of lyrical beauty; not exactly understated but a work so bare of disguising adornment that Johann knew that the composer had to have been an up-timer of superlative skill, for no down-timer could have written the harmonies in the piece—not yet, anyway.

Johann's steps had carried him to stand behind the young woman as she drew the piece to a close with a series of quiet chords in the bass. She finished the last one, and let the resonances of the strings ring out and gradually fade away. At length she lifted her hands from the keyboard and let the strings damp.

"Brava, Marla." Someone spoke before Johann was able to open his mouth. He focused on the area just to the right of the piano, and saw what looked for all the world to him to be a musical tribunal: Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, master of the Royal and Imperial Academy of Music, was seated in the center, flanked on the right by Master Heinrich Schütz, Kappellmeister to the Vasa court in Magdeburg and on the left by Master Andrea Abati, the noted gentilhuomo from Rome, now a teacher and producer here in Magdeburg.

"Brava," Maestro Carissimi repeated. His fellow "judges" nodded in agreement.

"Bellissima," Abati added. His soprano voice never failed to take Johann by surprise. Abati was his first contact with a castrato, and whenever he thought of what had been done to the young boy who grew into Andrea Abati, Johann wanted to fold his hands over his groin in protection. But he had to admit the man had a superlative voice of a most beautiful, almost haunting timbre.

Master Schütz looked beyond Marla. "Ah, there you are, Bach. Come, pull up a chair and join us. Frau Marla has been arguing for some little time now that all arts, but most particularly music, need no reason for their existence but their existence. It seems to become a topic of discussion every time we are at one of these little gatherings. And she has just played this . . . what was the name again, my dear?"

"'Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia', otherwise known as the 'Mondschein' or 'Moonlight' Sonata, by Ludwig van Beethoven."

"And when was it written?"

"I believe it was in 1801," Marla replied with a bit of a grin on her face. Johann had learned that Marla loved to tweak down-time musicians with the thought that so much of this new music that so many of them were having to adjust to came from times that were well beyond their life spans. In truth, his own mind still spun from time to time with the thought.

"So, Master Bach," Schütz continued, "let us hear your thoughts on the idea."

Johann started to beg off, but the others encouraged him to join them. At length he settled himself into the chair brought forward from the wall by Franz Sylwester, Frau Marla's husband.

"Since I have come in in media res, so to speak," Johann began, "I think it only fair to ask Frau Marla to restate her case." He gestured with his wine glass—carefully, so as not to spill a drop of what he was coming to think was really an excellent vintage of Aszú. He watched as the young woman straightened on the piano bench and squared her shoulders. She took an obvious deep breath, and began.

"You all know how much I love the music brought back in the Ring of Fire. And you know that I've made it my life's work to spread that music throughout Europe. So I obviously feel some passion about music. I believe that music is its own reward. It used to be called 'Art for Art's sake' in the up-time. There should be no constraints on what can be written or performed, that whatever the mind of a composer can conceive of should be expressed."

Marla paused for a moment. Johann heard the sound of murmurs, and looked around to see several other guests gathering behind the others. His attention returned to the young woman as she continued. "Music should be performed just because it's music. It has no function other than to be music, to provide that avenue of enjoyment, to be a balm for the soul. And all things musical should be free, unhampered by requirements to justify their existence. Composers should be able to write what is in their minds and hearts without restrictions from a patron. All people—men, women, boys, girls—should be allowed to perform—to sing or play or dance to the best of their abilities. Music requires no justification. It simply is."

The murmuring was a little louder now. Johann did not turn his head, but he could see more people gathering behind the Schütz/Carissimi/Abati line.

"So, Master Bach," Schütz gathered the thread of conversation to himself, and the surrounding eyes as well. "So. How would you respond to that?"

Johann postponed his response, sipping at his wine almost in panic. How to address this question—ah, it must be done with care.

He lowered his glass from his mouth and held it with both hands. "Masters," he nodded to Carissimi, Schütz and Abati. "Frau Linder," he nodded to Marla with equal gravity. "It is not a new proposition, I believe. I know my own grandfather said words somewhat like those at least once, and I daresay that if one could call King David, the greatest singer of old, to the witness bar, he would say something alike that. Especially after King Saul threw the spear at him." A chuckle sounded round the group that was observing. "All those who create beauty feel that beauty is all that is needed. But 'Quodcumque potest manus tua facere instanter operare,' as the great preacher said—'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy might.'"

Johann raised his glass again and moistened his lips. "I submit to you that music is a created thing, as indeed are all things called art. And as such we as musicians are addressed by that scriptural ordinance. It is not enough that we make music, for in truth we can be lazy and careless and slothful and reckless and devil-may-care about how we do it, just as a farmer or a joiner or a seamstress may be. But when we are, we are guilty of disregarding this stricture: that whatever we do, we should do to the best of our ability."

Heads nodded around the circle that had gathered as Johann took a slow breath, which he then released just as slowly.

"But, Johann," Marla turned on the piano bench to face him, "you didn't talk about why the music should be made. You only talked about how we should make it. That's not the same thing." She faced back to the other men. "I still stand by what I said."

Carissimi looked to Abati, who smiled and shrugged before nodding back toward Carissimi's right hand. The Italian master then looked to Schütz and made a gesture with a smile of his own. The German sat up straight and harrumphed. Amber Higham came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Schütz almost absently lifted his empty hand and laid it atop the hand that rested on his shoulder while he directed his gaze toward the up-timer woman.

"Let me attempt to build upon the foundation laid by our young Master Bach. It is indeed true that we who make music should take most seriously that instruction from Ecclesiastes which he mentioned. But you rightly point out that your issue is not about the crafting of music, but more about why music is made. And to discuss that, we must step even farther back; to first principles, as it were.

"Tell me, Frau Marla, who created music?" At her puzzled glance, Schütz smiled. "'Tis obvious, child. Think back to your lessons: who created all things?"

"God." Johann watched as Marla's eyebrows drew down, as if she were suspicious about something.

"Indeed, yes," Schütz replied as he raised a finger. "First point: the Holy Word says 'And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it . . .'"

Johann nodded, and heard murmurs of agreement from around him.

"So, God created us as we are. Therefore there is nothing that we can do that is outside the boundary of God's intent. We must assume this includes the ability to make music." Schütz smiled as another finger was raised. "Second point: why would God do so?" He looked around the people grouped around the discussion. "No one has an answer?" A longer pause. "Oh, come now; one cannot read God's Word without seeing the commands to praise God, to sing unto the Lord, to play instruments in His praise. So one is therefore forced to the conclusion that at least part of why God created man was for the creation to praise the Creator."

Johann nodded in acknowledgment of the point, visually echoed by others in the crowd.

The Kappellmeister lifted another finger. "To the third point: is the making of music unique to man?"

Johann raised his eyebrows. He could think of birds making musical songs, but he was not going to interrupt the older master.

"Birds . . . whales . . . maybe wolves . . ." Marla said thoughtfully.

"Angels," Franz Sylwester spoke from behind his wife.

Schütz smiled again. "The natural and the supernatural together, eh? But let us first consider the natural." He pointed a finger at Marla. "We have all of us heard birds making sounds that we call singing, particularly in the spring. But is that singing truly music, or only musical sounds? Is 'birdsong' truly music as you think of it, or is it just pleasantly tonal noise?"

Johann watched Marla's eyebrows draw down again as she spent moments in obvious thought. At length her chin lifted and her brow smoothed. "I guess I have to say that when you look at it like that, it's not music."

"And can you say differently about your whales and wolves?"

"Err . . . no," Marla admitted with obvious reluctance.

"I would agree with that statement," the Kappellmeister nodded. "I have heard the CD of the 'whale songs' in Grantville, and I found it interesting but unmusical."

"He should listen to John Cage," someone muttered behind Johann. He turned his head to see a bland smile on the face of Isaac Fremdling.

"I heard that, young Isaac," Schütz intoned. Johann looked back to see what could only be called a wicked grin on the master's face, mirrored by the expressions on the faces of Maestros Carissimi and Abati. "And I have heard some of what that man created. I found him both uninteresting and unmusical; außer, to say the least."

The Kappellmeister returned to his original subject. "Still on the third point, having disposed of the natural, let us turn to the supernatural. We are all of us, up-timers and down-timers alike, conditioned to think of choirs of angels in heaven. But have any of you ever looked at the original languages behind either our good Luther's translation of the Holy Writ, or the more recent translation authorized by King James of England?"

Johann saw heads shake all around him.

"I am neither a Hebrew scholar nor one of Greek, but I know men who are. And when one fine day I asked them to help me scratch a curious itch about this matter, imagine my astonishment when I discovered that there are passages in Scripture that speak of angels praising God, but none that unequivocally speak of angels singing."

An astonished murmur ran through the crowd, and Schütz's wicked grin reappeared. "Doubt me? Then find your own scholars and prove me wrong."

"I believe there is a verse in Job that might gainsay you, Master Schütz." The speaker was a portly man dressed in sober clothing.

"Ah, good evening to you, Pastor Cuno. Master Bach, have you met the pastor of St. Peter's Church? Pastor Tobias Cuno, this is Herr Johann Bach, a musician with much promise. Master Bach, Pastor Tobias Cuno." Johann stood to give a slight bow and shake the hand that was offered him. They exchanged murmured pleasantries. He resumed his seat as the pastor turned back to Schütz.

"Well, Master Schütz? What have you to say about my thesis?"

The older man sobered. "Is that the one that says something like 'When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy'?"

"Indeed." There was a note of surprise in the pastor's voice, and Johann could see his eyebrows had raised.

"I did say that I had consulted scholars," Schütz said with a smile. "As to the verse, I would say that although 'the morning stars' might be interpreted as meaning angels, it also very well may not. After all, the very God that could raise stones to be sons of Abraham and to praise Our Lord would doubtless have no trouble in arranging for stars and planets to sing." The smile disappeared again, and then he was serious. "But if not outright undeniable truth, it is at least a matter of interpretation, and one can make a case that music is unique to mankind, something given to the descendants of Adam that not even Lucifer or Michael or Gabriel can possess."

Franz stirred. "The last trump . . ."

"Is a battle call," Schütz interjected, "not a fanfare. Read the context."

Amber Higham stirred from behind her husband-to-be, lifting a glass of wine from the tray of one of the attendants and handing it to Heinrich. He cradled it in his hands and took a sip. "Ah, thank you, my dear." He reached up and patted her hand where it rested on his shoulder, and the glance he gave her left no one in doubt as to the affection of their relationship. "Now then, where were we?"

"You had just finished point the third," Johann said, leaning forward in the chair.

"Ah, yes. Thank you, Master Johann. Point the fourth," and another finger was lifted in the air. "This one circles back to the words of Master Johann. Music is a creation, the product of craft and, sometimes, art. Young Isaac," Schütz said as he directed his gaze past Johann. "Let us bring you into the discussion, since you have found your voice. Is the natural world the creation of God?"

"I believe it to be so," Isaac returned in a strong voice.

"Is the natural world itself God?"

Johann shook his head as Isaac responded, "No. Although there are pagans who might say so, it strains the bounds of credulity to think so."

Marla half-lifted a hand. "There were these ecology extremists in the up-time . . ."

Schütz shrugged. "There will be apostates in the future, why not pagans as well?" He looked back to Isaac. "May we then abstract a principle from this that the Creator is not the creation?"

"Aye," Isaac voiced as murmurs of assent were heard around them.

Schütz sat back in his chair. "Let us pause there for a moment. Frau Marla, have you anything else for us tonight? Something else for piano, or perhaps a song?"

Marla said nothing, but looked down at where her hands rested on the keys of the piano. After a moment, they began to move as if by their own volition. Again, quiet chords, nothing the up-timers would have called flashy. Just as Johann began to wonder what Marla was doing, she smiled and said, "In honor of both the season and the discussion," then opened her mouth and sang.

The angel Gabriel from Heaven came,
His wings as drifted snow, his eyes as flame;
"All hail," said he, "thou lowly maiden Mary,"
Most highly favored lady,
Gloria.

Johann was struck by the simple beauty of the melody. Anyone with a voice could have sung it. Any child, any mother, any deacon of the church.

"For known, a blessed Mother thou shalt be,
All generations laud and honor thee,
Thy Son shall be Emmanuel, by seers foretold,"
Most highly favored lady,
Gloria.

Listening, Johann began to truly understand why Marla's name was on the lips of everyone in Magdeburg who knew anything about music. Yes, anyone could sing the song; but how many could sing it with such purity? A tone that never wavered, every note absolutely on pitch, there were those who could do that—not least of whom was Signor Abati who was smiling and nodding his head. But the pure lack of ornamentation, the so simple rise and fall, ebb and flow, swell and fade of her voice, so simple and yet so hard. How many could make the song sing as she did?

Then gentle Mary meekly bowed her head,
"To me be as it pleaseth God," she said;
"My soul shall laud and magnify His holy name,"
Most highly favored lady,
Gloria.

Marla's voice and the piano faded away to an instant of pure stillness. Then the applause broke out from those standing in the circle. Johann gulped the last of his wine so he could set the glass down and join in.

The three masters were smiling; Abati's face contained an expression that could only be called beatific.

"Oh, very nicely done, Frau Marla," Schütz said after the applause died down, "very nicely done, indeed." A brief smile crossed her face as she nodded in response. "Now, where were we?"

"The Creator is not the creation," Isaac responded.

"Yes. Thank you, Isaac." He shifted in his chair. "So, the Creator is not the creation. And inasmuch as man is created in the image of God, then the same principle must be held true for man and his works as well, must it not?"

Johann nodded with the others. Truly, the Kappellmeister was speaking well tonight. He hoped someone was making notes, as this discourse was enlightening and deserved to be made public in some manner.

Schütz took a sip of his own wine, then continued in a sober voice. "I have thought much on these things. My time in Grantville was . . . difficult . . . in some ways . . ."

Johann had heard that the master had suffered some form of crisis, but from the expression that he saw on Schütz's face it must have been severe.

" . . . and it caused me to truly consider music," Schütz continued, "what it is, and what purpose it serves. And to confirm this thought, what was the purpose of man in God's creation?"

Johann looked around. No one was willing to answer. He mustered his courage, and said, "To have dominion."

Schütz flashed a smile toward him. "I perhaps misspoke, in that there are more purposes than one in God's design for man. Yet Master Bach has named the purpose I sought. Directly after God said 'Let us make man in our image . . .' He declared that man would be given dominion over all the earth. All the earth; others would say all of creation. Surely that includes music. And as proof, I offer this from the Holy Word: 'The Lord thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; He will save, He will rejoice over thee with joy; He will rest in his love, He will joy over thee with singing.'"

"Zephaniah, the third chapter," Pastor Cuno said thoughtfully. Schütz nodded. Johann pursed his lips and tugged on his beard. He would have to think about that one.

"So if the Lord sings, and we are created in his image, then one can infer that our music is an integral part of being made in the image of God. And here, Frau Marla, is where we perhaps begin to address your thesis—and the dangers contained therein." Schütz was now sitting up straight, staring at the young woman. "If the purpose of man is to have dominion, and the purpose of music is to praise God the Creator, then we must be very careful."

Marla was frowning now, Johann noted.

"In and of itself," Schütz continued, "music is morally neutral. An A-flat is an A-flat, regardless of what produces it or what the type of music in which it is used. It is the words we attach to the music, it is the staging we accompany with it, it is the behavior of those associated with it, that provide a moral valuation. But setting that aside, considering music simply as music as you wish to do in your ideas, we must be very careful."

He paused for a moment, then lifted one hand palm up. "Music is under dominion, under the control and shaping of man, of the musicians, yes?"

Marla slowly nodded, echoed by others in the group, including Johann.

"But music must never be allowed to have dominion."

The crowd became absolutely still. Marla, still frowning, at length said, "I don't understand, Master Heinrich."

Schütz sighed. "In this time, my dear, and perhaps in your up-time as well, music is all too often considered to be a tool. We who write for the church consider it an aid to worship, something to shape people, to mold them into the appropriate state of mind and emotion."

Johann nodded to himself. He had heard statements very like that from his old master Johann Hoffman, the Stadtpfeifer in Suhl.

"But there is a danger with that thinking, a danger most insidious. Music can progress from being under dominion to having dominion. When we credit to music capabilities that it, as a created thing, does not inherently possess, then we have crossed a line into idolatry."

Johann saw an expression of shock on Marla's face, and knew that its twin was on his own.

"I have spoken with Master Marcus Wendell and Master Atwood Cochran in Grantville at much length, and they have shared knowledge and wisdom with me, showing me how in their history-that-was musicians would turn their art and craft into idols." A wry grin appeared on the Kappellmeister's face as he reached up again to touch his Amber's hands where they rested on his shoulders. "Of course, all the other arts and artists did as well: the painters, the actors . . ." Amber's low chuckle filled the space. " . . . those who made the movies and DVDs. But the fact is, Frau Marla; young Isaac; and you, Master Bach who so strongly pursues the music of a descendant who will never live; when you take a created thing and give it dominion over its creator, when you surrender causality to the music, you have created an idol. And if you do so with music, you have made an idol of the very thing that we are commanded to use to praise God. And that should never be permitted."

Schütz sat back, and tiredly waved a hand. "Or so this old man thinks."

Silence reigned in their group. All eyes turned toward Marla, whose face had returned to a frown. "So are you saying that we should do nothing but church music? That only religious music should be performed, that . . . that . . ." she stuttered, "that the only music acceptable is that which contains the name of God?"

Johann was wondering the same thing as he watched Master Schütz jerk up straight as if shocked by the up-timer's electricity.

"By no means, child, or I would not be sitting here listening to you play the piano and having this delightful conversation. By no means." He waved a hand. "Play your Beethoven and your Chopin on the piano. Play your flute. Sing your Irish folk songs with zest and vigor. Let your younger Grantvillers play trumpets and beat drums and march in the parades. Let some of your friends even learn jazz." The older musician shuddered a little. "Enjoy it all; have fun with it all; but when you make music, make the best music you can make; not for the glory of the music, but for the glory of God. Anything less cheats God and cheapens you. And neither of those things ought be."

Marla sat still, unmoving, for long moments. Johann watched as Franz at length reached out and touched a finger to her shoulder. She looked up, and Johann could see tears pooling in her eyes. "I have never considered that, Master Heinrich. I will think on what you have said."

"Indeed," Giacomo Carissimi said as he stood, followed by Andrea Abati. Johann almost lunged to his own feet, not to be caught sitting at this moment. "You are master of us all, Master Heinrich, and we will think on these things." He bowed with respect, followed a split-second later by Andrea and Johann. Others in the group murmured support. Carissimi straightened with a wicked grin of his own. "But do not be surprised if the subject raises its head again, Master Heinrich. A good subject loves to be debated."

"Ach," Schütz said, waving his hand again. "Enough talk. Let tomorrow's talk take care of itself. Tonight, make music! Make joyful music! Who has more music for us? Frau Marla?" She shook her head with a laugh, and pointed at Isaac. "Young Isaac! How fitting! What do you bring to us tonight?"

Isaac lifted the violin he had been holding all along, plucked the strings to test their tuning, and said, "With all joy, Master Heinrich, I offer up to you and to God the Chaconne from Partita No. 2 in D minor, by Johann Sebastian Bach."

Without another word, Isaac launched into the great work. Johann sat back, bemused by the fact that Isaac had brought such a work as that. The music poured out, and he soaked it up. Mein Gott, he thought. Such beauty, such power, as much with the violin as I had found in the organ works. This other Johann, who will never be, was so good I cannot even be jealous of him.

As he rose and fell with Isaac's bow, Johann understood how close he had come to becoming idolatrous. But never again, he decided. I will celebrate the greatness of the music, and the greatness of the man, but most of all the greatness of God who by His grace gave us both the music and the man, and gave us the Ring of Fire by which both the music and the man will be made known.

A commitment formed in his mind, to be observed for the rest of his days.

Soli Deo Gloria.

* * *

A Great Drowning of Men

Written by Walt Boyes

28 August 1627 (old style)

The hooves of the cavalry horses thundered as the lifeguards of Friedrich, third of the name, duke of the Danish province Schleswig-Holstein-Gottorp, rode for their lives with the duke safely in their midst.

Behind them was the carnage of the battle of Lutter. There, twenty thousand Imperial troops under the command of Jan Tzerclaes, Count Tilly, had managed to rout an equal number of Danish troops under the direct command of Christian IV, King of Denmark.

Most of Christian's army holed up in Stade, but Friedrich headed for Nordstrand Island, off the west coast of Schleswig.

Tired, hungry, and somewhat fearful for his life, the duke of Gottorp hauled his horse to a stop in the town square of the little town of Husum. It was just dawn, and he and his men had been riding all night.

"Find somebody who knows what is going on around here," Friedrich ordered. One of his troopers saluted and turned his horse off toward the Rathaus. Well, it would have been a Rathaus if the town had been really big enough for a city hall.

"I want to get to Nordstrand by nightfall," Friedrich said to his aide de camp. The aide, probably wisely, said nothing.

The trooper returned. "Lord Duke," he reported, "the burgomaster says that he thinks there are Imperialists on Nordstrand."

"Nonsense!" Friedrich glared, moustaches quivering. He slapped his leather riding coat. "We will go. If there are Imperials, we'll just have to beat them!"

The troop remounted, dressed their lines, and started for the dock. There was a decent sized sailing ferry there.

The ferry captain was sitting on a wooden bollard on the dock. He had a piece of wood that he was whittling into something nondescript. His mate stood next to him, smoking a long clay pipe. They watched the cavalry troop ride down the road and out onto the dock.

"Well, Hubertus," the captain said to the mate, "I guess we're going for a sail."

* * *

It took less time to sail to Sudhaven on Nordstrand Island than it took for Friedrich's small troop to load themselves and their horses on the ferry. It was a beautiful day, with light wind, and the sea was running fast between the mainland and the island. Soon, the jetty at Sudhaven came into sight, and with it, the ranks of Imperial troops standing on the pier. There was a small group of burghers standing with the soldiers.

Without being told, the ferry captain brought the boat to a stop about fifty feet off the jetty. The ferry rocked in the light chop.

Friedrich went to the rail. "What is this?" he shouted. "And who in the Devil's Hell are you?"

"I am Pieter Karstense van Nortstrant, the burgomaster," one of the civilian burghers shouted back, "We have joined the Imperials, my lord."

Nordstrand was home to a small Catholic population surrounded by Lutherans. As they were an island, and they were small, Friedrich had never bothered about them.

"If you come ashore, My Lord," van Nortstrant, who was standing beside the obvious commander of the Imperial troops shouted, "you must be taken prisoner."

Friedrich stood by the rail, his blood pounding in his ears. After being beaten badly the day before at Lutter, and riding cold and hungry through the night to what he thought was going to be his safe haven, only to be repulsed! It could not be, it would not be borne. Friedrich gave a wordless shout of anger, tore off his hat, threw it to the deck and stamped on it.

"With God's help, this island should sink into the sea!" he shouted.

Friedrich turned to the ferry captain. "Prepare to take me back to Husum."

22 October 1634 (old style)

It was very early. The sun had just come up, and there was Jan Adriaanzoon walking the dike near Dagebüll for cracks and damage during the previous night, just as he did every morning including Sundays. When ministers remonstrated with him for working on the Sabbath, Jan had always told them, "The sea works on Sundays, so must the engineer."

Jan was born in the Low Countries, and he called himself Leeghwater, "low water" because, as he told his son Adriaan, "we engineers drain the polders and make the water low." He always laughed as he said it. Now in his late fifties, Leeghwater had grown corpulent and his big belly shook as he laughed.

There was a wooden footpath laid on top of the dike, and he navigated his ponderous bulk up it to the stairs that led to the top of the sluice. Jan grunted as he knelt to inspect the gaskets on the sluice gate. The leather gaskets were well greased, and looked to be in good shape. Jan levered himself upright and huffed through his mustachios from the exertion. There were wooden stairs leading down from the sluice gate platform. Jan made sure it was easy to get to every gate he'd ever designed.

He'd been working in the Low Countries on trying to make a polder, a reclaimed field, from a low-lying saltmarsh called Beemster. That project was nearly complete but with the unsettled political situation in Holland, he'd agreed to go to Denmark for a while to work on a project to build dikes at Bottschoter in western Schleswig, or northern Frisia, depending on who you talked to.

Before he came to Denmark, Jan had bought from a bookseller in Amsterdam some up-time books. They'd been written by a man called George, with the unpronounceable surname of Tchobanoglous and another man called Takashi Asano. While the first name sounded maybe Turkish, and the second sounded like somebody from far Nippon, the men apparently were up-time professors in someplace called the University of California. Their books on water and wastewater treatment and design, said to be from the library of the water treatment plant in Grantville, had some new techniques that Jan was eager to try, if the cursed war would ever end, but the fundamentals were still what Jan knew. Since he'd read the books, he'd taken to calling himself by the up-time title, "hydraulic engineer."

Jan clattered down the wooden steps from the sluice gate, and walked briskly down the raised earthen dike. This dyke was old, and only a few feet tall, which was why Jan had been hired to replace it with a bigger, stouter, taller dike. After the storm surge in 1632, the Nordfrieslanders decided that they'd have to come up with the money to rebuild and renew the barrier that kept them from the North Sea.

Even though the 1632 storm had been much less severe than the up-timers' histories described it in the original time line, the Nordfrieslanders didn't trust the butterfly effect. So they went ahead with the project, despite the very high taxes they were paying because of the war between the Swedes and the Imperials. Jan, with his experience based on a thousand years of dike building in the North Sea and his new up-time knowledge sounded to the burghers like just the ticket.

Jan stood on the dike, looking out to sea. The water was as calm as the North Sea got, at least in the channel between Dagebüll and the big island of Strand, or Nordstrand. There were few clouds. It was a beautiful October day.

After finishing his inspection, it was almost noon, and Jan headed to a tavern. Like nearly all the small towns in Nordfriesland, Dagebüll was built on a raised mound that had been added to for as long as the inhabitants could remember. It was as if Dagebüll had one long street, raised above the fields where crops grew and cattle grazed.

The inn was old, as buildings went, but still had the huge beams exposed in the ceiling that made the building stout. That was important when the winds blew in off the North Sea, and the weather turned.

Jan joined a group of men sitting at a long table under the window, reading newspapers and drinking small beer.

"And what is news today?" he asked his master carpenter, Pieter Jansz, who was reading a broadsheet.

"Work on the Union of Kalmar moves apace. Apparently we are all to be Swedes now."

"Well, I am Dutch, and not likely to wake up Swedish one day," Jan said, tugging on his VanDyke beard. "It appears, however that I may be Spanish now." He sat and picked up another paper from the small pile on the table and nodded thanks when the server brought him a mug of beer.

"Prost!" he said, raising his mug.

He settled down to read. The paper was full of news about the dashing rescue of the Princess Maria Anna by the new "king in the Netherlands," the former Cardinal-Infante Don Fernando. Jan wasn't sure he approved of the treaty between the House of Orange and the House of Habsburg ending the Netherlands war. But he was sure that the situation for engineers was going to improve tremendously, especially since the Swede was building docks and a fortified harbor so he could cut off traffic through the Zuider Zee if he wanted to.

There was even talk about draining the whole Zee . . . just like the up-time Hollanders did in the twentieth century. Jan had read about the project in another book that claimed to be "faithfully republished" based on a book in the library of Grantville itself. He was as excited as he could let himself be thinking about working on that project.

The newspaper also had an article about the aftermath of the Galileo business in Italy. Jan sipped his beer and continued to read.

A hand dropped on his shoulder. He looked up to find Jansz standing over him.

"Master," Jansz said, "we are having some people over for dinner tonight. Will you join us?"

"I would like that," Jans said.

"Good. We will be seeing you at dinnertime tonight then."

Jansz went out the door of the inn. Jan ordered some lunch and decided to eat it out in the inn yard. There were some trestle tables there for outdoor eating in good weather. Even though it was October, it wasn't very cold. There were more scudding clouds in the sky, but the sky was blue and the wind was dying down. Jan ate a nice chunk of ham and a piece of Gouda cheese that reminded him of the Netherlands and home.

After he ate, Jan walked back up to the outer dyke and walked along it, looking out to sea. The wind, he noticed, was coming up. The sea had bigger swells and was raising whitecaps. He could see the rip current in the channel between Dagebüll harbor and Nordstrand off in the distance. There was definitely a change in the weather. He thought he'd best do another inspection before he went to Jansz's house for dinner. He walked from sluice gate to sluice gate, checking the great wheels and chains that could raise the gates and the pawls that kept the gates closed. He checked the dry wells that were installed every few hundred yards to make sure there was no seepage or at least no more than normal.

When he finished, Jan went back to the inn and finished reading the news broadsides. About seven or eight o'clock, he walked down the inner dike from the inn to the house that Pieter Jansz and his family were living in.

All through dinner, Jan and Jansz discussed the state of the big new sluice that Jansz was building. It was more or less on schedule, which was certainly a wonder, Jan thought. They hardly noticed the wind picking up.

After dinner, they lit their long clay pipes and talked about politics. Jansz was from Friesland, and he supposed, he said, that he was Danish. "I don't really know. We speak the dialect here," he said, "and we pay our taxes to the Duke of Gottorp, but this new idea that we are citizens of a country . . . that takes some thinking about. Especially when our country has gotten beaten in a war by the Swedes and the Americans."

"Yes," said Jan. "I can see that. But it looks like the king came out pretty well, with his son betrothed to the Swede's daughter."

They laughed. Suddenly a shutter blew in. One of Jansz's older children ran to close it. Jan and Jansz went to the door. They opened the half-door and quickly closed it, struggling against the wind.

"This sounds like it may get nasty," Jan said. "I think I ought to be getting on home."

"Well why don't you stay with us here tonight, Master?" Jansz said. "It is getting foul out and by the time you get home, you're likely to be drenched."

"Ah," Jan said, "it isn't so far as all that. Besides, you have a full house. Where would I sleep?"

"On the floor," Jansz said.

"No, Pieter Jansz," Jan replied. "What if the water rises? Your house is only five to six feet above ground level. Mine is on the dike, at least at eleven feet."

"As you wish, Master," Jansz said, and brought Jan his coat.

Jan headed for his own house. The wind was high and swirling, and it was beginning to rain with big heavy drops. He wrapped his coat around himself, his long hair whipping around his face and his mustachios bristling.

It was getting bitter and cold. Up ahead, Jan saw the house of another one of his crew, Pauwels Harmensz, with all the lights still on. Jan realized he was freezing.

He fought his way through the wind and rain to the Harmensz's door. He banged on it, and Harmensz opened it. Jan almost fell through the doorway, but managed to stay upright.

"Pauwels," Jan said, "I need to warm up before I go on home. It is incredibly cold out there. The wind is high and the water is rising."

Harmensz sat Jan before the fire, and as Jan warmed up, they talked about the storm.

"It came up very suddenly," Harmensz said. "I hope we don't have another surge like we did two years ago."

"Well, the dike is taller now," Jan said. "If we get a surge we'll see how well we've built, that's for sure."

Jan stood and began to put on his coat.

"It is dark as pitch," Harmensz said. "Why don't you let me send one of my men along with you? He can carry a lantern and make sure you get home safe and sound."

"The lantern sounds good," Jan said.

When they reached Jan's house, Jan's son was waiting for him.

"I was beginning to be worried, Father," Adriaan said.

"Nothing to worry about," Jan replied, "just a storm."

Jan had Harmensz's man stay. Adriann helped him get a hot drink and warm up, and then sent him with his lantern back home.

Even with a fire, it was very cold in the house. It was also quite late, being close to midnight.

"Tired, boy?" Jan asked his son.

"Yes, Father. Can we go to bed soon?"

"Probably we should. And since it is so cold, we should probably sleep with our clothes on as well."

The wind was coming from the west now, and the house shook and rattled with each gust. The rain hammered on the roof and the western wall of the house like buckshot. Even though the house wasn't right at the shore, the sound of the waves grew louder and louder.

"I can't sleep, Father," Adriann said.

"Come here, boy," Jan said, "you can sleep with me in my bed. You'll be safe then." Adriann climbed into bed. Jan hugged the boy hard.

They lay there dozing for about an hour as the wind grew even more harsh and blustery.

"Father, I think the roof is leaking."

Jan rolled off the bed. There was a steady drip of water from the ceiling. As Jan watched, the leak got bigger and bigger.

The waves were smashing on the sea wall. Every sixth or seventh wave was so large that it would crash over the sea wall, and smash against the roof of the house. There was a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and one of the shakes on the roof blew off with a bang. There was a sudden gush of water through the hole onto the mattress.

Suddenly there were shouts from outside the house. "Leeghwater! Leeghwater! It's time to get up!" Jan pulled the door open and found his boss, Supervisor Siewert Meynerts with a small group of people. "We have to get to the mansion," Meynerts shouted.

Jan and Adriaan collected what they could and went up the dike to the mansion, which was close by but built on substantially higher ground.

Meynerts and his people were right behind. "I'll be glad if we reach the mansion alive," he shouted.

There was quite a lot of flying debris. All the planks and slats were blown from the stockpiles where they'd been waiting to be used in the construction of the new sluice. They were flying around like feathers and straw.

Looking back from the doorway of the mansion, Jan could see that the water was almost at the top of the dike. Adriann clung to his leg, sobbing.

Meynert was counting heads. "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . ." Then the door opened again and a large number of people rushed in, soaked and panting with exertion from fighting the wind and the rain. "I make us about thirty-eight souls, all told," Meinert told Jan.

The wind turned a little to the northeast, and the waves pounded harder on the dike. Suddenly, one of the big doors on the west wall of the house blew open and water came pouring into the house. The fire was extinguished by the wave rolling into the room and Jan's boots were instantly filled with seawater.

One of Meynerts' men, a carpenter, took his axe and made a hole in the lower part of the wall so that the water could run off. Jan looked out the window.

"The water is above the dike now!"

"How high is the surge?" Meynerts asked.

"That would be at least thirteen feet," Jan said.

"Oh my God, what will become of us?" the carpenter's wife moaned.

"Well, God has seen to it that we are all equally rich now," Meynerts said. The joke fell flat.

"Adriann had taken refuge in the scullery. "Oh, Father, are we going to die?" he asked. Jan grimaced as the cry was taken up by several others.

"We just have to hope that the Almighty will have mercy on us." Jan said.

The storm went on for hours. Jan tried to see if the water was rising even more or if the height of the surge had passed, but he couldn't tell.

There was a loud noise from the northern side of the house. The wall on that side started to fall apart. Through the hole that appeared suddenly, Jan could see a huge eroded channel like a gutter that was about six feet deep and at least ten feet wide. The wall started to fall into the gutter, and the flow of water broke it into kindling and washed it away.

The house itself started to collapse. The refugees huddled together in the center of the house under the groaning rooftree. The water kept pouring through the house. A large money box broke loose from it's fastenings and before anybody could grab it, it came open and its contents, money and jewelry, was washed away by the water and swallowed by the earth. The entire mansion was being washed away.

Jan, Adriaan, Supervisor Meynerts and the rest of the refugees held on for dear life. It seemed to Jan like time was standing still. He thought that he was looking into the maw of Hell.

15 November 1634 (old style)

"The storm went on for hours, Majesty," Jan said to King Christian IV of Denmark. Enthusiastically adopting up-time habits, the king had called for a Grantville-style meeting, instead of a throne room audience. "The next morning, when it was safe to come out, I saw that the ruins of the reeve's mansion were the only house still standing on the dike. All thirty-seven of the workers' houses lower down toward the sea had been washed away. I had to take a boat to Dagebüll because the dike had been washed away and the sea had covered the fields. There were bodies of men and animals floating everywhere."

"Do we know how many dead?" Prince Ulrick spoke up.

"No," Duke Friedrich said. "We are still burying the men, and also the cows. My men estimate somewhere between eight and twelve thousand persons perished."

"It was like Noah's Flood," Jan said. "The priest in Dagebüll said that the water had reached almost five feet high inside the church, which is built on its own hill in the town. Jansz and Harmensz's houses, where I had been before the storm had vanished, and they and their families were all dead. Big sea ships were stranded up on the dikes, and several ships were aground in the higher streets of Husum. I've been on the beaches, where I have seen horrible things, Majesty."

"We have been checking the up-timers' books, Father," Ulrick said. "It seems that the storm was in the books, but on a different date . . . October 11th. In the original time line, though, the area was never really rebuilt, and the only thing that you, Duke Friedrich, would say was, 'God is just. My wish has come true.'"

Friedrich said, "That's not going to happen here. I have learned . . . I think we have all learned something from the events of the past few years. We will begin rebuilding the dikes immediately and draining the fields. We will need the farms and dairies. So, Leeghwater, how fast can you get back to work?"

"I can raise men in Holland, and begin ordering the materials immediately, my prince," Jan said, "but it will take time. We should have things back to normal in five or six years."

The king had been sitting quietly through all of this. He was staring at the end of the table, where another man sat silent.

"So," the king said. "You, Cantrell. Tell me how it is that my new allies didn't warn me of this horrible event. Since, as we have found, it is in your books that you brought with you in the Ring of Fire. Why didn't you tell us?"

The room grew silent. Everyone in the room stared at Cantrell. He swallowed convulsively.

"I think . . . well, Majesty," Cantrell said, "we believed that it wouldn't happen because of the butterfly effect. At worst, we thought it would be much less severe than the storm in the history books that they called 'a great drowning of men.' And the dikes were being rebuilt, so we just didn't think to say anything."

A king's anger is not safe to see. Especially if you are on the receiving end. Eddie thought back to the night he became betrothed to the king's daughter. How he felt when he was told to kneel and King Gustav pulled out his sword. Beheadings could still happen. King Christian's face could have been carved from granite. His eyes, however, burned.

Ulrick intervened. "Father, what this has shown us is that we must carefully read the up-timers' histories. Yes, there is what they call the 'butterfly effect.' But some things will happen, and we must prepare for them. That is the awful lesson we must learn from this."

"Then learn it!" the king roared. "You and Cantrell must read and learn so we can plan. See to it.

"And you, Jan Leeghwater, build as fast as you can. We have had two of these devastating floods in two years now, the one in 1632 and now this one. We will not, we must not, ever, suffer another one, as I am the king!" King Christian slammed down his ever-present wine cup on the table. "Why are you still standing here? Do it!"

* * *

Small Problem with Cafe Press Store

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

The Cafe Press store problems have been fixed and I've started ordering. Just a bit more patience and we'll have it caught up.

Apologies for the delays, folks.

Paula, 20 Dec 09

We've got a small problem in our Cafe Press store. If you're due some of the gifts for subscribing, I want to assure you that you haven't been forgotten. We are working on it, however the person who maintains the store and has the passwords, etc., has been in the hospital for a couple of months.

We'll keep after it and it will eventually be fixed, at which time I'll catch up on sending out the gifts.

Paula

SERIALS:

Northwest Passage, Part Three

Written by Herbert and William Sakalaucks

"Land ho!"

Svend's navigation lesson with Captain Foxe came to an abrupt end. Landfall had been expected and the captain was needed on deck. Luke grabbed his boatcape and left to answer the hail. The wind was still fresh off the starboard aft quarter and the intermittent spray from the North Sea waves kept the aftercastle deck soaked. When Luke reached the aftercastle, John Barrow, the first mate, was standing next to the helmsman. "What bearing?" asked Luke.

John gestured to the left. "From the port beam to three points off the port bow. Scotland's off to port and South Ronaldsay Island's dead ahead in the cloud bank. Right when and where you predicted, Captain."

"The new chronometer is going to be a boon to navigators, John. Whatever Sir Thomas had to pay for it was well worth it."

Svend raced on deck and tried to sight the land. John walked over and rested a hand on Svend's shoulder, "You'll not see anything out there for a while, lad. You need to be in the foretop with a 'bring'em-near' to see beyond the curve of the horizon."

"An excellent suggestion, Mr. Barrow." Luke joined them at the railing. "Svend, go fetch my telescope, some drafting paper, and pencils. This is an excellent opportunity to continue your navigation lesson. Climb to the foretop, tie yourself off, and sketch each of the islands as we pass. It will help develop your eye for recognizing land features."

"Aye aye, sir."

Five minutes later, Svend began to ascend the shrouds to the foretop. The telescope hung on his belt by a strap, with a pack on his back for the paper and pencils. The swaying of the masts as the ship rose and fell on the swells made the trip up the shrouds interesting. He talked to himself to help concentrate on the climb up and to keep his mind off the deck below. His foot slipped on spray-slickened fastrope and he spun around the shroud. "I'm glad I tied off the telescope. If I dropped it, Father would be fit to be tied." He looked up to the lubber's hole. "Just a few more feet and I'm there." After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the crosstree. He seated himself, carefully uncoiled the loose end of the rope he'd wound around his waist, and lashed himself to the mast. "At least now I can't fall." He heaved a sigh of relief. Looking down, he could see the ship's bow crashing through the waves. The slow pendulum motion of the masts as the ship rode through the waves suspended him out over the water at the end of each arc. He realized his stomach was queasy. Suddenly, the idea of sitting at the top of a tall mast swaying in the wind wasn't so pleasant. "I will not embarrass the captain by getting sick all over the deck," he said through gritted teeth. "What was it Father used to say about seasickness?" As he looked out at the land, he remembered: Focus on the horizon. He brought the telescope around and focused ahead. After a few tense minutes, his stomach slowly settled down. With the pad perched on his knees, a sketch of South Ronaldsay Island started to take shape.

* * *

The sunlight started to fade as the Köbenhavn entered Scapa Flow. The sound of the ship's bell startled Svend. He realized he'd been sketching for almost three hours. If he wanted supper, he'd have to finish the sketch from memory. It took a few minutes of stretching to work the kinks out of his legs. I'll have to be careful going down. I don't want to drop anything, especially me. He held out the last sketch and compared it to the island they were passing. "I think Father will be pleased." He stowed his gear and carefully untied himself. All the way down, he made sure he kept a firm grip on the shrouds all the time.

John met him at the railing. "The captain was beginning to wonder if you were stuck up there. How did the drawings go?"

Svend handed over the pad. "After I got settled and used to the sway it was wonderful. The warm sun and the views made me forget everything else."

John flipped the pages slowly. The use of shading made the island views stand out from the page. "These are excellent. I'm impressed. Have you had training? The captain never mentioned anything to me."

"Nothing, I just tried to draw what I saw."

"You have a natural talent. These are better than most of the ones I've seen from veteran mariners. Run along to supper and show the captain." He handed the pad back to Svend.

The drawings highlighted a pleasant evening meal. Luke echoed John's praise. "These drawings show excellent skill. I want you to keep practicing when you have an opportunity. This will come in handy when we reach our new home." The conversation turned to the upcoming stopover at Stromness Harbor and Luke's concerns with taking on additional supplies and settlers. Svend just dreamt about a young lady on the Hamburg. When they finished, Luke reminded Sven, "You'll need to be up early in the morning if you want to see the harbor as we enter. We should reach Stromness around dawn."

"I'll be sure to be up before then," Svend replied as he left for his small cabin.

* * *

Svend awoke an hour before daybreak and wheedled a quick breakfast of hot porridge from the cook. When he went on deck, Captain Foxe sent him aloft with a telescope. "See if the rest of the ships have arrived. Hopefully their passage was faster than ours."

Svend scampered up the shrouds to the foretop, and surveyed the harbor. Two fishing luggers were leaving the harbor, their patched sails damp from the dew. They appeared to be almost flying over the waves. Svend focused back on the anchorage. Eventually, he was able to pick out some masts against the shadows and clutter of the village. He called down to the deck, "There are two . . . no . . . three . . . ships anchored and one's definitely the Hamburg."

"Excellent. It appears everyone's made it safely so far." Luke turned and called to John, "Mr. Barrow, if you would please, steer for the Hamburg and anchor a hundred yards to seaward of her." He started to head for his cabin and a thought struck him. "Oh, and have the longboat ready. We'll need to get the extra men from the warehouse raid back to their wives as soon as possible."

Over the next hour, Svend tried to stay out of the sailors' way as the ships approached the harbor. The tide was full off Point of Ness. The wind off the port quarter required a number of tacks for the ships to reach the harbor. As they approached the anchorage, Svend climbed onto the mainstays with the telescope and eagerly searched the people on the Hamburg's deck for a familiar figure. Disappointment and worry started to set in until he spotted Sir Thomas coming on deck, with Agnes right behind him. Shortly afterward, Svend was forced to come down to make way for the sailors to furl the sails. By the time the ship's anchor was dropped, he had finally caught Agnes' attention and she had waved back.

"Master McDermott, do you feel up to a long session of note taking?" John Barrow had walked up unnoticed behind Svend, who was still watching the Hamburg intently. "The captain needs his clerk to take notes when he meets the other captains."

"I can be ready in two minutes, Mr. Barrow. Just let me get my paper, quill and ink." Svend carefully closed the telescope, handed it to John, and then disappeared down the hatch to his cabin.

John walked back to the captain, who stood watching the other ships prepare to send boats away. "He's got it bad, Captain, and I don't think he even realizes it."

"I know, John. Were we ever that young?"

"I don't know, but I think Mistress Roe will be good for him. I just hope nothing happens to them." The creak of tackle drew their attention. "The longboat's ready, Captain. Should I send it away with the men who need to go back to their families? It's going to be a long pull for the seamen to reach all three ships."

"Yes, but have them use the starboard side. Keep the port side free for the arriving boats."

"Aye aye, sir." John left to supervise the small boat handlers. The departing settlers were already bunched up, waiting on deck with their belongings in bundles.

* * *

The Henriette Marie, the Hamburg, and the Wilhelm had arrived in Stromness two days earlier. Their captains arrived over the next hour and gathered in Luke's cabin. The only incident of note on their voyage was that Captain Rheinwald had discovered cracks in the Hamburg's lower mizzen and bonaventure masts. "I'll be having my carpenters finish repairs soon." The looks of concern from the group caused Captain Rheinwald to get defensive. "She's in just as good a shape as any ship here. As I said, Mr. Braun should have the boards fished on by the time this meeting's over." His emphatic nod cut off further comments.

Captain James broke the awkward silence. "I've passed the word around the port that we're looking to take on extra livestock and have space for additional settlers. Three families have already spoken to me about joining. They're all sheep farmers and would bring their flocks. There was a dispute in the clan over an inheritance and they want to leave soon. They'll be ready before we finish wooding and watering and loading extra fodder. I've also added two pair of the island's horses. They're used to the colder conditions we'll be facing."

"Excellent, Thomas! The only other point that needs covering is what happens if any ships are separated during our next leg of the voyage."

The captain of the fishing boat Bridget spoke up, "Lars and I already thought about this. Since we're going to be fishing anyways, we plan to save time and head directly to the fishing grounds and then to the settlement site. That way, you'll have fresh provisions soon after landing."

Luke paused to consider the idea. "That's an excellent suggestion. Otherwise, if anyone just becomes separated, head directly to Bell Island. Fire a gun if you are in distress." Luke pointed to Svend. "Once a week Mister McDermott will visit all the ships to retrieve updates for the master log I'm keeping, and any routine issues you feel need to be brought to my attention. Status on food and water, and ship's conditions will be included in these reports." He refrained from glowering in Rheinwald's direction. "Again, if something urgent occurs, use your signal flags or fire a gun and we will come to your assistance. We'll sail once we finish replenishing our food and water and load the extra settlers and livestock. That's all for now, gentlemen. If you can, let your crews stretch their legs on shore. This will be their last chance for quite some time."

As the group rose to leave, Luke drew two of the captains aside, "Thomas, Martin, would you stay a few minutes? I've some additional things I need to discuss with you." He motioned to the two cushioned seats. "I'll be right back." Luke saw the rest of the captains to their boats and then returned to his cabin.

As he reentered, Captain James asked, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, no. The two of you have some unique skills that may help our long term success. Thomas, the native that's on your crew, would he work with Svend to teach him the Cree language?"

"I'm sure of it. Svend showed Joseph around Copenhagen before we left and has already picked up a few Cree words. They seemed to get along well. They're not that far apart in age and Joseph is very quick."

"Good. Martin, one of the settlers on your ship was a mathematics teacher, has training as a surveyor, and has the necessary tools. He started to train Svend shortly after he arrived in Copenhagen. I'd like that training to continue. What I propose is that Svend alternate afternoons on your ships, working with his tutors. I know that will mean extra small boat work, but it will also give us an opportunity to communicate more frequently."

Martin chuckled. "I just hope he isn't too prone to seasickness. All those trips in an open boat could be trying."

"I'll give him Sundays off to recover! I'm sure he'll be glad to visit your ship so often. I think he's taken quite a liking to Sir Thomas' young ward."

"I wondered. She always seems to take a keen interest in where your ship is when she's on deck."

"Just make sure he applies himself to his studies when he's there. If he wants to talk to the young lady afterwards, it's all right, as long as Sir Thomas agrees."

* * *

The expedition remained at anchor two more days while the sheep were driven into town and the additional families packed and loaded their belongings aboard ship. On the last day, Svend took the opportunity to go ashore with Agnes and Joseph. The afternoon was blustery. As they left the boat that had rowed them ashore and they climbed the slime coated steps to the pier, one of the sailors called out, "Mr. Barrow said to remind you, sir, we sail this evening with the tide. He said we were to wait here and fetch you if you wandered too far."

Svend laughed. "I don't think we have any worries there, Kurt. The whole village is only two or three blocks long. We'll be back in plenty of time."

"Now remember, Joseph, I want you to use only Cree while we're in town. I'll try to translate for Agnes."

"Âha."

Svend turned to Agnes. "That means, yes."

"Shall we get something to eat before we start?" Agnes asked.

Svend translated, "Â.hâw." Joseph nodded and pointed to the inn just off the pier.

Lunch was amusing for the young people as Svend stumbled over his translations. When they finished their meals, the innkeeper asked what was going on. Agnes explained. She pointed to Svend. "He is trying to learn the language of the natives where we are heading and Joseph is teaching him. He has to act as interpreter and translate anything we say, back and forth." She smiled. "He's still learning."

Svend immediately tried to stammer out to Joseph what Agnes said.

Joseph corrected two words and then added, "Ahay kîsposâkow. Tânitowahk wiyâs."

Svend turned to the innkeeper. "He says, 'Thank you for the excellent meal and wants to know what type of meat it was.'"

"Some of our local sheep."

As he tried to translate, Svend was stymied for a word for sheep. He tried a pantomime and then "baaed." He was saved when the sound of the bells came through the open rear door of the kitchen. He quickly paid for their meals and called for Joseph and Agnes to follow him. The sheep that the settlers were bringing were being driven to the wharf. Svend pointed to them and said, "sheep." He then asked Joseph, "How do you say 'sheep' in Cree?"

Joseph looked at the wooly beasts, looked at Svend and said deadpan, "sheep."

Svend's jaw dropped. Joseph walked over to get a better look at the first sheep he had ever seen. Agnes was laughing so hard, she was nearly in tears. She gasped for breath and sat down on a piling. Once she recovered her composure, Svend offered her a hand up. She stood up but tripped on a nail and stumbled into Svend's arms. She murmured something and Svend smiled. Joseph asked for a translation. Svend replied in correct Cree, "None of your business!"

The three walked back up the path by which the sheep had entered the village. After a hundred yards, they were outside the village. Joseph looked around, "Not like Copenhagen, just a bunch of stones." They proceeded to walk around the hills at the outskirts of Stromness and arrived back at the dock an hour later as the last of the sheep were being hoisted on board the Kristina. The noise from the flock was audible across the harbor.

"I'm glad I'm not on that ark." Agnes nodded toward the Kristina. "The noise and smell would be enough to make me want to row to Hudson's Bay."

"That's true, but they eat the best of anyone in the expedition." Svend looked wistfully at the ship, remembering the stew they'd had for lunch and the tough salted meat they'd eaten on the way to Stromness. Breaking out of his reverie, he motioned to the boat, "We'd better get back to our ships. The captain will want to sail soon, now that the sheep are loaded.

* * *

Svend spotted someone on the Hamburg's deck and stood up and waved back.

"Mr. McDermott, would you please sit down and quit rocking the boat? Captain Foxe would not take kindly to my reporting that you drowned while being rowed to the Hamburg," First Mate Barrow said.

"Sorry, sir. I wasn't thinking." Svend tried to look contrite but the object of his attention waved again and his attention was distracted.

"The sea's a harsh mistress and inattention can be fatal."

Svend waved again and John realized he was fighting a losing battle. "Very well, if you must wave, at least stay seated!" The two sailors that were rowing nearly missed a stroke as they laughed at Svend's reaction.

Five minutes later, they boarded the Hamburg. The trip had been brief and easy on the rowers. The Köbenhavn had launched them from ahead of the Hamburg's course and they rowed towards the boarding ropes on the Hamburg's side. They would repeat the maneuver when it was time to return.

Agnes met Svend at the entry port, along with their teacher, Jeremiah Redmond. Sir Thomas had arranged that she would join in the lessons, to further her mathematics education. Any concerns that Agnes might be a distraction had vanished after the first lesson. She was slightly ahead of Svend and a friendly rivalry had developed to see who could get the correct answer first. As a result, they both showed excellent progress. Once they settled into the empty day cabin Captain Rheinwald had set aside for the lessons, Jeremiah started going over what he had planned.

"Today, we will cover calculating the area inside an irregular rectangle. Do you have the answers and drawings to the questions I posed last time?" They both dutifully handed over the calculations. Jeremiah quickly reviewed their homework. "Very good, Master McDermott; however, your answer on the second question is in error. It appears you forgot the offset distance. Otherwise, your other calculations are correct and your draughtmanship is excellent. Mistress Roe, your answers are correct. I see that you still need help sharpening your quills. The technique on your drawings still reflects your problem there." Jeremiah pulled out his knife and showed her the proper technique. He handed the knife to Agnes and had her practice. After three tries, he was satisfied she could do it properly and returned to the math lesson.

* * *

Shortly before the lessons ended a commotion could be heard on deck. Karl Andersen and his sergeant, Wilhelm Engle had arrived from the Wilhelm and started drilling potential militia recruits. The deck space was too limited to attempt any marching drills so Karl had chosen to train the farmers and miners in groups of five on the basics of the arquebus. A barrel had been attached to a line and tossed over the taffrail for a target. When the math lesson ended, the third and last group was preparing to fire their first shot. So far, no one had hit the barrel, and Karl was showing his frustration.

"Now, if you 'gentlemen' would be so kind as to load your weapons as the sergeant showed you, without shooting each other, we'll see if you can at least hit the ocean."

Two of the group snickered.

"You think that's funny? It won't be so funny if the natives attack and you forget how to shoot!"

"But, Captain, Joachim and I already know how to shoot, and we brought our own rifles along. They're a lot better then this crap we're using here!"

The statement stopped Karl dead in his tracks. It had never occurred to him that there might actually be some worthwhile recruits among the passengers. If these two really had rifles, his shortage of qualified scouts might be alleviated. "Go get them and we'll see!" As the two headed below, Engle roared at the other three. "The captain didn't tell you to stop! Keep loading!"

By the time Kurt and Joachim returned, the others had finished loading and stood at the taffrail, aiming at the barrel. Their wives and children stood to the side watching. Karl chivvied Kurt and Joachim to get in line and load. As he saw what they carried, his eyes went wide. He had seldom seen weapons like these, but being the experienced officer he was, he hid his surprise with a roar. "Well, get loaded. I want to see if anyone can hit the barrel. So far, the barrel is winning this war."

The first attempt was by a farmer with an arquebus. He closed his eyes before he shot. The uproll of the ship sent his shot into the unknown.

Karl raised his eyes in supplication. "Not even the ocean!" When he looked back at the farmer, the fury was evident. "Keep your damn eyes open and aim!" He walked over to the next one in line, who was trying to stifle a laugh. "Think you can do any better? Let's see."

He was one of the miners from Amberg. He raised the arquebus, kept his eyes open and fired after the ship reached the top of the wave. The shot was in line with the barrel, but a little low. Karl was pleased. "Not bad, not bad at all. It's better to be low then high. A ricochet might still hit something. If you can do that again next practice, you'll rate out as militia. Give your name to the sergeant." The third in line never even got his weapon up before the gun discharged and he just missed a sailor scrubbing the deck. Karl grabbed the gun and kicked him back toward the group of women who were watching. He pointed with the empty gun at the last two. Kurt stepped up and took aim. The crack of the rifle was decidedly different from the previous shots. So was the result. The bullet left a two inch hole in the barrel. "That good enough, Captain?" Karl just stood there with his mouth open.

Joachim stepped up, raised his rifle, paused until the ship reached the next trough and then fired. He hit one of barrel's bands and the barrel exploded in a shower of staves. He rested the rifle butt on the deck. "My two brothers and I joined a mercenary company after the sawmill we worked at was ransacked."

"Well, you're back as scouts! Give the sergeant your names. It'll mean an extra bonus each month."

Karl walked over to Captain Rheinwald. "Pardon my intrusion Captain, but do you know where Master Mc Dermott is? Captain Foxe asked me to give him a shooting lesson when I finished with the militia trainees."

"Here's your student now." Rheinwald motioned to Svend, whose head was just coming into view.

Joachim was showing his rifle to the sergeant as Svend and Agnes walked past. The simple lines caught Svend's eye and he paused to admire it. Karl walked over and spoke to Svend. "An interesting weapon, yes? Did Captain Foxe mention that he wanted me to give you a shooting lesson today?"

"Yes, just before I left. I was coming to see you."

Joachim tapped Svend on the shoulder, the rifle extended in his other hand. "Here, try this one. It was my younger brother's and it's a lot better then one of the old arquebuses." He reached for his powderhorn. "Let me show you how it's loaded."

Svend's delight with the offer was evident. "Thank you. I'll be careful with it."

After a half hour lesson in the care and loading of a rifle, Svend was ready to try his first shot. Joachim explained how to shoot. "Snug the rifle up to your shoulder. If you don't, you'll get a nasty bruise. Then sight down the barrel and line up your target with the sight on the end. Take a breath and hold it. Make sure you keep your eye on the target. Slowly exhale and then squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it or you'll miss. Remember to allow for the roll of the ship and the movement of the target. Now try it!" A new barrel was pitched over the railing.

Svend went through the instructions in his head. Just as he pulled the trigger the ship pitched a little and the shot missed by a foot.

"Not bad for a beginner. Now try reloading faster and let's shoot again." By the fifth shot, Svend had the reloading down to just over thirty seconds and had hit the barrel twice.

Karl stepped over. "Very good Mr. Hasselman. Your pupil learns quickly!" Svend also thanked Joachim and returned the rifle.

"You're a good shot, sir. I'd welcome you on a hunt with me anytime." Pulling out a cleaning kit, Joachim showed Svend how to clean the gun.

Karl watched thoughtfully. I think I may have found my sergeant of scouts. I'll talk with him later.

After the lesson, Svend managed to get Agnes to a quiet spot on the main deck where they could talk without being overheard. John was already hauling the boat in for the return trip and time was short. "I'll be back on Saturday to pick up the weekly reports. Do you think you'll have a chance to talk to your uncle by then?"

"I've already dropped some hints and he didn't seem surprised. I should have a chance after supper tonight."

"Then Saturday it is!" Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Svend leaned over to give Agnes a quick kiss. She drew it out longer than he'd hoped for. A yell from John Barrow that the boat was ready hurried him off, with dreams of future happiness, but some trepidation about his upcoming meeting with Sir Thomas.

* * *

"I'm glad this is the last ship, Mr. McDermott. These waves are making for a long pull today." Svend was finishing his weekly rounds, picking up the ships' log entries. An oilskin packet had been needed today to keep the pages dry. As they reached the Hamburg, the boatman reminded him, "Watch the battens. They're awfully slippery in this weather."

"I'll be careful, Mr. Dunn. I don't relish a swim in these waters." Timing his leap, Svend grabbed hold of the side ropes and carefully made his way up the side to the entry port. A seaman met him at the port and handed Svend the Captain's report. A second seaman dropped a rope over the side so the boat could be secured and towed until they reached a point ahead of the Köbenhavn. Svend excused himself to find Agnes and Sir Thomas. He took off the boatcape he had worn to protect himself from the sea spray. He was dressed in his best outfit. He had rehearsed all week what he planned to say. He reached Sir Thomas' cabin and knocked on the door. After a few seconds wait, Agnes opened it.

"Is Sir Thomas in?"

From the connecting cabin, Sir Thomas called out, "Come in, Mr. McDermott, we've been expecting you."

Agnes stepped aside and primly folded her hands behind her back. Svend took a deep breath and stepped in. Agnes stayed behind as he entered Sir Thomas' day cabin. Svend stood there, suddenly unsure how to start.

"Well, don't just stand there, come in! Agnes said you needed to see me today." Sir Thomas had a frown on his face and hands on his hips. A few of the planned phrases came back to Svend.

"Sir, I'm here to speak to you about Agnes. I . . ." He paused, unable to go on.

"I'm waiting, son." Sir Thomas' exasperated comment brought Svend back to his task.

"I'm here to speak to you about Agnes."

"You've said that already. Has she done something in class to offend you?"

"Oh, no, sir. It's not that at all."

"Well then, what is it? Your boat will need to be leaving soon." The look on Sir Thomas' face had gotten sterner. Suddenly, a giggle from the other room broke the tension. Sir Thomas broke into a broad grin. He couldn't keep the masquerade up any longer. "All right, son. Agnes has already told me why you're here. Let me have it in your own words."

Svend took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Sir, I would like your permission to court your ward, Agnes Roe."

"You have my permission, but nothing more than courting until we reach the new colony."

Svend's feet were frozen to the floor. "Thank you, sir."

Sir Thomas made a circling motion with his hand. "I think the young lady in question has something she'd like to say to you."

When Svend turned around, Agnes was standing directly behind him. She smiled at this confusion, shook her head, stood on her tip-toes and gave him a long, lingering kiss. After they finished, she looked to Sir Thomas, "Thank you, Uncle." A single tear was perched on her uncle's cheek.

* * *

Every Sunday since the expedition had sailed, an awning and lectern had been set up on the Köbenhavn's maindeck for Pastor Bauman's Sunday sermon. If the previous five Sundays were any indication, the service still had another hour to go. The winds were freshening and the pastor was having trouble keeping his notes in place. Shortly after daybreak, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the overall atmosphere for the service was as gloomy as the weather. Luke checked the sails and then turned and whispered to his first mate, "John, the weather appears to be worsening. I think it's time to take in sail and start the other preparations we discussed."

"It'll mean interrupting the sermon," John's solemn tone was betrayed by his look of relief.

"So be it. I always did favor brevity in a sermon."

John rose and called out, "All hands prepare to take in sail!" The sailors quickly headed to their stations.

Luke walked over to the lectern, "Sorry, Pastor, we'll have to end early this week. The weather's worsening and we'll need to clear the deck."

Three pages of the sermon escaped and were quickly blown over the side. "I understand, my son."

Luke called out, "Hoist the signal for the other ships to reduce sail. No sense in scattering more than we have to."

As the afternoon wore on, the winds continued to increase, along with the height of the waves. Just before sunset, Luke sent Svend to the foretop crosstrees to check on the other ships. After five minutes, he called down, "They're all still visible. The two fishing boats are just visible to the west, the Kristina and the Henriette Marie are just about a mile to the northwest, the Wilhelm is about two miles dead ahead, and the Hamburg is about a mile to the southwest."

"Can you see any problems?"

"I can see some activity on the Hamburg's deck around the masts, but can't make out what's going on."

"Very well. Come down." As Svend descended, Luke mulled over the situation. Svend swung down from the chains and headed for the aftercastle to return the telescope. A large wave broke over the side and nearly knocked him off his feet. He came up sputtering. Luke decided it was time.

"John, rig safety ropes. It's going to get worse and I don't want someone swept overboard. I want just the foretopsail set and double reefed. Also, rig relief gear for the rudder and relieve the helmsman every hour. We don't need an accident from worn out gear or men."

"Aye aye, sir." John quickly set about his tasks.

A thoroughly soaked Svend handed the telescope to Luke. "Do you think that the other ships will be all right?"

"I hope so, son. We've done everything we can. I just hope the Hamburg's masts hold up."

"I do too, sir." Svend was worried about a special person on board her. He certainly wasn't going to be able to see Agnes today like he had promised.

* * *

Throughout the night, the weather worsened. By morning, gale winds lashed the seas to twenty foot waves. The entire ship creaked as her hull flexed on the waves. The pumps were started to keep up with the leaks caused by seams gradually working open. Their monotonous clanking added to the din.

Breakfast consisted solely of dried biscuit. It was too rough to risk lighting a galley fire. After choking down a biscuit, Svend went on deck. He tied on a safety line, and went up in the afterchains to see if any of the other ships could be spotted. Only the Hamburg and the Kristina were visible. Two other dark shapes to the northeast might have been the Henriette Marie and the Wilhelm. When he reported to the captain, Luke didn't appear concerned about the missing fishing boats.

"They're built for this type of weather. They're probably well ahead and off to the northwest. We're about where they planned to separate from us anyways and they can run with the wind. They'll keep their distance so no one runs them down in the dark. We're more of a danger to them than the weather."

Svend reluctantly went below. The rough weather was affecting the passengers and the smells below deck were worsening. At least the cabin was slightly drier than the box on deck.

When the evening watch ended an hour later, John came on deck to relieve Luke. "You need to get some rest, Captain. You'll be no use in an emergency if you're too tired to think quickly."

"You're right, John. I'll be in my cabin. The good Lord knows I need some rest. If the weather worsens, don't hesitate to call me!"

"You can count on me, sir!"

* * *

The next morning, it was obvious the ship was struggling. The moan of the wind in the rigging set teeth on edge and the clank of the pumps continued. The smell below decks was revolting. No food had been prepared since the previous noon but many passengers still had the dry heaves. John reported to the captain on conditions below decks. From the companionway door, Svend was able to eavesdrop on them.

"The pumps are barely staying up with the water, sir. The hull's working so much from this action; the seams are leaking. We have to do something. We can't keep the wind and the waves on our quarter. The aftercastle's acting like a sail trying to turn the ship. If we should lose the rudder, we'll turn and broach before we can react."

"I agree. We need to change course. But, if we run with the wind, we could end up near New Amsterdam. We need to hold our position. Summon the hands. We'll turn into the wind and set out a sea anchor. If we do it now, while we still have some men that aren't too worn out, it should succeed."

An older sail was brought up from the sail locker and modified to act as a sea anchor. Four extra men stood by at the wheel to help the master. Another stood by with the captain's telescope. Svend just stayed out of the way and watched.

"As soon as the foretopsail's reefed, be ready to drop the sea anchor as soon as you're certain we're going to be able to come about."

"Aye aye, Captain." Fatigue was evident in John's face.

Luke turned to the group at the wheel. "All our lives are going to be in your hands. Once the sail's are reefed, she's going to want to try to turn from the wind pressure on the stern. You have to hold her! We'll go about as we reach the crest of a wave. Let the wind and the rudder work together. I'll give you a warning as the wave approaches. Understand?" The grim nods assured Luke they knew what to do.

As the ship reached the top of the next crest, Luke scanned to horizon to see if any rogue waves could be spotted. The rain and spray reduced visibility. Within the limited horizon from the storm, everything was clear. He called out, "Reef the foretopsail, Mr. Barrow, and prepare the sea anchor!"

John and the sailors in the foretop started to reef in the sail. Immediately, the master at the helm motioned for help. Luke was watching the waves approach from the stern, counting the time between crests. When one of the hands called out that the sail was furled, Luke stepped over to the wheel. "Mr. Cochrane, we're going to do it on the next wave. Let her sag a point off to port now. When I tell you, take her hard-a-port."

"Aye aye, Captain. Hard-a-port on your command."

The ship settled to the bottom of the trough and then the stern started to rise. As soon as he could see over the wave, Luke gave the signal for hard-a-port and the rudder was set hard over. The effect was immediate. The ship tilted to starboard and started turning. John cast loose the sea anchor just as the crest of the wave passed the bow. Two more men joined those at the wheel to hold it. Everyone held their breath, trying to turn the ship by prayer alone.

They had timed it perfectly. By the time the ship sank in the next trough, the sea anchor had taken hold and the result on the ship's motion was noticeable. With her head into the wind, the corkscrew action was gone and one man could handle the wheel.

A cannon shot sounded through the wind.

A quick scan of the horizon showed two ships still within view. The Kristina was about a mile astern, off the port quarter, and appeared to be readying for the same maneuver the Köbenhavn had just completed. The other ship was the Hamburg and she was definitely in trouble. She was missing her bonaventure mast completely and the mizzenmast appeared damaged. Rheinwald's only choice seemed to be to try and run with the wind. She quickly disappeared into the rain squalls.

Luke murmured, "May God have mercy on them," closed the telescope and returned to the tasks of steadying the Köbenhavn on its new heading. There was nothing he could do to help.

* * *

It took two more days for the storm to blow itself out. By noon the third day, the wind had veered to the south and brought a warm hint of spring. Four very bedraggled looking ships regrouped and hove to within hailing distance to begin repairs. After sunset, Luke retired to his cabin to eat his first hot meal in four days and consider the impact of the damage on the expedition. The Kristina had lost a mainmast spar that carried away a ten foot section of rail when it came down. Captain Johannson had been able to salvage the spar and was preparing to raise it back into place. The livestock had suffered minimal losses, thanks to an ingenious idea by one of the sheep farmers from Stromness. A little whiskey in the feed grain had kept the larger animals relaxed. The Wilhelm had suffered the only known casualties of the storm. Two sailors had been washed overboard and an older farmer had died of an apparent heart attack. Luke planned to be rowed over in the morning with Pastor Bauman to conduct a funeral and memorial service. The Henriette Marie had only minor damage. There was no sign of the Hamburg or the two fishing boats. Given the situation the last time he saw her, Luke was certain the Hamburg had gone down. The two fishing boats were probably already off the Grand Banks fishing.

An insistent voice finally broke through his musings. Svend repeated his question again. "How soon do you think we'll sight the Hamburg?"

Luke started to voice his thoughts, but paused when he realized why Svend was so concerned. There was a slight chance she was still safe so he softened the answer. "I don't know, son. Rheinwald's one of the best captains I know. Given the damage they had the last time I saw them, they're not likely to be able to rendezvous before we reach Bell Island. If the winds go foul or she meets another storm, we might not see her until after we reach Hudson's Bay."

Svend visibly brightened. "I know she's all right. I'd sense it if she was gone."

Luke started to ask how he could tell when a ship was all right when he realized who the "she" was. He put his arm around Svend's shoulder, "I know you're close to Agnes, but when the sea's harsh, how do you know she's safe?"

"I've known when people close to me were in trouble. I knew when Father died. I'm sure she's fine."

Luke's unspoken thought was, "Keep your hopes, son. They're all we have now and they're thin at best."

* * *

The next morning, an unexpected cry roused the ship.

"Land ho, off the starboard bow!"

There was a rush of feet on deck as the passengers and crew hurried to catch sight of land. Svend went to Captain Foxe's cabin to make sure he'd been told. He passed John Barrow on the way. When he entered the cabin, Luke was slowly getting dressed.

"Sir, aren't you coming on deck?"

"There's no hurry, we're still nearly a week from land."

"But the sighting?"

"I believe we'll find out shortly that the land is nothing but an iceberg. I'm surprised we haven't seen them sooner."

Two minutes later, John knocked on the door and then entered, "As you suspected, Captain, just an iceberg. I'll have the boat ready for you after you finish eating."

Luke nodded and motioned Svend to have a seat at the table, "After you finish breakfast, make sure to dress warmly. I'd like you to accompany the pastor and me for the service. I'll have some words to say afterward and I'd like you to hear them."

After a quick meal, Svend ducked back to his cabin and picked up his cloak. When he emerged on deck, John already had the boat alongside. A quick glance around the horizon now showed a number of icebergs in sight, including a small one that was passing off the starboard side. In the early morning light, it appeared blue-white and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. A pair of bedraggled albatrosses were perched on it, resting. "I wish Agnes was here to see this. When I get back, maybe I'll draw a picture of it for her." He hurried across the deck and carefully climbed down the battens to the waiting boat.

The sea was smooth, with light swells. The rowers had the boat alongside the Wilhelm in less than five minutes.

Captain de Puyter greeted them as they boarded. "Pastor Bauman, thank you for agreeing to hold the service. The sailors also appreciate your offer to say a few words for their mates." As de Puyter shook the pastor's hand, Luke could see his own exhaustion from the past few days reflected in Jan's eyes.

Captain James was the last to arrive. When he joined the group by the starboard rail, Captain de Puyter hove to, summoned the remainder of his crew on watch and the service commenced. The canvas wrapped body of Johannes Brueck was already resting on a board at the side port. His wife and grown son stood by as Pastor Bauman read the commitment service. When he finished, Captain de Puyter signaled for the seamen that had been standing by. The board was tipped and the body slid quietly into the sea. After a few private words of comfort to the new widow, Pastor Bauman continued with the memorial service for the sailors.

Svend stood quietly with Luke; hand on his shoulder, waiting for the service to end. When Pastor Bauman started to speak on those lost aboard the fishing boats and the Hamburg, Svend took a deep breath and was ready to speak out. Luke's grip tightened in warning. He cautioned in a whisper, "Not now, son. Many of the sailors and settlers had friends on the Hamburg. It will calm them for the moment and means nothing if he's wrong."

Svend gave a sullen look, but held his tongue. After the service, Luke stepped forward to add some remarks. "We've come through trials in the past few days that would have taxed the Israelites. But the journey is nearly done for many of you. Within the week, we will make landfall on Bell Island. When we land, those of you who will be staying will immediately start to erect housing. When that's finished, you'll be called upon to establish the rules and laws you will live under. Our charter allows a great deal of latitude in how you govern yourselves. Before we reach Newfoundland, each ship will appoint three delegates for a committee to draft laws. I plan to explore the coast with the Köbenhavn and don't expect to remain more than two weeks before pushing on to Hudson's Bay with the rest of the expedition. Hopefully, our missing ships will rendezvous with us before we leave. I have a copy of the founding documents from the Virginia and Plymouth colonies and also some from Grantville for suggestions on your convention. We're going to be in a New World and that calls for new ideas. Choose your delegates well.

"Captains, if you would see that your ships' companies receive the same directions and these copies, I would be obliged."

The passengers gathered around those who could read to learn what the documents said. Luke steered Svend through the crowd toward the boat. He spoke just loud enough for Svend to hear. "This should give them something to take their minds off the tragedies of the past week."

* * *

As they rowed back to the Köbenhavn, Luke contemplated the mood of the settlers. By and large, they appeared to have stoically accepted the recent setbacks. Suddenly, a scream from the deck of the Wilhelm broke the silence. Two passengers were pointing ahead of the boat. The rowers lost their stroke as they turned to see what the passengers were pointing at. A dark shape rose out of the water within yards of the boat. A spray of water drenched all aboard. The younger of the sailors screamed, "A monster!" and scrambled for the stern.

Luke grabbed him by the collar and threw him back on his seat. "Belay that! That's no monster. It's a whale." The other sailor stood in a defensive pose with his oar raised. Luke waved him back to his seat. "It won't hurt us if we don't anger it. Put the oar down. You wouldn't do more than tickle it with something that small."

Svend was fascinated. A moment later, two more whales broached the surface. The smallest of the three, a baby by its size, was curious and swam within an arm's length of the boat. The look in its eye convinced Svend it was friendly and meant no harm. Without thinking, Svend reached out and stroked its smooth skin.

"Be careful, son," Luke said.

The baby stayed nearby for the rest of the trip back to the Köbenhavn. When Svend boarded, it disappeared below the waves. John was standing by the rail, staring at the two larger whales as they cavorted on the surface, almost as if they were dancing.

"Did you see that, Mr. Barrow? The little one let me touch it. It looked like it wanted to talk." Svend was nearly breathless from the excitement.

"Aye, it did look friendly, but next time you might not be as lucky. We're going into the unknown and you need to think before you act." John gave him his best glare but realized it was a lost cause.

The whales remained in the vicinity until the afternoon. Svend completed a series of drawings and showed them to Luke. The picture of the baby near the boat seemed to be almost alive. "Svend, you have a real talent. It's a shame you won't have a teacher to work with you further."

"That's all right. I like to do it, but I really am looking forward to the exploring. If the drawings help that, I'll keep it up."

* * *

By the time the sun set, all repairs were completed. The ships shook out their sails and the course was set to the north-northwest. Luke surveyed the remaining ships. Everything appeared to be in order. He had the log cast. They were making five knots.

"Well, John, if this wind holds, we should sight Bell Island in three to four days."

"I hope you don't jinx us, sir. I'll settle for a safe arrival."

Over the next two hours, the winds died down. For three days, the winds barely gave the ships steerage way. Finally, they resumed a steady southeasterly breeze. The next two days passed uneventfully. Svend spent his free time sketching the increasing varieties of birds that portended landfall. The most interesting was a strange, large billed bird; Captain Foxe called it a 'puffin.' The next morning, the sky to the south was red. Svend noticed John and Luke pointing and commenting. The only part of the conversation he caught was, "storm to the south, but it should miss." The sky turned cloudy as they day wore on and the seas were choppy. There was no chance to take a noon sight aboard the Köbenhavn. An hour before sundown, Luke passed within hail of the Henriette Marie.

Taking a speaking trumpet, Luke hailed Captain James. "We're very close by my reckoning. For safety, we'll reduce sail to topsails only and should sight land in the morning." The passengers on deck took a moment to realize what had been said. A cheer started and soon all the ships heard the news. Sails were quickly taken in and the four ships gathered together to await the dawn as they steered north-northwest.

Svend rose early and dressed by the light of the false dawn. After checking with John for permission, he ascended the foremast with his papers, pencils and a telescope. The western horizon was still dark but shortly after the sun rose, a reflection from what could only be distant hills brought a call of "Land ho!" from the lookout at the mainmast. The passengers and crew boiled on deck to catch their first glimpse of the New World.

A delegation of passengers approached the aftercastle to inquire when they would be landing. They were somewhat crestfallen when Luke informed they wouldn't make their anchorage until the next evening or the following day. A light breeze from the south helped to make for a smooth passage. Around noon, under cloudy skies, a second headland appeared to the west. Svend kept busy sketching the views as they headed north. As the sun was setting, a final headland appeared. He only had time to do a brief sketch before the darkness forced him down to make way for the sailors furling sails for the night.

The next morning, the sun broke through the clouds. At noon, Captain Foxe was able to get a solid position fix and the ships turned to the south. As the ships tacked back and forth to make their way against the head wind, the day seemed to drag on interminably. At dusk, the ships hove to near the north end of Bell Island. The southern facing shores were covered in huge piles of ice. Luke repeated the previous evening's maneuver and hailed Captain James. "It looks like the ice is out. We should have clear sailing from here. We'll heave to and wait until morning to explore the coast for the best anchorage. I want a full day and sunlight when we land."

Captain James agreed. "The days are still short. If we run into hostile inhabitants, we'll need all the daylight we can get. I'll pass the word to the other ships."

The weather held clear that night, but no lights were visible from the distant shore. The land seemed deserted. At the first hint of light, sails were set and the ships headed south. Just before noon, the cry of "sail ho!" interrupted the exploration.

Luke called to the lookout, "How many?"

"Only one, Captain!"

"Can you make out who it is?"

"It's the Bluefin. I recognize the cut of her sails. They appear to have a number of fires going on shore. I can see their smoke!"

"Mr. Barrow, set a course toward her. We'll anchor offshore."

As they glided up to the anchorage, Luke studied the activity on shore. "It appears they've been here a few days. They're building drying racks for fish and huts for the crew. I hope they have news for us." He continued to survey the shore. The size of the clearing hinted at earlier visitors. Snow was still visible in the shadows and the ground was churned up mud around the huts.

At an hour past noon on April 5th, Captain Foxe landed at Newfoundland. Captain Nielsen met him as he set foot on the rocky shore. "Welcome, Captain Foxe. It's been quiet since we landed. We found some broken tools and three graves, but the natives haven't shown themselves"

Anxious for other news, Luke asked, "What happened after we parted? Do you have any word on the Bridget or the Hamburg?"

"Nothing on the Hamburg. We sailed with the Bridget to the Banks as agreed. Shortly before we arrived there, we met an Englishman loaded with cod and bound for England. He passed word that a Dutch frigate was raiding English and French ships on the Banks. He also said word had recently come that Gustavus had defeated Denmark and a new alliance was rumored. Captain Anders and I agreed, I would head here and prepare the site for whatever he caught." He motioned over his shoulder past the huts. "Before I forget, we've already found plenty of fresh water."

"You did well, Lars. We will start landing supplies and the settlers immediately. I just want to explore the coast and see if anyone else has settled here."

Copenhagen, June 1634

The opening days of the Congress of Copenhagen had been stiff, formal and boring. The Grantville contingent was in Mike and Becky's suite sipping wine and trying to unwind.

Francisco Nasi came in with two younger men and a middle-aged lady. The two men bore a family resemblance. Francisco was waving a large broadside at them. When Francisco spotted Mike, he glared at the men and motioned for all three to follow him.

Mike recognized the look. "Okay, Francisco, what's up?"

"Mike, I'd like to introduce two distant cousins of mine, Saul and Reuben Abrabanel. It seems they've helped launch a settlement expedition."

Mike nodded, "And the lady?"

"Mette Foxe. Her husband is the commander of the expedition." He then showed Mike the broadside. Mike read it and his eyes widened in disbelief. As Francisco waited for the explosion, Mike read the paper a second time and then a third and then started to laugh. He waved the broadside at the Abrabanels and pointed to the last paragraph. "Did you really get King Christian to pay for the passages?"

Saul turned to Reuben. "See, I told you he was very perceptive!"

Francisco interrupted before they could continue. "But Mike, this adds another problem to the negotiations. Who owns the settlement?"

"Why, no one! They're an independent company." Mike's smiling face would have done Buddha proud. "Relax, Francisco. I see this as an opportunity. Christian can't very well come out about it now, since he didn't say anything about it in the preliminaries. I'd been wondering how to handle any future settlements. Now maybe we can slip something in without Christian or Gustav noticing." He stared at the broadside, deep in thought. "Keep this low key. I'll want to talk to Becky about it."

As Mike headed back to his guests, Francisco thought he caught the word, "commonwealth."

* * *

No Ship for Tranquebar, Part Two

Written by Kevin H. and Karen C. Evans

Copenhagen
Late December 1635

Marlon Pridmore had some apprehension about this first day of work. He had yet to meet the crew, and he didn't relish the thought of walking into the middle of a project. Nevertheless, he walked into the shops with Cornelius Holgarsson, the head of the group of investors sponsoring the project. "Well, what do I need to know to get started?"

Cornelius grinned. "Let me show you around a little." He took Marlon over to a small group of men. "Marlon, this is Rikard, the shipwright. He's intensely interested in speaking to you about several key pieces of information."

"That's what I'm here for. Take your best shot, Herr Shipwright."

Rikard began. "Herr Pridmore, we desperately need to know a few things to continue on with our project. The first and most important involves the actual lifting capacity of hydrogen gas. Encyclopedias and information that we've been able to access up till now mention the size of historic airships, their lifting capacity, and how much power they needed, but neglect to say how much the gas could lift by cubic volume. We have put together an estimate of the size of the airship we need, and have prepared frames for a hangar to enclose the construction, but we can't make any final determinations because we literally do not know how big to build it."

"Cornelius has shown me your plans, "Marlon said. "I'm impressed; your basic drawings are actually very good." He walked over to a chalkboard and picked up a piece of chalk. Just like the training classes at the bank, he thought.

"The information you need is that one thousand cubic feet of hydrogen will lift approximately sixty-six pounds. The airship you prepared for is actually quite a bit larger than what I would have thought to try for a first airship, but my first rough estimate shows that the airship we are building needs to be about six hundred fifty feet long and around seventy feet in diameter. That means we need a hangar about seven hundred feet long and about ninety feet high inside."

Rikard nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. We actually designed our prototype around the dimensions of the Graf Zeppelin, found in the encyclopedia. The dimensions you recommend are only about two thirds the size of our initial airship plans."

"Yes, I'm very concerned about getting a hangar to work in. It seems to me that it might take quite a bit of time to get something large enough built."

Cornelius looked at Rikard then laughed. "This is the information we needed. So we are building the hangar tomorrow. You need to come with us in the morning."

* * *

The next morning dawned crisp and cold There was no snow on the ground, but the clouds threatened more soon. The field was a hive of activity. There were more men and ox teams than Marlon expected.

Two lines of holes were dug parallel to each other on the field. Stacks of what appeared to be frameworks of wood and piles of spars were scattered along the lines of holes, along with huge piles of what looked like brush.

Rikard walked over and spoke to a large man holding a maul in his hand. After a moment Rikard shouted something to the crew, and held both fists above his head, thumbs pointing up. That was the signal, and shouts began echoing across the field. Large masses of men and animals took up ropes and began to heave. Slowly a flimsy-looking framework lifted into the sky.

"Cornelius, that doesn't look very strong," Marlon said. "It doesn't even look strong enough to hold its own weight. Are you sure it can do what we need?"

Cornelius nodded. "We think so. It's really not unlike an oversized version of the cattle barns you find all over the country. It is perhaps four times larger than anything that we would normally build, but once the arches are tied together, and the thatch is on, the structure will become very solid. The thing we were worried most about is that it's so light that there's a chance of it blowing away in a high wind. So we've used sunken anchors so that we can cable the structure to the ground."

"Okay. I can see what you're trying to do, the big arches will form the framework, and the brush pile will be the roof, but what are the smaller arches for?"

Cornelius responded, "Those arches will form the dormers. After the room is thatched, we will add windows. We must have some form of light inside the building, and a large building built of wood is not the best place for torches or fires."

Copenhagen
Christmas 1635

King Christian demanded that the "flying machine expert" have an office near the palace. He wanted to be able to ask questions whenever he pleased. A contract for Marlon's consultant work with the king of Denmark was drawn up, very similar in some ways to the patronage contracts that circulated among the artists and painters of the time.

Just before Christmas, the Pridmores moved to a townhouse much closer to the royal residence. Reva settled into preparing for the festive season.

The truth was, she had become a little bored with her role as lay-about rich lady. She really welcomed the opportunity to have a project to fill her time. Marlon had been busy from the day they left Grantville, so wasn't available very often.

So she threw herself into celebrating Christmas. The season started with Advent, the fourth Sunday before Christmas day. And candles were really big.

By December 24th, she had the house decorated with wreaths and candles. Marlon was in his office in the front room, working on drawings for the airship all day. He had promised to quit in time for dinner. Just to be sure, Reva threatened Gregers with expulsion from the celebrations if he failed to bring Marlon back in time. She was confident that it would do the trick.

Just before the dinner hour, the door of the studio office opened, and Marlon strolled out. Gregers came behind him, and blew out a long sigh as he slipped into the kitchen.

Marlon stretched, and worked his way out of his doublet. "Reva? What was all the fuss? I'm trying to work out just how much horse power this steam engine will . . ."

His words dribbled away as he looked around. Candles were burning everywhere in the room, and a tree stood in the corner, waiting for the small candles to be lit. Reva stood to one side with a plate of cookies in her hand, and a wreath on her head.

Marlon blinked like an owl suddenly wakened in the daytime. "What's all this?"

"It's Christmas Eve, Swordfish. Glaedelig Jul. I hope I said that right. I've been practicing all afternoon."

Marlon still looked mystified, so Reva explained. "You've been so busy I didn't want to disturb you, but now it's time for the holiday. If you go back to the shop, you're just keeping all your assistants away from their families. And they're too polite to tell you. Now hang up that jacket, and go wash up. It's time for Christmas."

* * *

With supper finished, and the evening drawing to a close, Marlon and Reva sat in what they thought of as their living room. The light was dimmer, and only a few candles were still burning. Marlon was sipping glogg, and Reva had some tea. It was very romantic.

Reva set her cup on the table and snuggled next to her husband. "Marlon, I've been thinking."

If Marlon had been alert, this would have sent alarms rattling up and down his spine. But the fortified wine had him feeling very warm and mellow. He just put his arm around her and said, "Hmm?"

"What are your plans for the next six months to a year ? Just how long is this going to take?"

Marlon leaned back and stared at Reva for a moment. He hadn't really looked at her for a couple of weeks. Just too much going on. Now he saw that she was happy and rosy-cheeked. "Well," he said. "I'd have to say that we may be here at least a year. Maybe longer. Why? Are you in a hurry to leave?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I've got something I want you to think about for a while. You're almost in your dodderage, and I'm no spring chicken. And what exactly do we have waiting for us back at Grantville? I've had all the holidays I can take watching my nieces and nephews get married. It would be different if we had children of our own, but you know all about that. Maybe it's time for you to retire from the bank, and make this move to Denmark permanent."

Marlon opened his mouth to protest, but Reva hurried on. "Now hear me out. I know that you were kind of pushing the idea around in your head of writing a will, and selling the farm to Bernard. It would give him something tangible to leave to Helga and Ulrich. All I'm saying, is that now may be just the time for that. You're happy in your projects, and I have something fun just about to take off. Why don't you think about that for a while?"

Marlon didn't know what to say. This was all such a surprise.

Copenhagen
January 1636

When Marlon agreed to be a consultant for The Royal Airship Company of Denmark, he sent word to Coleman at the bank and Bernard at the farm. He needed Bernard to send all the magazines and manuals and technical specification books he had collected over the years. There were several boxes of them in the attic of the house.

Today, the middle of January, his supplies from home finally arrived. He had no scheduled meetings, so he busied himself with his office. He was there mostly to stay out of Reva's way. Her boxes from home had also arrived, and she was busy unpacking and arranging everything just so.

One of Marlon's boxes held things he had forgotten about for many years. Before leaving the army, he had packed up his "I Love Me" wall, and never thought about the certificates and plaques again. Now here they were.

Suddenly it felt intensely important to hang up all his framed stuff. Sending for a hammer and a few nails, he started. The wall was a military tradition of his younger years. He enjoyed putting his war certificates and memorabilia on the wall as kind of a reminder of what he'd been and where he wanted to go.

In the middle of the mess, in walked King Christian. "Ah, so now you are a decorator? What is so important that you must put holes in the walls yourself?"

"Well, your Majesty, this is a reminder of my military career in my former life."

King Christian stepped close, examining all the pictures. "And this photograph, what is it?"

Marlon glanced over, but he knew that one very well. "That's a picture of my first jump."

His Majesty raised his eyebrows. "Jump?"

Marlon was finding out that consulting with the king was a job that he would be called upon to do at the drop of a hat. "Yes. When I was in the army, my unit was specially trained to parachute out of aircraft."

Christian continued his investigation. "And this photograph?"

"That is me getting my 'tab.' It's an award given in recognition of the completion of an extremely difficult course of training."

Christian returned to the first photograph. "How hard is this jumping with a parachute?"

"Did you hear about that woman using a parachute in Magdeburg? She's making parachutes now for the air force. Her name is Tracy Kubiak."

King Christian continued to examine the photographs, and Marlon could tell that the wheels were turning. The monarch was already thinking about his own parachute adventure.

Marlon stepped to another box and pulled out a paperback manual. "This is the instruction for a job we called a rigger. This job included repairing and packing the parachute."

Reaching farther into the box, Marlon pulled out a collection of straps and buckles. "This is the harness that I wore when I was jumping. We called it a Flintstone because it was an old-style harness that dated back almost twenty years before I went to jump school. This harness was used for almost forty years because it was absolutely reliable."

The discussion continued, with the king becoming more and more excited, and with Marlon reminiscing about his experiences in the military. As the afternoon waned, King Christian finally ran out of questions. "Marlon, I think it time to dress for dinner. You are attending this evening, aren't you?"

Marlon tried to hide his shudder. State dinners were always a little stultified and boring. "Of course, Your Majesty. My wife informs me that I have a new doublet just for the occasion."

"Excellent." Christian picked up the harness and the manual, and headed for the door. But before he left, he turned. "And I think it important to contact that Kubiak woman. She should come out some time this spring, and tell us everything she knows about this parachute. Arrange it, won't you?"

And with that, the monarch swept from the office.

Copenhagen
April 1636

Marlon hurried into his townhouse, shouting. "Reva! Sweet-pea! Where is that woman when I need her?"

He continued to shout and carry on until Gregers came into the salon. "Herr Pridmore, what is the problem? You are looking for your wife?"

"Yes, Gregers. I thought that was obvious. Is she here? I need to talk to her."

"Sir, she isn't here at the moment, but I think I know where to find her. Do you want me to send her a message?"

"No, I want her here as soon as possible. Oh, fine. Send her a message, and have her find me in my workshop. I need her quickly."

Twenty minutes later, Reva walked into the workshop and looked around. For a moment, she didn't spot her husband, but then saw him near the blackboard, pacing. He didn't seem to be mortally wounded even though the message from Gregers contained very strong demands. "Marlon, for heaven's sake. What's wrong with you? I told you this morning I'd be in town all day. Why did you scare Gregers so badly? I thought for sure you had had a heart attack or something. What's the problem?"

Marlon ran to her, took her hands in his and led her to some chairs nearby. "Reva, I desperately need somebody I can trust to do me an enormous favor."

"There are lots of people you can trust, aren't there?"

Marlon let out a huge sigh. "The only person I think I can really trust with this is you. I really need somebody to go to Venice and get me some glass."

"This is about glass? You need me to go and get glass? I don't know anything about the technical stuff, you know that. Why can't you send Rikard? Or that other young man? Gunnar?"

Marlon struggled, and got his excitement under control. "I need to send you because you have a way of getting what you want. I don't want to say you intimidate people, but it is awful hard to deny you anything when you have your bulldozer act going."

Reva's brow was low and clouded, and any husband in the vicinity should recognize that the weather was not good for flying. But Marlon ignored his trepidations and continued quickly. "Reva, you can fly out of Amsterdam to Grantville and then from Grantville to Venice. There's a multi-engine airplane on that route now. I don't need a lot of glass, just some carefully made to all of my specifications. It's for gauges and watch glasses, that sort of thing. They should be easiest made by the experts on the island Murano."

Reva began to object. "I don't know, Marlon. I don't know anything about your engines and such. You know that the technical stuff just goes in one ear and out the other. Besides, I have obligations . . ."

Marlon interrupted before she could give him too many reasons. He knew how to convince her. "The other thing is this would give you a chance to go to Grantville and talk to your friend, you know the one you've been trying to correspond with? That Home Ec teacher you keep telling me about. I know you have something going on, but this would work for both of us."

Reva was silent for at least thirty seconds while she thought over his last bit of argument. "I only need to get to Venice with your drawings, and wait for them to make the gauges? I'd be gone less than a month?"

"Yes, I can almost guarantee it. And you get a nice visit in Grantville as well."

"Okay, Marlon. You start making arrangements, and I'll see what I can pack."

Marlon didn't say any more, but gave his wife a big hug and kiss.

* * *

Reva had been gone for five days, and Marlon was a wreck. He just couldn't concentrate. He wasn't used to pottering around the house without her nearby. They had worked together at the bank for many years, and then gone home together at night. There were times that he traveled and left her at home, especially when he was in the National Guard as a younger man. But for Marlon, this was the first time he had ever stayed home and waited for Reva to return.

He paced up and down the living room, and he finally became aware of the servants muttering in the other room. He realized that they wanted to come in and clean, and he was disrupting their routine. He let out a huge sigh, and retreated to his bedroom. It had already been made up, and he could be alone here for some time.

It would be at least three more weeks before she came back. Marlon finally pulled himself together and gathered what he might need. He was going out just to clear his head. Today, he decided, was the end of moping. It was time to do something fun. "Gregers, have the boys get the carriage ready. I want to go to the hangar and oversee progress on the engines."

Unbeknownst to Reva, Marlon had brought his favorite shirt to Copenhagen. It actually dated from the late 1970s. After all this time, it was threadbare and faded, but he still loved it. Over the years, Reva had attempted to throw it away, give it away, and burn it in the trash bin. But every time, Marlon always rescued it and smuggled it back into the house.

So today, he pulled the bright yellow T-shirt from underneath his office desk where he kept it hidden. He pulled the shirt over his head, then turned and looked in the reflection of the glass window on the opposite wall. There he stood in his oldest jeans with holes in the knees, work boots with the leather worn off one of the steel toes, and the bright yellow T shirt with a smiley face.

Now he hauled a long drovers coat out. Reva despised the thing, but she wasn't here to express an opinion. Whenever Marlon wore it, he felt like a Texas Ranger. No doubt he looked like an idiot with the long coat over his yellow smiley shirt, but today he didn't care.

He and Gregers left the house, and stepped into the waiting carriage. As they made their way to the outskirts of Copenhagen, Marlon could feel his spirits lift. The hangar workspace was always an enormous amount of fun. Today was a day for working and getting dirty. He headed for the small door on the front of the hangar.

The hangar was always alive with activity, and today was no exception. Many people were busy, beams were being swayed into the air, hammers were beating on metal.

The engines had finally been redesigned. Marlon and Rikard had settled on six V-12, bash-valve steam engines. Mostly because they were not internal combustion, the engines themselves didn't have to contain explosions every time the fuel was ignited. For those reasons, they could be designed as very light, not adding much to the weight of the airship.

Today, six separate crews had been handed the plans, and work was beginning on the casting of the engines. They were not set up for mass factory production, and all agreed that it would be faster if all six engines were assembled simultaneously.

Marlon walked through the shop. It had been a couple of weeks since he'd been in here. He came into the casting shop, and got his first surprise. We're not in Kansas any more, he thought. We're in the seventeenth century.

In the twentieth century, machines were usually not seen at all, or if they were, they were very utilitarian, like diesels and heavy road equipment, or they were slick and plastic, like desktop computers and automobiles.

The seventeenth century had a very different esthetic and he realized that he was about to be treated to a whole world of Baroque and Rococo decorations.

"Herr Shipwright, just where will this casting be on the engine?" Marlon couldn't place the shape or use of the wooden form, because it was full to overflowing with suns and moons and stars. Absurdly, Marlon was suddenly reminded of some wallpaper his grandmother had installed in the "nursery" of her house, where all the children played.

Rikard and the foreman turned, a little surprised. "Ah, Herr Pridmore. I'm glad you're here today. I was going to find time to come to your studio and show you some of the drawings, but here you are."

"I guess this will save us both some time, Rikard. Now, tell me, what will this be? I'm having trouble recognizing it."

"This is the casing for the engine, Herr Pridmore. The shape and size of it is exactly to your specifications, yes? But the foreman and I felt that for something so important as Engine Number One, it needed to look like something that belonged on a royal airship, not something from some backwoods blacksmith shop. So we got the woodcarver to decorate it. What do you think?"

Rather than the plain, functional surface Marlon had included in his drawings, the artisans replaced utilitarian with Baroque. In Marlon's opinion, it verged on the edge of downright gaudy.

"Have you decorated all the engines like this?" Marlon was still trying to get the image of decoration and his understanding of steam engines melded in his thoughts. It was not an easy fit.

"All but number six, Herr Pridmore. The artist we had depended on is down with a fever, and hasn't gotten done. Is there a problem?" Rikard looked confused.

"Oh, no, no. Of course not, Rikard. I just wasn't aware that you planned to decorate the engines. I have no objection. Go right ahead."

* * *

Marlon and Gregers spent the rest of the afternoon moving from one engine crew to another, watching progress as the crews prepared the sand for casting, and the decorated forms.

In the course of the day, Marlon took off his coat, much to the amusement of the workmen at the hangar. They hadn't ever seen something like the smiley shirt. They had heard about blue jeans, but it was the first time they had gotten a close look.

When he laid the drover's coat aside, the first man to see him stopped working, and actually dropped his hammer to the wooden floor. Silence pooled around Marlon like a thick syrup. Many of the down-timers stood with their mouths hanging open as if he had walked into the hangar totally nude. In fact, nudity would not have been as much a shock to the work crew as the smiling face peering at them from Marlon's gut.

By the end of the work day, Marlon was feeling considerably better. Only a little longer, and Reva would be home.

Copenhagen
May 1636

It was a big day for Marlon. He stood at the dock, straightening his lace collar. Today was the day Reva was to arrive from Amsterdam. He had gotten a note from the radio operator last night that the ship had been sighted, and that Reva was aboard.

The wind was fresh and cool, and the sun was warm. The tide was coming in, and the fishing fleet was returning from a long day's work. Then the ship with Dutch flags rounded the protected edge of the bay. Marlon lifted his binoculars, and focused them on the deck of the ship.

His heart fluttered as he spotted Reva. She was wrapped in a cloak and scarf against the cold North Sea winds, but she was his Sweetpea. She stood on the deck, peering at the crowds on the pier. Marlon waved his arm over his head and jumped up a little. After a moment, he could see her wave.

After Reva debarked Marlon wrapped her in a huge bear hug. Eventually, he loosened his hold and let her get her breath. "So how was your international jaunt? What did the glassmakers say about the glasses and gauges?"

"Slow down a little, Swordfish. I just got here. Don't worry about your glass order. They said they could have it here by the end of August unless there were unseen difficulties."

"That's good. I don't think anyone but you could have done it, Sweetpea."

"Well, I'm not sure about that, but it was nice to get to Grantville again. Twila Davis happened to be in town, and lent me a book I've been wanting to read, so I'm doubly lucky. It was sure nice to have lunch with her. I haven't seen her for so long, since she took that job in Magdeburg."

As she was talking, Marlon sent Gregers for her luggage, and escorted her to the carriage. He knew that half the fun of travel for Reva was telling him about everything when she got home.

She caught him up on all the gossip and family news, progress that Bernard had made in building a brandy still on the home lot, and then her adventures in Venice.

Reva was finally winding down, and noticed that they were not in the city, but the carriage was bumping along a country road. "Marlon, where are we going? I thought we were going back to the townhouse, and I'd be able to get out of these clothes, and have a hot bath."

"I know you're tired, Sweetpea, but today, the engine crews wanted me to come to the hangar for a brief ceremony, and I thought you wouldn't mind. It won't take long, and you can see that I'm not dressed for mechanical work. It's just that they've finished the six engines, and they want to show them off a little before installing them in the engine compartment on the airship."

Reva smiled. "Well, I guess I can wait on the bath another little while. I don't know why engines would be exciting, but it'll just be fun spending time with you again after this trip."

When they got to the hangar, a whole line of men from various work crews were lined up on both sides of the open doors, and sunlight was streaming into the brush-thatched building. Marlon and Reva stepped down from the carriage, and were met by Rikard and Cornelius.

They were ceremoniously escorted into the work area. Each engine had been cast and assembled separately, and so each work area was a showcase for their engine. And as each was meticulously decorated, instead of numbers, each engine was named for it's decoration.

What would have been engine number one was carefully fabricated with stars, the moon, and the sun. It was now called the Universe.

Engine number five had been redone with a fleet of Viking ships complete with dragon heads and shields down the sides of each vessel. This one was renamed the Fury of the Northland.

In similar fashion, engine number four had been decorated with scenes of shepherds, shepherdesses, and sheep in their pastures. The crew now referred to it as Pastoral.

Engine number three had the skyline of Copenhagen carved in three-quarters relief. It was named the Copenhagen, but everyone referred to it simply as the City.

Engine number two was covered with eagles. There were heraldic eagles, natural eagles, even a bald eagle. The name, of course, was the Eagles.

But engine number six was the strangest one of all. He hadn't seen six yet, because the crews had kept it covered when he visited the hangar. Today when he saw it, Marlon stared, then burst out laughing.

His secret was out. Reva's mouth fell open at the sight of Engine number six. There it stood in all of it's glory, covered with not one, but many smiling faces, all idiotically beaming inside a ring of fire. The official name of the engine was announced as Argus, meaning eyes. It's true that it was covered with eyes, but everyone in the shop and on the flight crews called it Smiley.

Reva looked at Marlon and said, "Where would they get the idiotic idea for a smiley face?"

Guiltily, Marlon took Reva's elbow, and turned her toward the carriage. "I'm sure you're exhausted, Sweetpea. Let's get you home and into that hot bath."

The look she gave him in return made Marlon just a bit nervous.

July 4, 1636
Copenhagen's Lufthavn Meadow

July fourth dawned clear and bright, at about 4:30 in the morning. Marlon was glad that they weren't planning any fireworks because the sun wouldn't set tonight until almost 10:00 pm. He gathered up Ulrich and headed out to the meadow. They had buckets of ribs and chicken pieces in ice, and a homemade smoker that Marlon had put together many years ago from an old fifty-five-gallon oil drum.

First they checked on the pig roasting in its pit, and it was coming along nicely. Not as done as he would like, but it was too early to eat right now anyway. Marlon and Ulrich set up the smoker and the folding table, and started working with the meat in the buckets.

The morning progressed, and people started showing up. Marlon and Reva had been very careful to spread news of the open invitation to the July Fourth barbecue. Anyone was welcome, but as it was a Wednesday, and not a religious or state holiday, they didn't expect very many down-timers to attend.

Reva and Marlon wanted the Grantville expatriates living in Copenhagen. Marlon knew that Reva planned on at least thirty people, but had food for more like sixty to account for the curiosity seekers.

By eleven o'clock, the whole hog was ready, and the chicken and ribs were sizzling on the grill. Reva was near her picnic table, setting out cakes, salads, and napkins. They had no paper plates, but Ulla Boysdatter, Reva's new friend, had recommended alder planks, and so a stack of freshly split alder shingles stood at one corner of the table.

First to arrive were Arie and Henny De Vries. They shook Marlon's hand, and Henny went to help Reva. The Lawler family came next. Matt had lots of opinions on how Marlon was cooking the chicken, and finally Marlon handed him the tongs, and told him it was his responsibility. Dorothea spread a blanket on the ground, and let the baby play in the sunshine.

The Frystacks arrived with the children and three kegs of good Danish beer, and the party was well underway. Everybody brought something, and everybody had a good time. Magnus Fries had been convinced to attend by Joe Ennis and his family. They were followed closely by Latham Beckworth and Dave Caine. Both promptly fell to drinking beer and telling wild stories until Reva made them behave. There were children about after all.

There was a mixture of down-timers, some coming in the early afternoon because they were friends with one or another of the up-timers. Not everyone understood the English that was spoken almost exclusively, but everybody seemed to have a good time.

As the evening waned, but didn't seem to be getting dark, Marlon decided it was time. He stood on one of the emptied kegs and called for attention. Some of the celebrants had fallen asleep in the grass, or in the shade of one of the scattered tables.

"My fellow Americans." Marlon began. That brought a congenial laugh before he continued. Once he knew he had everybody's attention, he raised his beer stein. "I want to propose a toast."

There was a shuffle as several got their mugs and filled them with beer or wine. When it was quiet again, Marlon looked down for a moment, then spoke. "Folks, it's been a hard three years for most of us. We've all lost family and friends not only to the Ring of Fire, but to war, illness, and accident. First, I want a toast to loved ones lost, and loved ones we have on hand."

He stopped, sipped his beer, and then held the stein up again. "And now, I'd like to ask Reva to sing for us. Can you do that for me, Sweetpea?"

Reva was not as surprised as some around her. She had known that Marlon was going to ask her. She came and stood next to the keg on which Marlon was perched, and took a deep breath. Then she started to sing.

"Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain . . ." Her voice was a warm alto, and she sang strongly. But as she continued, the emotion seemed to close her throat, and Reva started to weep. Before she could stop, though, others in the crowd started singing with her. By the end of the first verse, most were singing or humming the familiar tune.

Reva smiled, and forced the tears down. She sang four verses of "America the Beautiful" and led the crowd to the end of the song. After that, someone else started singing "The Star Spangled Banner," and everybody sang with that, tears streaming down their faces. Then one of the men who was a little tipsy started with "I've Been Working on the Railroad," and the evening progressed through folksongs old and new.

Finally the food was gone, the pots and pans were packed in the wagons, and the crowd was gathering sleeping children and making their way back home. Marlon came and put his arm around Reva and gave her a squeeze. "You sure do throw a mighty good barbeque, ma'am."

Copenhagen Lufthavn
September 1636

The day finally arrived. Tomorrow was the first official flight. The airship had been out on some test runs, but tomorrow they would have civilians aboard, including the king.

All the failures and frustrations were behind them. The first airship was finished. The test flights had been made, the crews had been properly trained, and the passenger gondola had been added. And, surprisingly to Marlon, nobody had actually died in the process. At least not yet, he reminded himself. With the first long distance flight trials next week, almost anything could happen.

Marlon's mind went back to the construction, as he did his final walk-through inspection on various parts of the structure. The inspection was a mere formality, but he enjoyed doing it.

The gas cells had proved to be a world-class headache. They had to hold hydrogen, arguably the slipperiest, most hard-to-contain substance in the universe. The solution had finally come out of a chance remark by a tailor. The man had been called in as a consultant for piecing together the cells and the skin of the airship. In the process of sewing, he remarked that this much cloth would've made enough petticoats to hold out the ocean let alone the cold.

The man had been nonplussed when Otte Jensen, the head designer of the gas cell, went screaming out of the hangar yelling, "That's it! That's it!" The end result was a multilayer construction of cloth sealed with European latex that was both light and sturdy.

And the engine pods. Months of failure and frustration had been spent on them. The answer finally came from an antique car collector in Grantville. He'd suggested that they use mono-tube steam generators, condensers, and uniflow steam engines. They proved to be easily within the capacity of the local artisans to build.

The frame had been built from the light and knot-free spruce from Finland. Up-time, this wood was known as Aircraft Spruce, and would now be called that again.

The skin almost caused a few of the members of the company to have a stroke, and yet it was one of the easier components. It was not complicated, just large, as it required as much fabric as six full sets of sails for a large merchant ship. Marlon, having had the headache of finding materials when he was building the Upwind, was just as glad that he had the resources of a whole country at his disposal. Many of the materials had been warehoused even before his arrival in Denmark.

It had not all been headaches, however. Pilot training for the new ship handlers had proved to be great fun. They fitted the Upwind with dual controls, and Marlon spent many hours acquainting the future pilots with the finer points of handling airships. Basically it allowed Marlon to fly around all day for weeks, with somebody else paying for the gas.

All in all, it had been just about exactly as Marlon had foreseen. He remembered the long sessions nursing a company in the construction of a complex piece of machinery. This was not exactly what Marlon planned when he left for Copenhagen last year, but the results were pleasing nonetheless.

* * *

The day of the first flight dawned clear and crisp. As had been hoped, there was very little wind.

The crowds had been building all day. The ship was moored in the hangar, waiting for the noon ceremonies. They planned to christen it and take it on a maiden voyage. They weren't exactly going anywhere, just an afternoon cruise out over the Baltic and back into the city tonight for fireworks.

Marlon turned to Rikard and the cargo master, standing beside him. "Has the craftsman's checklist been completed?"

Peder Andersen, the cargo master, was in his late forties, capable and organized. "Yes. All hands have been readied and fuel stores and supplies are all on board."

"Just what I wanted to hear. Call the ground crew. We're ready to walk the Anne out."

The crew grabbed the lines, others steadied the gondola, and the small tractor imported from Grantville gunned its engine. Slowly from the open doors of the hangar the nose of the airship began to show.

A wave of silence swept across the spectators as the size of the new airship became apparent. Truly, it was gigantic. Sitting on the ground, the top of the airship looked as high as the roof tree of Rosenborg Palace. When the airship was fully removed from the hangar, they could see that it was as long as three full-size trading ships.

Everyone could now see why it was necessary to build such a big hangar. The airship filled the whole thing. The skeptics who derided the company for wasting money on such a huge building were now silenced.

In the center of the meadow, now officially designated as Copenhagen Lufthavn, there was a tall tower. The airship was maneuvered until the nose connected to the tower's mooring point.

In a ring five hundred feet around the tower ran what everybody called Cornelius's Railroad. A cable from the back of the airship was attached to a weighted cart. From the base of the tower, steps on wheels were rolled out to the gondola.

Officials and notables were being escorted to the steps to begin a tour on the airship. The crowd was informed that after the first flight, they also would be allowed a tour.

Marlon and Reva stood near the small tractor, outside the Royal Anne. State ceremonies had never been of interest to Marlon.

Reva nudged her husband. "Oh, stop fidgeting, will you? The speeches and such are necessary. You'll be allowed to fly it soon enough."

"I know. But I don't understand why you don't want to come on the flight. Don't you want to see the sights?"

"Oh, I know it would be fun, but with all those celebrities in there, I'd just be the waitress in the corner or something. Besides, I have things to do."

Before Marlon could ask about Reva's "things," the ceremonies were done and the crowd was cheering. Reva stepped back from the steps and allowed Marlon to accompany King Christian into the gondola.

Marlon sat at the commander's station on the bridge of the airship, with King Christian at his left. He looked at the monarch, and His Majesty nodded. Time to begin his checklist for departure.

Next to his command station, Marlon had a speaking tube arrangement just like he had seen in the old steamship and submarine movies. He would give a command, and it would be echoed to the appropriate stations.

"Move the crowd back." He spoke loudly into his speaking tube. "Single up all lines. Let go aft. Let go tower. Engines to seventy percent." He was gratified to see everyone perform their task with such speed and exactness.

Slowly, majestically, the Anne rose into the sky. The rudders shifted position, the propellers roared and the airship rose higher and higher. Leveling off at about 1000 feet, the airship made stately progress circling the city of Copenhagen.

The crowd went wild. They were cheering, waving and leaping into the air. The Royal Anne came around the field again, making a large outside curve, and headed for the nearby Baltic.

People on ships and small boats had gathered to see the airship. Marlon looked down at the observation window in the floor of his bridge, and saw fishermen and sailors celebrating this great moment in Danish history.

"Your Majesty, it looks like we have a successful flight so far. What do you think of your new ship?" Marlon kept a close eye on his instruments, but he took a moment to enjoy the party feel of the day.

"Marlon, it's a miracle. Denmark is now the toast of Europe." King Christian was beaming.

It was time for the scheduled turn back to the Lufthavn. Marlon flew the airship against what little wind there was, toward the tower. He spoke into his command channel, and a flood of brightly colored paper confetti was launched from the bridge and allowed to flutter across the field. He sighted in on the tower, level with the nose of the ship, and when he heard the snap, he knew that the nose was moored at the tower. Slowly the Anne settled.

Marlon spoke to the crew again. "Engines all stop. Away the after line. Secure the cart. Secure the mooring lines."

The flight had taken not quite an hour, and had been a complete success. Time for a party.

* * *

That evening was fun. People crowded to the stalls of food and games. It reminded Reva of the state fair back home. There were booths selling pastries, others with stewed mushrooms in cream sauce, and since it was Denmark, there were several places selling herring, cheese, and lefse bread. And then there were the beer gardens and the wine shops. Somebody had even set up a small chocolate shop, and it was doing a good business.

Everywhere there were souvenir leaflets printed with a woodcut of the Royal Anne and the date of the event.

Marlon and Reva were at a pastry stall, sampling while they waited for the fireworks. "These are pretty good, but not quite like I remember. Reva, do remember the last time we were in Denmark?"

Reva licked crumbs from her fingers. "Of course I do, Swordfish. From where I stand, it wasn't that long ago." She brushed crumbs from Marlon's lace collar. "You just miss the rolls stuffed with cream cheese. I would rather have the ones with cherries, or raspberries."

Marlon hugged her. "You've been great through the last year. I know that I've been neglecting you, especially when the due date rolled around, and it didn't look like we were going to finish. I'm sorry. From now on, I'm going to spend more time with you."

Reva leaned over and kissed him. "I know. I haven't really felt that neglected. In fact, I think I've got a few things to keep me busy."

Marlon hadn't really noticed until now that she had been gone almost as much as he had been. "What sort of things, if I may ask?"

Reva laughed. "Things? I'll tell you when I'm good and ready. You know that. Oh, look! The fireworks. Come on, let's go up to the observation dome of the Royal Anne where we can see them better."

* * *

The next morning, at Marlon's office, the controlling board of the Royal Airship of Denmark met to celebrate their success. The mood was extremely festive. The fine wine had come out, also the best cheeses, and even a side table had been set out with preserved meats and fine foods.

Cornelius took the gavel, and pounded on the head of the table. "Gentlemen, gentlemen we now have an airship, so what are we going to do next?"

Keld Helbo thrust his wine glass into the air. "The mail, we have the mail contract! We must popularize air mail. You show people that using air mail is the fastest and a convenient way to communicate, and the money will flow like wine."

Cornelius stood up and signaled for quiet. "We created this company and built the Royal Anne to move cargo overland and make money. We plan to do that, and already we are receiving traffic for Stockholm. But we need to expand. We have an airship, and there's money to be made."

Just then everybody's attention was drawn to commotion behind them at the door. A servant came in to announce a messenger, then handed a note to Cornelius.

Cornelius stood and waved his hand at the servant. "Show the man in, Jan. He has important news from our holdings in the Danish East India Company."

Captain Anders Kiersted entered, carrying a thick envelope covered with seals and ribbons. The board members were very quiet as the captain and handed the package to Herr Holgarssen. They remembered sending him with the last ship to Danish East India.

Cornelius broke the seal and said, "Gentlemen, give me a moment, if you please."

While he read the message, some of the members stood and got themselves a glass of wine. There was still a lot of talk about the airship and possible business ventures.

Just as Cornelius was about to speak there was another disturbance by the door. Again Jan came in, followed by a messenger dressed in the royal livery. With a flourish, the liveried messenger handed Cornelius yet another message package covered with seals. Marlon wondered if he would ever overcome his urge to laugh at the overly-gaudy seals and ribbons on such envelopes.

Cornelius said, "If I could have another moment." The background noise in conversations took on a fevered pitch, and Marlon settled deep into his chair to await developments. This may turn out really fun, or be a complete disaster, he thought.

A few minutes later Cornelius stood and rapped on the table for silence. "Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind as to sit. We have much before us today."

When the room was settled, he continued. "Many of us, in fact almost all of us, have some interest in the Danish East India Company. Captain Kiersted just brought us a message from the Governor of the colony of Tranquebar. It would seem that all the ships that left here in 1634 suffered major damage in a storm just off the Indian coast last year. Captain Kiersted's was the only one to arrive in Tranquebar. Captain, would you like to give your report?"

Captain Kiersted nodded. "When the Pelican, my little ship, arrived at the dock in Tranquebar, the keel under the mainmast collapsed and sank the ship at the dock. Governor Roelant Crappé was able to send me back on an English vessel with a shipment of silk, but he has something much more valuable that needs to be shipped as soon as possible. He may be able to send a full load of spices."

There was a murmur throughout the room. Nutmeg was notoriously expensive, and usually only available from the Portuguese.

The captain continued. "When the Pelican sank at the docks in Tranquebar, it quenched Governor Crappé's plans to return home. He wishes to retire in Europe. His replacement was aboard one of our sister vessels, and so was lost at sea. He requests a new replacement, and a ship to bring him home."

Marlon groaned internally. I know what's coming next.

Cornelius stood up next to the ship captain. "While it is a little more ambitious than what we originally considered, perhaps we do indeed now have a test for our new airship."

The room exploded with noise. Everyone on the board seem to be arguing simultaneously with everyone else. From what Marlon could hear, the opinions were almost equally divided between "It's impossible!" and "This is exactly what we wanted in the first place."

Cornelius again rapped on the table. "The second message was from His Majesty. He is urging us to do everything in our power to bring the cargo back as rapidly as possible. The king feels that, if we can do this, it will significantly enhance our position within the new Union of Kalmar."

Marlon was no longer listening, just scribbling on some foolscap. The big problems will be the fuel, then lifting gas, and then navigation. Beyond that what would be worthwhile cargo to haul all the way to India? India's hot, isn't it? Maybe that new steam ejector thing I've been fiddling with. The literature says it can provide refrigeration for food and people.

"Herr Pridmore, Herr Pridmore."

Marlon blinked but tried to look attentive. "What? Oh, yes. What can I do for you, Cornelius?"

"What do we need for this trip?"

* * *

To be continued . . .

NONFICTION:

Steaks or Cheese?

Written by Karen Bergstralh

The archaeological evidence indicates that cattle were the third species domesticated by man, the first two being goats and sheep. For around seven thousand years man has used cattle as a source of draft power and food. Across those millennium cattle have been changed by man and the environments he took them into.

By the seventeenth century we find Europe filled with cattle of all sizes, shapes, and colors. Each region had at least one cattle type that was well adapted to local conditions and was, in some way, distinct from cattle in other regions. Cattle were multi-use animals, raised primarily to provide draft animals (oxen). Meat and dairy products were important secondary products. The dairy products produced were almost exclusively cheese and butter. Consumption of fresh milk was very limited as fresh milk generally was considered suitable only for infants, very small children, some invalids, and for cooking (mainly in the form of cream).

With few exceptions seventeenth century bovines were smaller than today's cattle. They and other livestock had for centuries suffered from the agricultural advice given by Greek and Roman writers. Pliny the Elder and other such ancient authorities wrote about conditions that applied only to Central Italy, a fact that those Europeans seeking to follow the "Ancient Authorities" seem to overlook. If rough grazing was good enough for Pliny, then it was good enough for Bauer Schmidt and Farmer Jones.

Despite this, Roman agricultural practices not found in Galen or Pliny did arise across Europe. Farmers have always had an interest in getting the best yield possible from crops and livestock and innovations were attempts. The spread of those techniques that worked wasn't fast or even. Agricultural theories and advice were spread not only by word of mouth but by pamphlets and books. By the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Europe was awash in pamphlets and books. Many of these writings contradicted the ancient writers or "explained" what they must have meant. They tended to contradict each other.

There is evidence that as early as the eleventh century Europe had developed at least two plans of crop rotation that were successful enough to have spread widely over two or three centuries. These methods were revolutionary as crop rotation was not included in the Roman or the Greek writings.

Unfortunately where livestock and especially cattle were concerned, the ancient advice was followed for a longer period. The ancient writers stated that a cow should be starved for one to two months before breeding and for up to three months after breeding. This was supposed to improve the quality of the milk. To ensure a bull calf, a north wind had to be blowing when the breeding occurred. Likewise, a south wind would ensure a heifer (female) calf. The quality and condition of the cow was of little importance. She was, as any number of the ancient writers assured, only a vessel for the calf.

The bull was the most important of the animals. One had to be careful in selecting the proper bull and feeding him heavily before breeding. At its most extreme, the idea was that the bull's semen alone developed into the calf with the cow's only contribution being her womb. Others would grant that the cow might contribute up to 20% to her offspring, generally as an explanation for a calf having its mother's coloration rather than its father's. The arguments over the contributions of the male vs. the female to their offspring continued well into the twentieth century among otherwise learned livestock breeders.

Cattle feed by grazing on grasses and plants. These food sources are generally known as forage. In areas where snow coverage isn't heavy or long-term cattle can get through a winter with only a little hay to supplement the stubble left in the fields. In places where the grass and stubble are buried for over a month or beneath a foot or more of snow more hay is needed. The problem for cows was that in most places sheep and horses brought the farmer more cash so the majority supplemental feeds was fed to them rather than the cow.

Sometime during the fifteenth or sixteenth century two new opinions arose concerning cattle. The first was that those cattle that were given supplemental hay and grain survived the winter in much better shape and fattened up quicker in the spring. Fatter cattle brought higher prices at spring sales for slaughter. Pregnant cows that got extra feed over the winter delivered a higher percentage of healthy calves and had more milk. The second idea was that cattle fed root crops such as turnips fattened up better than those fed hay alone. This was a great boon to both the farmers and their cattle. Grain was very expensive and hay production labor-intensive. Turnips were much less costly and labor-intensive to raise and harvest and were easily stored. Cattle could eat both the tops and the root, making turnips an efficient feed.

Better nutrition began to increase the size of cattle which was good for both draft animals and meat animals. One English market recorded a doubling of the slaughter weight* of cattle sold for meat over a century. There is some evidence of a slow but steady rise in the size of cattle across Europe throughout the sixteenth century as the idea of increased nutrition for cattle spread.

Also, across Europe, possibly starting in the Netherlands, small herds started being kept specifically for dairy purposes and others specifically for beef. The cattle were still multi-purpose but the idea of selecting for dairy or beef was there. Those involved in cheese and butter making wanted cows that had high yearly milk yields and better butter fat ratios. Those raising cattle for slaughter wanted higher slaughter weights and a different distribution of muscle and fat. This selection was aided by some types of regional cattle being known for better milk production and others for better beef production.

Late in the seventeenth century several regions saw wealthy breeders increasing attempts to develop cattle either for better beef or for better milk production. Regional cattle types such as the Angus, known for being a better meat than milk producer, began a long alteration. Likewise the Jersey and similar better milk producing types started down their path to the dairy barn. Despite these early breeding efforts the majority of cattle remained mixed purpose. Only the wealthiest could afford single-use or specialty cattle. The cattle in farmers' pastures continued to be multi-use or what would later be called "un-improved."

By the mid 1800s intensive and scientific breeding for beef or milk characteristics took off. Increased knowledge of basic genetics allowed for faster development of cattle as beef or dairy types. In addition, cities and industries provided the demand and the money to make breeding and raising specialty cattle profitable.

In Europe the division into beef or dairy proceeded rapidly. Cattle breeds such as the Hereford (England), Angus (Scotland), Piedmontese (Italy), and Limousin (France) were developed and/or altered to provide for the beef market. The increasing demand for dairy products and an increase in demand for fresh milk likewise led to the alteration of Jersey (England), Ayrshire (Scotland), Holstein (Netherlands), and Brown Swiss (Switzerland) into milk producers. Draft usage had largely disappeared by the late 1800s and what oxen were required could be obtained from the ranks of the "un-improved" cattle that continued to make up the majority of small farm stock.

Throughout the twentieth century breeding for either beef or milk accelerated. Today's beef cattle are different from dairy cattle in many ways. An Angus (beef) cow could still be milked but she won't produce nearly as much as her Jersey (dairy) cousin. In 2000 a Jersey cow could produce more than six times the amount of milk produced by a Jersey cow in 1900. Beef cattle have undergone similar, if not so dramatic, increases. With beef cattle the alterations have been to produce larger muscle masses in those areas that generate favored cuts of meat. Dairy cattle do still provide meat. When a dairy cow's milk production drops she is sent to a feedlot to fatten up. Unlike a beef cow, the dairy cow's slaughter weight will be lower, her meat tougher, lower in grade (less marbling), and certain cuts will be smaller in size.

In 1631 Grantville arrives with beef and dairy cattle that are the end result of intense breeding. They are very different from those cattle found in down-time pastures. The up-time cattle are bigger than all but the largest draft breeds of the seventeenth century and they are clearly divided into beef and dairy breeds. The up-time cattle, however, require more high quality forage and supplemental feed than their down-time counterparts. Compared to their down-time counterparts the up-time Jerseys and Angus are likely to be perceived as pampered, over-fed, and over-sized animals, too expensive and exotic for most farmers. Regardless, there will be interest in what the up-time cattle have to offer. The amount of milk given by the dairy cows and the period of time over which they produce milk will be amazing. Less amazing but still of interest will be the distribution of muscle, fat, and marbling on the beef cattle.

Grantville's cattle are not being bred and raised commercially. They are backyard animals, mostly raised for 4-H and Future Farmers of America projects. The limited number of up-time cattle means that maintaining specific up-time breeds will be impossible. Distinctions between milking cattle and beef cattle can be maintained but the milking breeds will probably end up as a single generic milking breed as will the beef breeds. Both types will have to adjust to living on regional forage and under regional conditions. Grantville's cattle and their offspring will probably remain more expensive and more difficult to keep than regional down-time cattle.

Attempts to improve down-time cattle by breeding them to up-time cattle can and will have problems. The biggest is the number of bulls in Grantville—or rather, the lack of bulls. We've never identified any bull in the Mannington area. Mature bulls pose many problems to handle and keep and, given the wide-spread use of artificial insemination, this lack of bulls is understandable. It is probable that the only male cattle in Grantville in April, 2000 would have been a couple of calves that haven't yet been castrated. If so, those calves must grow to maturity. It could take between two to three years, depending upon breed, before they can be used for breeding. Someone might have a few stems of bull semen stored in a freezer but those won't remain viable for long. Grantville's cattle consisted of cows, calves, yearling steers, and heifers. The up-time practice of castrating bull calves at an early age may well mean that Grantville is left without any whole male calves unless one or two are born after the Ring of Fire.

The lack of up-time bulls is not all bad. Breeding large bulls to small cows often results in calves that are too large for the cow to deliver. This generally ends in the loss of both cow and calf. The closer in size the bull and cow are, the better the chances are of a successful calving. There also remains the fact that the down-time farmers need cattle that can live off the forage available locally and they still need multi-use cattle that can provide draft, beef, and milk. It will be the wealthier villages and estates that can afford to begin breeding specialized beef or milk cattle. Eastern Europe, especially the traditional cattle raising areas such as Poland, will be interested in the beef breeds. As the dairy-only breeds develop, villages close to large towns and cities may switch to increase their cheese and butter production.

Perhaps the largest obstacle will be introducing an understanding of basic genetics. There are otherwise smart and well educated livestock breeders today who still feel that the bull, stallion, or ram is more important than the cow, mare, or ewe. In the seventeenth century the idea that the bull and cow have equal input and influence on the calf will be radical. Slightly less so, but still on the fringes, will be the idea that the condition, confirmation, nutrition, and health of the cow is important to the ability of the cow to conceive, carry, and deliver a healthy calf.

* Slaughter weight is the weight of the meat less hide and tallow. It is roughly 62% of the live weight of the animal for beef breeds and as low as 50% for dairy breeds.

Sources and Resources

The Size and Weight of Cattle and Sheep in Early Modern Scotland

AJ S Gibson

Comparative Beef Performance of the Large Cattle Breeds of Western Europe. Animal Breeding Abstracts 1971;39:1-26.

Mason IL.

Alpine Milk: Dairy Farming as a Pre-modern Strategy of Land Use

Barbara Orland

Breeds of Beef and Multi-Purpose Cattle

Harlan Ritchie

http://www.canr.msu.edu/dept/ans/donations/BreedsOfBeefCattle_Ritchie.pdf.

Borax Bonanzas

Written by Iver P. Cooper

"She burns green! Rosie, by God, we're rich." Those were the words by which Aaron Winters supposedly announced his discovery of borax in Death Valley. At the time, the United States was importing about 400,000 pounds a year, and the borax retailed at a price of fifty cents a pound. Borax was nicknamed the "White Gold of the Desert."

Uses of Boron Compounds

Laura Runkle, in "Mente et Malleo: Practical Mineralogy and Minerals Exploration in 1632" (Grantville Gazette 2), lists boron as one of the many materials needed for "chemical manufacturing." In particular, it's an essential ingredient in the manufacture of heat- and shock-resistant borosilicate glass. This, in turn, is an "infrastructure" item for the USE's chemical laboratories and small-scale chemical production facilities.

Borax was probably first used by goldsmiths and silversmiths, as a flux for soldering precious metals. A flux lowers the melting point of the metal it's added to. Once its price went down, it could be used in fusing baser metals. See Evans, "Metallic Fusion" (Grantville Gazette 16).

Borax was also used, at least by the sixteenth century, for refining. After an air blast, the "viler metals" would "slag off" as oxides, whereas the noble metal would remain molten. (Rose 381ff). It has been shown that small-scale miners can concentrate gold from its ore using borax and charcoal, rather than mercury or cyanide. (GEUS)

Metals could also be assayed, pre-RoF; you would test the material using fluxes with various strengths of borax.

The first European to suggest the addition of borax to glass was Johann Kunckel (1679); the glass in question was used to make imitation precious stones (hopefully with the buyer's knowledge).

Borax was also used in pottery glazes (by 1699, possibly much earlier) and as an enamel flux (1758).

The "borax bead test" was developed in the mid-eighteenth century. It depends on the ability of fused borax (borax heated to remove the water) to dissolve metal oxides and, in the process, form complex borates with colors which are characteristic of the metal in question.

There was some medieval experimentation with borax (and boric acid) as a medicinal agent, but their only real medical value is as a mild antiseptic (Lister in 1875). However, they do have some additional, indirect, health benefits. Prior to the development of refrigeration, boric acid was used as a food preservative (1887).

Boric acid and many of its salts are also fairly benign pesticides. Boric acid can be used to inhibit bacterial contamination of penicillin cultures (Mackey, "Crude Penicillin," Grantville Gazette 10). Zinc borate may come in handy to make sure that our aircraft don't fall apart because of fungal attack on casein glues. Hollombe, "On the Design, Construction and Maintenance of Wooden Aircraft," Grantville Gazette 6).

The principal modern use of borax is in the manufacture of borosilicate glass, which typically is 5–20% boron oxide. (Cooper, "In Vitro Veritas," Grantville Gazette 5). Note that boron oxide can be used in making glass fibers, of the E (electrical, an aluminum borosilicate), C (chemical), and D (high dielectric constant) types. These may in turn be used to make glass-reinforced plastic.

Other modern uses of borate salts are as a welding flux, detergent, water-softener, household bleach, rust inhibitor, weatherproofing agent (for wood), fireproofing agent (for fabrics) and fertilizer ingredient.

The 1999 domestic consumption of boron compounds included: insulation-grade glass fibers (193,000 metric tons boron oxide content), textile-grade glass fibers (71,100), borosilicate glasses (25,900), soaps and detergents (23,200), fire retardants (15,310), enamels, frits and glazes (14,400), agriculture (14,000), metallurgy (552), nuclear applications (454), miscellaneous (22,800), and unknown (35,400). (USGS)

There are also some more exotic boron-based materials. Boron nitride and boron carbide are about as hard as diamond, and have been used as abrasives, in wear-resistant parts, and in body armor.

Boron nitride powder is an excellent insulator, and resistant to chemicals and heat. It can be hot-pressed into a variety of shapes. (McGHEST/Boron).

Boron trichloride and the other boron halides can be used as catalysts. Boron trichloride can be reacted with hydrogen gas at high temperatures, forming boron vapors, and this can be deposited as amorphous boron on tungsten wire. The boron-tungsten wires can be used to make unidirectional composites.

Elemental amorphous boron imparts a green color to pyrotechnic flares. Crystalline boron can serve as a p-type dopant in silicon semiconductors.

Ferroboron (iron-boron alloy) is used to harden steel and to deoxidize copper-base alloys.

The Pre-RoF Tincal Trade

The resources of the USE are limited. Hence, it doesn't want to send out prospectors if it can meet its needs by simple trade.

The down-timers knew borax under the name tincal (other spellings, too), and Europe imported it from Tibet, mostly by way of India and the Ottoman Empire.

According to Mackey, "Crude Penicillin" (Grantville Gazette 10), in our time period, "borax was one of some twenty-seven common mineral substances used in medicinal or cosmetic recipes. While the most expensive mineral ingredient (2–3 guilders per pound), borax nevertheless was available throughout much of Europe." And that was despite the fact that borax was traveling all the way from Tibet.

How much borax is immediately available to the USE? Its use in the early seventeenth century was mostly as a flux by goldsmiths, which implies that it was a low volume commodity.

The Venetians were the European "gatekeepers" from prior to 1500 until the late seventeenth century. The Persian-Ottoman wars of 1526–1555, 1577–1590, 1602–1612, 1623–1638, 1722–1727, 1730–1736, 1743–1747 and 1776–1779 disrupted the Near East segment of the long trade route, and Venetian economic power declined as a result of European competition for Mediterranean sea trade and the Ottoman takeover of Venetian overseas territories.

The reins of control were taken up by the Dutch, who presumably acquired tincal in India and then shipped it around Africa.

Both the Venetians and their Dutch successors made the most of their import monopoly. In 1750, the London price of tincal was 700 British pounds per ton (Travis 32). That made it still an extremely expensive commodity. The price dropped to 400 by 1815; this is probably attributable to reduced shipping costs.

A description of the Tibetan trade in 1840–50 said that the tincal is carried, in 30–40 pound saddlebags, by sheep, in a drove of 800–1000 animals. Each beast is supposedly bearing its own weight in tincal, although that seems rather high to me. Based on data for Asian breeds, we are probably talking about two 30–40 pound saddlebags apiece. So one drove is 48,000–80,000 pounds, or 24–40 tons. The source didn't specify the number of droves per year.

One of the problems with the Tibetan tincal trade is that the borax passed through so many middlemen, and was such a high value item, that it often arrived in a highly adulterated form. It would contain alum, common salt or even sand. (Travis 16) Hence, one motivation for developing a European source would be to be able to exercise a greater degree of quality control.

Development of the Boron Industry in the Original Time Line

The background information given in this section is not necessarily available to the up-timers of Grantville, but is useful in appreciating how important the various known sources of boron are likely to be.

There are at least 36 boron-containing minerals. Borax (disodium tetraborate decahydrate) was the first commercially important borate. Others include tincalconite (disodium tetraborate pentahydrate), kernite (disodium tetraborate tri- or tetrahydrate), "cotton ball" ulexite (sodium calcium pentaborate octahydrate), colemanite (calcium triborate monohydrate), priceite (dicalcium pentaborate monohydrate), boracite (magnesium borate chloride), and sassolite (crystalline boric acid). Borates are salts of boric acid, and the acid is found in solution in some brines and hot springs. Sodium borates (borax, tincalonite, kernite) are water-soluble and therefore easier and cheaper to process than calcium borates. (Scott 90).

The first alternative to Tibetan tincal was the boric acid of Tuscany, discovered in 1777 by Francisco Hoefer, a German chemist in the employ of the Grand Duke of Tuscany. The first successful effort to commercially develop these hot springs was by Francois de Lardarel in 1818. In its initial decade of operation, his facility produced about 75 tons of boric acid each year. By the 1850s, the Tuscan output had brought the price of borax down to less than 100 British pounds per ton; the 1860 production was about 2,000 tons (Travis 26, 32).

South America was identified as a source of boron compounds in 1787, at Potosi, Bolivia. Borate deposits were later found in Peru, Argentina and Chile. However, the South American deposits weren't placed into commercial production until 1852 (NBRI), and production was minor until the 1880s (Travis). It is worth noting that the western deposits are on a plateau at an altitude of about 15,000 feet.

The first borate discovery in North America was in 1856, when Dr. John Veatch tested the waters from Lick Springs, in Tehama County, California. Some months later, at "Alkali Lake" (renamed "Borax Lake"), he found that the lake bottom (virtually exposed during the summer), under a few feet of "soapy matter," had an eighteen inch thick layer of borax-bearing clay, with a borax content averaging about 100 pounds/square yard. That suggested that the whole lake could produce about 128 million pounds. The production cost was three cents/pound; borax then sold for fifty cents/pound. (Hurlbut 137). Do the math . . . .

Prospectors fanned out across California and Nevada. Searles Lake, in San Bernardino County (McGHEST) was put in production in 1873. Production was initially by excavating surface borax crusts, then (together with potash and soda) from brine wells (1916).

Rosie and Aaron Winters found borax near Furnace Creek Ranch in 1881. By 1883, the famous twenty mule teams were hauling ten ton wagon loads of borates out of Death Valley. Some twelve million pounds were carried the 165 miles to Mojave depot in 1883–1888. (Borax Museum).

Another borate mining region lies in Turkey. A calcium borate was found, quite accidentally, at Panderma in 1865. This "pandermite" was easily carved, and statues made of the material came into the hands of a French engineer and amateur chemist named Desmazures. He was astonished to discover that the statues had a high boron content. He traced the figurines back to their source, and quickly obtained a mining concession (Travis 28). Curiously, the Anglo-centric Encyclopedia Britannica 11th edition (EB11), published in 1911, said that borax was "mainly derived from the boric acid of Tuscany."

The London price of borax was 35 pounds/ton in 1880, but rose to 60 in 1884. This was probably attributable to its use in enamels and glazes. But thanks to the Californian production, the London price dropped again, to 30 (1890) and 16 (1900). The latter was equivalent to 3.5 cents/pound. (Travis 35). USGS gives a 1900 U.S. price of $111/ton ($2170 in 1998 dollars.)

Some notion of the relative productivity of these different sources of borates (and boric acid) can be gleaned from statistics. In 1895–1905, the average annual production of borates was as follows:

Bear in mind that the Tibetan and Italian producing areas had been exploited for a longer period than those of the Americas or Turkey, and so these figures may underestimate the ability of those areas to supply the USE in 163x.

Corning introduced heat-resistant and virtually unbreakable borosilicate glass ovenware in the 1920s, but sales were poor. Walter Thompson told Corning in 1929 that the price of Pyrex® ovenware was simply too high; ninety cents for a Pyrex® pie plate, versus fifteen to forty cents for a metal one. (Stage 169). Curiously, the 1919 price premium for small borosilicate glass laboratory beakers was smaller; a 250cc Griffin low form was 23 cents borosilicate, 19 cents ordinary glass. (Daigger 40).

In 1925, kernite was discovered, in Kern County, California, and the Death Valley mining operation was shut down. The kernite deposit was then the largest known sodium borate deposit in the world (four square miles and a hundred feet thick). Unfortunately, it lay at a depth of 130–1,000 feet. It was worked for thirty years by underground methods, and subsequently, more cheaply, as an open pit. (Hurlbut 140). By 1935, the price of borate had dropped fifty percent. (Scott 90).

It was the kernite discovery that brought prices down sufficiently to make borosilicate glassware a common household item. Fiberglass was first commercially produced in 1936, and by the Late Thirties, borosilicate glass was used to make fibers. (Scott).

In 1960, Kern was eclipsed by the discovery of the sodium borate deposit at Kirka, Turkey. (NBRI). Mining began there in the mid-seventies. (Garrett xiv). Nonetheless, the EA/Kernite article says that "Very small deposits are in Argentina and Turkey," which makes you wonder how often they update their content.

In 2001, the leading producers of boron oxide (derived from borate) were the United States and Turkey, distantly trailed by Chile and China. Total world production of boron oxide was 1,546,000 metric tons.

Boric Acid and Borax in Canon

In Cologne, in April 1634, Gysbert discovered that borax was the solution to the penicillin culture contamination problem. (Mackey, "Prepared Mind," Grantville Gazette 10).

In April 1634, Sharon Nichols comments, "We're probably going to have trouble with the borax, too. The Turks seem to be the only ones who've got it, andthey're not being real friendly so far." (Flint and Dennis, 1634: The Galileo Affair, Chap. 29). It's not so much that the Turks are the only ones who can produce it, but rather that they were the only ones selling it to Europeans.

By the summer, at least, Sharon is aware of alternatives close-at-hand. A recent high school graduate with strong chemistry aptitude, Lewis Philip Bartolli, is sent to Tuscany to search around Larderello for boric acid-rich waters and then, with the aid of the Cavriani office in Florence, acquire mineral rights and set up a production process. He is sidetracked by a forgery investigation on behalf of the Grand Duke, but the forger is a member of the Inghirami family, and as part of the price for letting their prodigal son off lightly, the Inghiramis agree to supply the labor and materials for the Larderello operation. (Cooper, "Under the Tuscan Son," Grantville Gazette 9).

Prospecting for Borates: Knowing Where to Look

Library research in Grantville will reveal the names of several localities where boron compounds may be found.

Germany. Prospecting begins at home. According to the "Boracite" article in 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica (EB11), "Small crystals bounded on all sides by sharply defined faces are found in considerable numbers embedded in gypsum and anhydrite in the salt deposits at Luneburg in Hanover." It adds that a massive form of the mineral, Stassfurtite, "occurs as nodules in the salt deposits at Stassfurt in Prussia: that from the carnallite layer is compact, resembling fine-grained marble, and white or greenish in color, whilst that from the kainite layer is soft and earthy, and yellowish or reddish in color."

* * *

Italy. Boric acid is found in volcanic vapors and hot springs, principally in the Lipari Islands and in Tuscany.

The Lipari Islands are dominated by the eponymous Mt. Vulcano; boric acid is said to occur in the crater in sufficient quantities to have been exploited commercially in the old time line. Unfortunately, the Lipari Islands are part of the Kingdom of Naples, which is under the control of the Spanish Hapsburgs.

The Tuscan resources are both more accessible and far greater. Although the Encyclopedia Britannica errs in asserting that, in 1911, Tuscany was still the "main source" of borax, it was the Tuscan boric acid (which could be converted into borax) which broke the Tibetan tincal monopoly.

EB11 also may mislead up-timers as to exactly where in Tuscany the boric acid is found. Almost poetically, it remarks, "the chief source of boric acid for commercial purposes is the Maremma of Tuscany, an extensive and desolate tract of country over which jets of vapor and heated gases (soffioni) and springs of boiling water spurt out from chasms and fissures. In some places the fissures open directly into the air, but in other parts of the district they are covered by small muddy lakes (lagoni)."

The term "Maremma," properly speaking, refers to the marshy coast of Tuscany. The EB11's article on Tuscany warns that "malaria is prevalent," and this would surely be confirmed by Grantville's down-time associates. George Dennis, writing in 1848, quoted a proverb, "In the Maremma, you get rich in a year, but you die in six months."

However, the boric acid is actually found, not in the malarial lowlands, but in the Colline Metallifere (Metalliferous Hills) just south of Volterra. The up-time books do offer a few clues that this is the case. For example, the EB11 article on Italy mentions that "boracic acid is chiefly found near Volterra."

The Colline Metallifere had been mined, since Etruscan times, for rock salt, alum, sulfur, mercury, lead, zinc, and other valuable materials.

There are some better clues as to where to look. Given the volcanic origin of boric acid, it would make sense to review articles on volcanoes in the encyclopedias. The diligent researcher would learn that "Near Lardarello in Tuscany, boric acid has been produced from scalding natural steam for more than a century." (Encyclopedia Americana/Volcanoes). After a misleading reference to the Maremma, EB11/Volcano notes that "From Sasso in Tuscany it [boric acid] has received the name of sassolin or sassolite." (The area of Lardarello, by the way, is thought to have inspired Dante's Inferno.)

Most world atlases don't show the location of either town but Lardarello is in the National Geographic Atlas of the World (1975). Moreover, considering the percentage of Grantville's population which is Italian-American, there is a pretty good chance that, if you go door-to-door, you can find detailed road maps and guides to Italy and even, specifically, to Tuscany.

Lardarello, for example, is mentioned in The Green Guide: Italy (p. 467), as being 21 miles south of Volterra, in the heart of the Colline Metallifere, and featuring "volcanic steam jets." Jonathan Keates' picture book of Tuscany not only identifies Lardarello as the place where Francois de Lardarel harnessed geothermal energy to facilitate boric acid extraction (p. 93), but also shows where Lardarello is situated relative to the more familiar towns of Volterra and Massa Marittima. That's fortunate.

The town of Lardarello was founded in the 1840s, so you won't find it on any down-time map. However, the Bagno a Morbo near Lardarello may correspond to the Aqua Volaternas, a hot spring shown on a third century Roman cartogram, the Tabula Peutingeriana (roughly the classical equivalent of a AAA "TripTik"). The spa was used medicinally by Lorenzo the Magnificent.

From up-time sources unavailable in Grantville, I can state that the soffioni area includes, not only Lardarello and Sasso Pisano, but also the villages of Pomarance, Monterotondo, Montecerboli, and Castelnuovo Val di Cecina.

* * *

Turkey. It is actually rather ironic that, for hundreds of years, the merchants of the Ottoman Empire acted just as middlemen in the tincal trade, even though Turkey is rich in borates. By 1911, the Turkish borate ore Pandermite was shipped out of the port of Panderma (Greek Panormus), on the south shore of the sea of Marmara. The up-timers don't know whether this was a mere transshipment point (like Leghorn/Livorno in Tuscany) or the actual source of the ore. They also may have difficulty figuring out where it is located. The port does appear in my Hammond Citation World Atlas (HCWA), but under its ethnicized name of Bandirma. If you look up "Panorma" in the modern Encyclopedia Britannica, you will discover the name change.

Modern geologists know that the main borate deposits of Turkey are in western Anatolia, at Sultancayir, Ermet, Bigadic, Kestelek and Kirka. The Bigadic formation is under 25 to 410 meters of sediment (Lyday), and it's the shallowest of the five (Helvaci Fig. 1).

* * *

The Americas. Even if the Spanish were our allies, the cost of collecting and transporting the borates of the American West would be a formidable objection to exploiting those admittedly massive deposits. The one advantage that the American West has over the European sites is that the locality information which we possess is much more precise. By studying the Encyclopedia Americana, the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica, and other encyclopedias, and any available rockhounding guides, one can compile the following California locations:

Hopefully these will appear in an up-timer's Road Atlas, and don't forget that Mike lived in California. HCWA identifies four borax ("Bx") locales in the state.

Insofar as South America is concerned, the major deposit is in the Atacama desert(EB11/Borax) of northern Chile. These dried lake deposits are also important as a source of nitrates for fertilizer. There is also borax in Argentina and Bolivia.

* * *

Tibet. While Tibet at least isn't controlled by outright foes of the USE, the borax is in remote, mountainous regions. And although the 1911 Encyclopedia directs us to the lakes of "Pugha," "Rudok," and "Tengri Nor," the place-names have changed since the Chinese takeover, and so a late twentieth century map isn't very helpful.

* * *

In most cases, the encyclopedias only guide us to within several miles of the actual deposit. To actually pinpoint it, we need to get out in the field and start looking. So, just what are we looking for? We don't want to heft every rock in an area of a hundred square miles and peer at it. We can narrow down our field of search by understanding the geology underlying the formation of boric acid and its salts.

Boric acid is found in the waters and vapors of geothermally active regions. Where, then, should we look for boric acid? Wherever there are indications of geothermal activity: steaming fumaroles and bubbling hot springs; deposits of sulfur, orpiment (arsenic trisulfide), realgar (arsenic monosulfide) and other hydrothermal minerals; and the unpleasant smells of sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide. Fortunately, many of these signs are visible (or smellable) from a distance, and they are also likely to be familiar to the locals.

The borates, on the other hand, seem to occur in deserts. As boric acid-rich waters are evaporated by the harsh sunlight, the borate salts precipitate out of solution, leaving an "evaporite" deposit. We thus would expect to find it in association with other evaporite minerals, such as gypsum and halite (rock salt).

Prospecting for Borates: Knowing What to Look For

The boron minerals are not native to West Virginia. Hence, the prospectors from Grantville are almost wholly dependent on the quality of the descriptions in field guides to rocks and minerals. Fortunately, there are a lot of rockhounds in West Virginia, so there are likely to be several of these guides.

There are two problems with using these reference works. First of all, they are going to emphasize American minerals. The minerals they show might not be found in Europe or Asia. Worse, there may be perfectly useable Old World minerals which aren't properly identified by these American texts.

Secondly, while the guides often feature photographs, these tend to be of museum-quality specimens. Big, perfectly formed crystals, for example. I am a rockhound, and I can tell you that most of what you find is nowhere near as spectacular as what is in those books.

Two examples should suffice to show what to expect. The Audubon Society Field Guide to North America Rocks and Minerals lists Kernite (sodium borate), Borax (ditto), Ulexite (sodium calcium borate), Colemanite (calcium borate), and Howlite (calcium silico-borate). Each is illustrated by at least one full color plate, and described in terms of its color, luster, hardness, cleavage, specific gravity, fracture, crystal form, and associations. The guide also lists counties where these minerals are found.

The Eyewitness Handbooks Rocks and Minerals lists the first four borate minerals. While it does not provide locality information, it does suggest chemical (solubility, flame) tests for each mineral.

So, what don't they show? One important omission is Boracite, a magnesium borate and chloride, which is the particular boron mineral found in Germany. Another is Pandermite, a massive form of Colemanite found in Turkey. And a third is Sassolite, which is the crystalline form of boric acid, found in Tuscany.

For boracite, we at least have a description of the crystals in EB11. However, there is no information on the appearance of pandermite or sassolite.

Besides looking for these solid specimens, in Tuscany, we will be seeking out water which is rich in boric acid. That is mostly a matter of taking water samples and testing them for the presence of borate ions (see below).

Assaying Methods

We fortunately have two well-documented qualitative assay methods at our disposal. Both tests are mentioned in the EB11, "Boric Acid."

The "flame test" was devised in 1732 by C.J. Jeffrey. The suspected borate ore is treated with sulfuric acid (which converts it to boric acid) and alcohol, and the alcoholic solution is then ignited (carefully!). If it burns with a green flame, then the borate ion is present. Sulfuric acid is available in 1632 as "oil of vitriol." Obviously, it would be prudent to run a "control," that is, also ignite just the mixture of the alcohol and the sulfuric acid and look at the color of its flame, too.

Lewis Bartolli adapted the "flame test" into a "Mister Wizard" style chemistry demonstration for his presentation to the "Academy of the Lynx" in Cooper, "Arsenic and Old Italians" (Grantville Gazette 22).

Another simple test involves turmeric paper. Turmeric is commercially available in 1632 as a dye and spice; the test paper is prepared by first making up a tincture (an alcohol solution) and then soaking the paper in it. When exposed to boric acid, the turmeric paper turns brown, darkening as it dries. As a confirmatory test, you can add a strong base (sodium or potassium hydroxide), which should turn it almost black.

When Niccolo tells Lewis that Grand Duke Ferdinand wants him to investigate Curzio Inghirami's claims, Lewis is busy making turmeric paper. Cooper, "Under the Tuscan Son" (Grantville Gazette 9).

* * *

The odds are good that each of the up-timers who holds a college degree in chemistry (e.g., Greg Ferrara) owns at least one book on qualitative analysis. I surveyed several such texts to see what they had to say about assays for borate, with these results:

* * *

As previously mentioned, one of borax's down-time uses is in assaying metals in what has come to be known as the "borax bead test." A third way of testing for borax is therefore to reverse this assay, that is, the suspected borax is used in the bead test to study several known metals. If the correct behavior is observed, then the sample is likely to be borax.

A fairly pure boric acid should be available, in limited quantities, in Grantville. Boric acid powder was used before the Ring of Fire to kill cockroaches. If need be, it could be dissolved and purified further by evaporation and recrystallization. It would then serve as a positive control. The best negative control would be distilled water.

Boric Acid and Borate Collection and Processing

Boric Acid. A small amount of boric acid, in the form of sassolite crystals, could probably be collected merely by exploring the rim of the soffioni and lagone. The boric acid would sublimate out of the vapor as it cooled, or precipitate out of the water as a result of natural evaporation by the sun.

Commercial extraction of the Tuscan boric acid began in 1812. While not mentioned in the available up-time sources, the original method of collecting boric acid from the Tuscan lagone was by boiling the water over a wood fire. Some of the water would evaporate, leaving behind a more concentrated solution of boric acid. This would be transferred into a new pot, and the boil-and-decant process repeated until the boric acid could be purified by recrystallization. The 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica implies that there was a complex network of basins and pipes, with the water flowing "downstream" rather than being pumped, and ending up in what it called "evaporating pans" (probably just very large, very shallow basins).

EB11 says that the initial boric acid concentration was less than 1%. A modern reference work, unavailable in Grantville, says that the average boric acid content of the soffioni vapor is a mere 0.03% (Tincal Trail, p. 24). While the figures seem low, remember this—it was still detectable in 1702 and recoverable a century later.

The description in the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica is actually based on the improved technique introduced by Lardarel in 1818. He used the steam from the fumaroles, rather than wood fires, to heat the water.

Lorenzo Micheletto pointed out to me that this description ignores the Italians' lagone coperto (covered spring). In essence, they built a hemispherical masonry dome over a hot spring. The point was to collect the steam issuing from the spring and increase its pressure. The steam was then piped out from the top of the dome, and running under the iron or lead "boilers" which received and evaporated the spring water. According to the Societa Chimica Larderello S.p.A., the covered lagoon technique, introduced in 1829, made possible the increase in production from 50 to 125 metric tons a year.

According to King's American Dispensatory (1898), a soffione which does not issue into a natural lagone can be surrounded by a masonry wall to create an artificial one. By channeling cold water from a mountain spring into this artificial basin, the steam can be caused to condense.

The next important evolution was to create artificial soffioni, that is, drill to reach boric acid-rich subsurface waters. The 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica mentions this technique, and also that the water coming up the borehole was rich enough in boric acid (by implication, around 2%) to go directly into the "evaporating pans." By 1940, the Tuscan production of boric acid was 6,500 metric tons a year (SCL).

* * *

In 1903, Ginori Conti realized that the geothermal fluids could be used, not only to heat the lagone water, but also to generate electricity. By 1913, Larderello had the first geothermal power plant (250 kilowatts) in the world.

If Tuscany were to become an ally of the USE, it would be very advantageous that it had this ready source of electricity.

* * *

Borate. Surface borate deposits, such as those of Borate Lake, can be excavated by pick and shovel.

Chemical Conversions

Around 1815, Payen devised a method of converting boric acid to borate and thereby broke the Dutch monopoly on borate. (EB11/Payen). Boric acid may be converted to borax by treatment with sodium carbonate, or the reaction may be reversed by acidification of borax (sodium borate) with concentrated hydrochloric acid or sulfuric acid. (EB11).

Calcium borate may be converted to borax by fusion with soda ash (sodium carbonate).

Non-naturally occurring borates may be made by reacting sodium or calcium borate, or boric acid, with suitable reagents. For example, the flame retardant zinc borate may be obtained by reacting zinc oxide with boric acid at near-boiling temperatures.

Boron trioxide is made by "strongly igniting" boric acid (EB11).

Amorphous boron was first made in 1808, by reducing boron trioxide with potassium (EB11). It can be prepared in 95–98% purity by reducing boric acid with magnesium and then washing with acid and alkali (EA).

Crystalline boron can be made with difficulty by "reduction of its bromide or chloride (BBr_3, BCl_3) with hydrogen on an electrically heated tantalum filament." (EB15). Cotton & Wilkinson (226) warn that its preparation is "a matter of considerable complexity and difficulty even when only small research-scale quantities are required."

Boron carbide is produced by carbothermal reduction of boron oxide in an electric furnace (EB15) at a temperature of 2500oC (McGHEST), and the nitride by heating boric acid with ammonia (EB15) or borax with ammonium chloride (EB11). (Borazon, cubical boron nitride, which is as hard as diamond, is outside our reach; its manufacture requires pressures approaching 65,000 atmospheres.)

I am not sure that methods of preparing ferroboron are documented in Grantville. It was made in the early twentieth century by carboreduction of iron ore and colemanite in an electric furnace.

Predictions

I expect that boric acid production in Tuscany will commence in 1635 or 1636, probably on a scale comparable to the early 19c production, perhaps 100 tons annually. The increased production in Tuscany will undercut the Venetian monopoly on tincal from Tibet, dropping the price by at least 50%.

This is going to have an interesting effect on the Venetian economy. Some (merchants in the Levant trade) will suffer, but others (goldsmiths, silversmiths, glassworkers) will benefit greatly. I can't help wonder whether this will lead to any interesting intrigue.

Tuscany is quite capable of producing several thousand tons annually, and hence there isn't going to be much interest in developing alternative resources in faraway places (such as the Mojave or Atacama deserts) until demand has ramped up into at least the thousand ton range.

For the glass industry to use a thousand tons of borax, it would need to produce five to twenty thousand tons of borosilicate glass. To put this in perspective, an average mid-eighteenth century French glasshouse might produce 50 to 100 tons of common glass a year (Scoville 20); the largest bottle factory, at Sevres, made about 1,100,000 bottles (850 tons) in 1768 and 1,200,000 (940 tons) in 1788 (14).

To reach the Atacama Desert of Chile, you have to ascend the Coastal Range of the Andes, but at least it's close to the sea. To reach the borax of the Mojave Desert, you must cross perhaps 70 miles of mountainous terrain.

Turkey is something of the great "wild card"; it has enormous reserves, reasonably close to Europe, but there is no clue in the transmitted up-time literature to the existence of Kirka, and even if there were, the Turks aren't likely to become aware of it. The Ottoman Empire executes any declared up-timers, and it is uncertain what they will do to a disguised up-timer, or even a down-timer, who makes the mistake of obviously acting on the basis of up-time knowledge.

Conclusion

Boron may not have the glamour of gold. But given the pre-RoF price of borax, and the attractions of borosilicate glass and other boron-based products, it seems likely that quite a few down-time investors will be eager to follow the "tincal trail" to Larderello and, ultimately, to California, the Andes, and Turkey.

* * *

References

Encyclopedias

[EA] "Boron," "Kernite," "Colemanite," "Borax," "Death Valley," Encyclopedia Americana

[EB11] "Boron," "Borax," "Boric Acid," "Volcano," "Colemanite," "Tuscany," "Italy," "Soffioni," "Maremma," 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica

[EB15] "Boron," "Boron Carbide," "Boron Nitride," "Boracite," "Ulexite," "Inyoite," "Borate Mineral," "Borax," "Colemanite," "Searles Lake," "Payen, Anselm," "Kernite," "Lancaster," "Antofagasta," "Death Valley," "Mojave Desert," "Playa," "Tsinghai," "Tuscany," Encyclopedia Britannica (15th edition).

[McGHEST] "Boron," "Borate Minerals," McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Science and Technology

Books

Travis, The Tincal Trail: A History of Borax (1984).

Scott, Industrial minerals and extractive industry geology (2002)

Garrett, Borates: handbook of deposits, processing, properties, and use (1998).

Rose, The Metallurgy of Gold (1906).

Hurlbut, Jr., Minerals and Man (1970).

Scoville, Capitalism and French Glassmaking, 1640–1789 (2006).

Stage, Rethinking Home Economics: Women and the History of a Profession (1997).

Daigger & Company, Laboratory supplies and chemicals for chemists and bacteriologists (1919).

Websites—Lardarello Operations

"A Day at Lardarello"

http://utenti.romascuola.net/smstittonimanziana/lardarello.html

The Geothermal Museum: Larderello (Temporary Headquarters)

http://www.centerforinnerwork.com/italy/geothermalmuseum1.html

The Chemistry

http://www.envirocare.hedemora.se/larderello/the%20%20chemistry.html

"LARDERELLO - SASSO PISANO"

http://www.ursea.it/gite/larderello/Larderello_Sasso_Pisano.htm

(In Italian)

"I Soffioni Boraciferi ed il Museo della Geotermia di Larderello"

http://www.torredoganiera.it/td/skd/soffioni.htm

(In Italian)

Societa Chimica Larderello, S.p.A., "The History of Boron at Larderello"

http://www.scl.it/english/eng_az_storia.html

Batini, et al., "Geological features of Larderello-Travale and Mt. Amiata geothermal areas (southern Tuscany, Italy)," Episodes 26(3): 239–244 (Sept. 2003)

Other Websites

[NBRI] National Boron Research Institute, "History of Boron Mining" http://www.boren.gov.tr/en/tarihce.htm

Lyday, "Boron"

http://www2.uvm.edu/cosmolab/boron/boron.pdf

[USGS] "Boron Statistics"

http://minerals.usgs.gov/ds/2005/140/boron.pdf

http://minerals.usgs.gov/minerals/pubs/commodity/boron/120499.pdf

GEUS, "Borax replacing mercury in small-scale mining,"

http://www.geus.dk/program-areas/common/int_ssm_fact_sheet_07.pdf

The New Magdeburg—After the Ring of Fire

Written by David Carrico

The author wishes to express his appreciation to Virginia DeMarce, Gorg Huff and Kerryn Offord, whose contributions to this article were substantial.

Map by Gorg Huff.

General information about Magdeburg:

The general plan of Magdeburg is that the long axis is more or less north/south and the short axis is east/west.

The Elbe River runs along the east side of Magdeburg, with the current flowing north.

Magdeburg in 1631 is shaped roughly like a tall and narrow right triangle, with the hypotenuse running from the southwest corner to the northeast corner. The city is a bit over half a mile (.95 km) wide at the widest point and not quite two miles (approx 3 km) long. This amounts to somewhat less than a square mile of city area. It's small. Buildings are crammed together. OT, the city's population on January 1, 1631, was approximately 36,000, but that probably included several thousand people from the surrounding area that had taken refuge within the city walls. (See further notes about population below.)

Magdeburg is divided into two parts: the old city (Altstadt) to the south, and the new city (Neustadt) to the north. A wide moat encircles the old city, and the northern arm of the moat divides the old city from the new city. The moat flows from the Elbe, around the old city, and back to the Elbe. We think the moat is formally named Der Magdeburg Burggraben, but everyone just calls it Der Grosse Graben—the Big Ditch.

The city had fortification walls surrounding it. The fortifications around the old city appear to have been somewhat stronger than those around the new city.

Roughly two-thirds of the city was owned by private individuals and was subject to the authority of the city council (Rat). The remaining one-third of the city was owned by the arch-bishopric itself, and even though it was contained within the walls of the city, was not subject to the laws and authority of the city council. This consisted mainly of the churches and associated housing, some of which was destroyed in the sack. There were also a few Catholic properties (a couple of monasteries, for example), that were not under the authority of the city council or the arch-bishopric.

The area south of the Altstadt at one time had been built up with buildings and was called the Sudenburg. It was leveled by the Swedish garrison before Tilly and Pappenheim arrived to conduct the siege that led to the sack of the city.

Information about the Sack of Magdeburg and the Ring of Fire:

Pre-sack Magdeburg had approximately 1,900 households, and according to Otto Gericke there was a population within the Altstadt of approximately 26,000. In addition, there were perhaps another 9,000 people who were from the surrounding areas who had the legal right to take refuge in the city, and probably about 2,000 or so garrison troops. (This was not the high point of Magdeburg's population. In the late 1550s, the city's population is reliably estimated at about 40,000. A plague in 1597 killed about 13,000 people, and another in 1625-1626 killed several thousand more.)

The city was heavily damaged during Tilly's sack and systematically leveled by Pappenheim's occupation forces before he withdrew. The Dom and some buildings near it in the southeast corner of the old city were not destroyed, nor were the fishermen shacks and the tanneries on the riverside, but very little else escaped major damage, and most buildings were burned to their foundations, particularly in the southwest quadrant of the city.

(An interesting side note: Pappenheim would not have been a favorite person amongst the surviving citizens of Magdeburg. Among other things, he:

- • Packed the cellar of the Dom with 136 tuns [estimated to be about 300,000 pounds/ 136,000 kg] of gunpowder with an eye toward reducing it to rubble. Only the rain and the rapid approach of Swedish troops forestalled that.

- • Stripped all the metal organ pipes from the Dom's organ and sold them off for the value of the metal.

- • Allowed a few remaining residents to sift through the ashes of destroyed houses and salvage any metal objects or blobs that survived the fires, which in effect robbed the actual owners and tenants [or their heirs] of the right of salvage of their own property. [Surviving citizens were surprisingly bitter about this.]

All things considered, ally or no ally, Pappenheim probably shouldn't show his face in Magdeburg any time soon.)

We are assuming that the butterfly effect touched the Sack of Magdeburg and the subsequent occupation, but that the sack was not quite as severe as it was in our timeline. The sack began with initial breaches in the walls on May 20, 1631, and the Ring of Fire happened on or about May 25, 1631. So, we may not be able to butterfly out the main atrocities against the people, in which some 30,000 residents were reported to have been massacred. Also, in our timeline Pappenheim withdrew from Magdeburg in January 1632 after doing as much destruction as he could. We will posit, however, that post-ROF Gustavus Adolphus moved on Magdeburg sooner, and that Pappenheim actually left Magdeburg in December 1631. However, we can butterfly out some of the damage to the city. Two main effects:

- • Less destruction by Tilly's troops of the buildings in the city, particularly the churches. This will speed up the rebuilding.

- • Less destruction of the fortification walls around the city. They will be restored ASAP.

(Why rebuild the walls? Other people lived around that city. They held legal contracts, for which they paid [like modern insurance policies] to the effect that when armies came by, they, their families, and X amount of their possessions could come inside the walls for safety. No walls = many lawsuits for breach of contract, and substantial loss of revenue.

For most of the time, these contracts were a regular and fairly secure source of income for a city or town government, cost them nothing, and reduced the taxes they had to impose on their own citizens. In an emergency, they're the reason why you find 9,000 refugees packed into Magdeburg on top of the ordinary, much smaller, population.

In addition, in our timeline Gustav II Adolph wanted new and improved fortifications built back ASAP and took a lively interest in it. He had Baner appoint an engineer to begin surveying work to that end almost immediately. We assume that will still be the case in the 1632-verse.)

(Note: not all of the damage in Magdeburg was from the sack or from Pappenheim's planned destruction. There was a fire in the Neustadt in the 1620's that destroyed much of that sector of the city. As of 1631, little rebuilding had occurred.)

Information about the rebuilding of Magdeburg:

Ludwig Fürst von Anhalt-Coethen, as Swedish administrator of the archbishoprics of Halberstadt and Magdeburg, on behalf of Gustav Adolph, commissioned Otto Gericke to develop a plan to rebuild the city. His idealized 1632 plan was dated 10 April 1632.

In February 1632, Ludwig of Anhalt-Coethen, on behalf of Gustav Adolph, issued a decree permitting former residents to return to the city. However, they were to build only temporary shelters until such time as Gustav Adolph had approved the new city plan. No permanent buildings were to be constructed, whether homes or businesses, until the new plan was in effect.

As in our timeline, Gustav appointed Otto Gericke as the chief engineer to rebuild the city. Per "In the Navy" (Ring of Fire), we will allow that the big boulevards and squares get built, but otherwise most rebuilding will occur on pre-sack lots and back streets. The fact that many/most of the property owners and lessees were probably killed or displaced in the sack will provide a huge muddle about who owns what, which Gericke with Gustav's authority behind him will be able to take advantage of. By the time heirs are identified, located, and notified, much of the work will have been substantially done, presenting the new owners with a fait accompli of what amounts to eminent domain.

Magdeburg is not large, so most new development and all industrial development will occur outside the walls west and north of the city. "In the Navy" indicates that there is much hurried temporary (and thus probably very shoddy) construction of residential buildings for workers amongst the industrial sites. Up-timers will casually refer to this area as Boomtown.

Churches will be rebuilt on previous sites.

The northeast quarter of the old city was apparently the poorest part of the pre-sack city, centered on St. James/St. Jacob church. That condition still remains. Ironically, that quadrant, particularly around the church, suffered comparatively little damage, even from the looting troops. Sometimes it is an advantage to be poor.

Per the beginning of 1634: The Baltic War, the refinery was south of the old city, presumably covering all or part of what had been known as the Sudenburg.

Per the beginning of 1634: The Baltic War, the navy yard was north of the new city.

The riverside of the old city, at least, should contain warehouses for the major merchants and fishermen houses.

The new opera house and arts complex will be built in the southwest corner of the new city.

Pre-ROF, city hall was a large structure in the center of the old city. It will be rebuilt in its previous location.

Hans Richter Square is beside the Dom, and Gustav's new palace fronts on the square in the location where the archbishop's palace was previously located.

Political status of Magdeburg:

Magdeburg the city was previously a part of the Archbishopric of Magdeburg, nominally under the authority of the Archbishop of Magdeburg. In actuality, the archbishopric had fallen under the influence of Brandenburg around 1541, and had subsequently been governed by Protestant administrators.

The fortunes of war allowed the Catholic Archbishop of Magdeburg and Mainz to reassume administration of the archbishopric in 1631, but post-ROF the actual authority and territory of the archbishop and the Erzstift (the chapter of canons associated with the cathedral) was assumed by Gustav II Adolph in his role as Emperor, after which it becomes the Province of Magdeburg. The property owned by the Erzstift, however, will remain with the stift.

Post-ROF, as Gustav's capitol, Magdeburg is under his ultimate authority, which he will delegate as he sees fit. However, the rights and privileges accorded to the city by various overlords were recognized and preserved at that time. This will complicate Otto Gericke's life.

Within the empire, Magdeburg City gets Reichsstadt status (presumably because Gustav didn't want the national capital to have a lower status than Hamburg or Frankfurt). The mayor will represent it in the upper house of the USE parliament; representation in Commons will depend on population.

Magdeburg City Council (Magistrat)

On a day to day basis, the authority within the city is:

- • First, Ludwig Fürst von Anhalt-Coethen, as Swedish administrator of the archbishoprics of Halberstadt and Magdeburg

- • Second, Christoff Schultze, former lawyer in private practice, formerly held the position of Möllnvoigt (highest administrative official of the archbishop of Magdeburg in managing the archdiocesan property in the city). From January 1632, Swedish administrator in the city. (Think of him as the city manager.) (He was also the stepfather of Otto Gericke.)

- • Third, the city council (Magistrat). Post-ROF this is a group of younger men than prior to the Sack. These will mostly be 40-somethings trying to entrench their influence for the next quarter century. Many of them can be characterized as greedy, venal, grasping, corporate raider types who will have trouble recognizing that the world is changing all around them as they fight local political turf wars. Not too different, perhaps, from modern politicians. Definitely recognizable as "suits" to the Grantville miners.

Effective with a major reform in 1630, the Magistrat was composed of 24 persons, of whom each year half would be the "ruling" and half would be the "resting" magistracy, taking yearly turns. The previous annual elections of the Magistrat from and by the guilds was thus wholly given up and abandoned. The new council was chosen for life.

It was specifically laid down in the new provisions that at future elections to fill vacancies, the electors (Körherren, voters) were to consider not only the candidate's guild membership, but also his competence, patriotism, and prior service.

In the place of the previous citizen's deputation (bürgerliche Ausschuss) of 100 men, there was put a deputation of 50 men chosen and ordained from the citizenry, half of whom (25) were to be on call at all times to advise the Magistrat. The Rat was to solicit the advice of this deputation on all important matters affecting the city.

All of the newly elected council members in 1630 were zealous Protestants and enthusiastic supporters of Christian Wilhelm of Brandenburg, who at that time was the Lutheran administrator of the archdiocese of Magdeburg.

The city council's civic authority is limited to the space within the walls of the city of Magdeburg. However, the city council as a corporation holds property outside the city walls: farms to supply the hospital, managed forest land to provide fuel, etc. So they will possess the landholders' rights as to those territories. It's quite probable that some or a lot of the industrial development was occurring on land owned by the city council corporation.

According to the von Alemann family records, the councils for 1633 and 1634 in OT are as follows:

Regierender Rat—Ruling Council [active council for the year 1633—a member was usually a Ratsherr.]
Name/Position

Georg Kühlewein / Altbürgermeister [former mayor from the previous council—also suspected by some of having Austrian Imperialist leanings]

Johan Westvol / Bürgermeister [mayor/2nd mayor]

Georg Schmidt / Bürgermeister [mayor/1st mayor] (married to Sophie Gericke, Otto Gericke's older half-sister)

Oßwalt Matthias / Kämmerer [chamberlain/treasurer]

Hermann Körfer / Ratsmitglied [council member] (multiple spellings of his name)

Marcus Kalfförder / Ratsmitglied

Frantz Schoff / Ratsmitglied

N. Große / Ratsmitglied

Otto Gericke / Ratsmitglied

Steffan Lentge / Ratsmitglied (there are about a dozen ways to spell this name, too)

Ruhender Rat—Resting Council [dormant 1633; would assume the active role in 1634, and the guys above would get the year off to deal with their private business]

Georg Kühlewein / Bürgermeister

Georg Schmidt / Ratsmitglied

Johan Westvol / Ratsmitglied

David Braunß / Ratsmitglied

Hermann Körfer / Kämmerer

Oßwalt Matthias /Ratsmitglied

Marcus Kalfförder /Ratsmitglied

Franz Schoff / E. E. Rat

N. Große /Ratsmitglied

Otto Gericke / Ratsmitglied

Steffan Lentge / Ratsmitglied

Pascha Thomas Senior / Ratsmitglied

Matthias Helwig Senior / Ratsmitglied

Wichard Zecheldorff / Ratsmitglied

Melchior Teufell / Ratsmitglied

Steffan Lüddeke / Ratsmitglied

Johan Fricke / Ratsmitglied

The numerical discrepancy between the ruling and resting councils is probably due to the fact that the "resting" council had several ex-officio members who were always on it and never "moved up" to the ruling council in the alternate years. This included men such as the Stadtsyndikus (the city council's lawyer) and the city clerk. They attended council meetings but weren't elected and didn't have a vote.

Because they are in the von Alemann family records, these men probably survived the Sack of Magdeburg. How many of them returned to Magdeburg in the 1632-verse will depend on the authors.

(Note: Jakob Alemann was father to Margareta Alemann and thus was Otto Gericke's father-in-law. He studied law, took a degree, and from 1603 to 1630 was a member of the body of consulting jurists (Schöffenstuhl) in Magdeburg, as well as being a city council member (prior to the reform) and city chancellor.

That indicates that at least one judicial body was separate from the Rat. However, these were the people who issued the briefs and legal opinions when questions came in from other cities and towns. They were not the people who declared the penalty for the local "drunk and disorderly.")

(Note: Georg Schmidt and Johan Westvol, the two mayors in the Regierender Rat, do not have a good reputation to this day.)

One historian gives the Magdeburg administration in this era the term "Vetternwirtschaft" = an economic system based on cousinship. So, as it often is in our times, it may be who you know that gets a person advancement.

The Capitol District of Magdeburg

There is a certain swath of land surrounding the city designated by GA to support the capitol and the industrial developments occurring there. Up-timers will call that "the suburbs."

Civic law of Magdeburg as established by the charter does not apply outside the walls of the city. Civic law inside the city and rules and regulations outside the city will definitely be different in some respects.

Gericke was given magisterial authority over the surrounding regions by Gustav Adolph. He probably reports to Ludwig Fürst von Anhalt-Coethen, and on a day to day basis probably coordinates with Christoff Schultze. The boundary of the "suburbs" authority of Gericke and the city police will be "out there" somewhere (vague can still be our friend), where some yet-to-be-defined law enforcement arm of the Province of Magdeburg will take over.

The Magdeburg Polizei will have authority in Boomtown. At some point in late 1634 Bill Reilly (up-timer) will advance from being captain of the Polizei and City Watch to being Chief of the Polizei.

Legal network

Prior to the Sack, Magdeburg was the home location of jurisprudence for a network of cities in Central and Eastern Europe, ranging from locations in Lithuania to cities in the Ukraine. Das Magdeburger Recht (Magdeburg Rights or Magdeburg Law) was the corpus of law that was bestowed on these various cities by their sovereigns at different points in time. Questions of jurisprudence were frequently referred back to Magdeburg for review and decision by a council of jurists, much the way that a Supreme Court operates in the U.S. today.

All the case files and historical documents from this council of jurists were undoubtedly destroyed in the fires that destroyed the city. In our timeline, this probably dissolved the judicial network. Post-ROF, no one has written stories yet to tell us what happened.

* * *

(Note: Orange areas are those that were burnt during the Sack of Magdeburg.)

COLUMNS:

Name That Tune—Oops, Character

Written by Virginia DeMarce

At the 1632 mini-conferences I have, several times, presented talks under the title "Time Passed in the Past." Each talk is different (to avoid boring frequent attenders), but the theme remains the same each year. The past is not some vague, amoebic, blob that occurred before an individual's own memories kick in. Napoleon does not hobnob with Franklin D. Roosevelt on the field of Agincourt while David dispatches Goliath with a slingshot in the background, all of them attired in hooped skirts.

Therefore the Grantville Gazette editorial board valiantly excludes Roman centurions from Grantville's repertoire of attackers (and defenders), just as certainly as it prohibits the sudden discovery of an ample supply of nuclear warheads in the high school basement. This is all done in the interest of verisimilitude—a resemblance to the actual past of the earth that existed in April of the year 2000. The series is not fantasy, high or otherwise, but takes its function as alternate history seriously. The events that occur after the Ring of Fire are fictional, but must be plausible. The down-time characters who appear and interact with the roughly 3,500 time-traveling residents of Grantville may be either actual historical persons—in which case you as the author already know his or her name—or fictional creations. In the latter case, their actions and attitudes must be reasonable.

This principle extends to the names they carry.

Time passed in the past. What does this mean in regard to character names for the 1632 series?

First, it means that just because a name appeared in the Nibelungenlied, you cannot assume that the inhabitants of the Germanies were still using it a thousand years later. Conversely, just because your great-grandmother who immigrated to Pennsylvania in 1930 was named Helga, that doesn't mean that Scandinavia was populated by girls named Helga in 1630, three hundred years earlier. In the past, as in the present, fashions in names came and went. In some cases, they went and then came back. "Ingrid" would make a perfectly good German heroine for a story set in 1330 or 1930, but not in 1630. This means that the generic "baby name dictionaries" that just list the etymology and ethnic origin of a name variant are of almost no meaningful assistance in naming fictional characters for the 1632 series.

Just as an example, a couple of young ladies in 1632 got the names Gretchen and Annalise picked out of a baby name dictionary which identified them as German. Both are, in fact, modern nicknames. Gretchen Richter was baptized as Maria Margaretha. Her sister Annalise was baptised as Anna Elisabetha. (Their brother Hans, though, was probably baptized as Hans rather than the latinized form of Johannes. But he could have been baptized as Johannes, or as Johann.)

Secondly, in the early modern period, all European countries had an extraordinarily small treasury of given names in general use. There had been a much wider variety in the eleventh and twelfth centuries; there is a much wider variety today. If you think the current "most popular given name" trends are boring, consider that more than fifty percent of all women in Germany in the 1630s were named Anna, Elisabeth, or Maria, or some combination thereof (Anna Elisabeth, Maria Anna, Anna Maria, Maria Elisabeth). Generally speaking, if you want a female character with a less-boring name, find some reason to have her come from the Netherlands, or find a nickname.

Thirdly, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, fashions in names were usually more geographically limited than they are today, especially if the name was uncommon. My oldest son happens to combine a Swedish given name with a French Canadian surname. I've encountered "Karen" followed by a Hispanic surname and "Maureen" followed by an Italian surname. In almost every case, those modern combinations are an artifact of the marriage of individuals with different ethnic origins after their immigration to the United States. In 1632, if you find a character with a "French" given name and a "German" surname (or vice versa), the probabilities are extremely high that he's from the Rhineland.

Aside from the most common given names (Johann and Hans, alone or in combination with a middle name, accounted for nearly a third of all German males in the 1630s and John was even more widespread in some parts of England), it's prudent to look for regional variations. If you want to name your character "Arbogast," then you had better make sure that the story mentions that he comes from Alsace. Sebald will either come from Nürnberg or, like the historical Württemberg relative of astronomer Johannes Kepler, have ties to Nürnberg. A seventeenth-century Otto is much more likely to come from Bamberg than from Königsberg. A seventeenth-century woman named Appollonia has a high statistical likelihood of coming from the Swabian region. In Italy, the use of classically derived names (Ercole from Hercules, etc.) was common. In the rest of Europe, it occurred occasionally, but was rare. If you want to name your heroine Lilias, then make her come from Scotland, or at least have Scottish ancestors.

Fourth, there were also religious distinctions. Protestants throughout Europe continued to use the names of pre-Reformation saints, even if they were not New Testament saints (examples are Margaretha, Barbara, Ursula, and Catharina for women; Martin, Benedict, Georg, and Nikolaus for men). However, it's a near guarantee that a character bearing the appellation of a Counter-Reformation saint (Nepomuk, Ignatius, Theresa) was baptized Catholic as an infant. French Huguenots in the seventeenth century regularly used given names taken from the Old Testament, just as the English Puritans did; French Catholics of the era rarely did so. French parents of both creeds, however, would occasionally choose a name of classical origin (Achille).

By this time, would-be authors may be throwing up their hands in frustration and screeching something along the lines of, "But how am I supposed to figure all this out?"

Fear not. There is a comparatively simple solution, created by the popularity of on-line genealogical research. Specifically, I refer you to the WorldConnect Project at http://www.rootsweb.com with its immense and multiply searchable data base of over six hundred million given names. It's free.

Start by going to that site: http://www.rootsweb.com

On the left-hand column of the home page menu, click on WorldConnect Project.

You will find blank spaces to enter something for Surname and Given Name. Since you aren't searching for a specific individual, enter nothing at all and click on the Go button.

This will bring up another menu. Now you can handle it two different ways.

Option one—if you need a name and don't have a clue:

Leave the spaces for Surname and Given Name blank.

In Birth Place, enter the place you are interested in (Suhl, Liverpool, Stockholm, Warsaw, Naples).

In Birth Year, enter 1600.

Move to the next blank that says Exact and change it to +/- 20 years.

Move to the bottom of the menu and hit Search.

If you entered Suhl as the birthplace, you'll get everyone in their data base who was born in Suhl for forty years right around the time period of interest for 1632 characters. Mix and match the surnames and given names to create plausible characters. You will make interesting discoveries, such as the fact that the people around Suhl named a lot of little girls Osanna, even though the name was very rare in the rest of the Germanies.

Option two—if you want to check specifically whether a certain given name was in use:

Still leave the space for Surname blank.

In Given Name, enter the given name you are searching (Clothilda, Clovis, Dagmar, Detlev, Eva, Emmeram, Hilda, Horst, Sidonia, Simon, Wilbur, Walpurgis).

In Birth Place, just enter a country (Scotland, England, Wales, Ireland, Poland, Spain, or . . . yes, in spite of the fact that there really was no such country in the 1630s . . . Germany).

In Birth Year, enter 1600.

Move to the next blank that says Exact and change it to +/- 20 years.

Move to the bottom of the menu and hit Search.

You will get all instances of that given name for forty years right around the time period of interest for 1632 characters. If the name most dear to your heart does not show up, go back, make Birth Place blank, and search again. Maybe it was in use somewhere else.

* * *

The rootsweb.com data base is the fastest way to check out the historical viability of a proposed character name. It quickly eliminates made-up names from fantasy compilations, prevents the appearance of anomalies, and gives you some interesting options. For example, the board will almost certainly toss out a heroine named Tiffany. However, if you're willing to make her Sicilian, you can call her Tiphania. Or you can always go searching in other sources for evidence that the name you want to use was, in fact, present somewhere on the map of Europe in the 1630s. For England, for example, Burke's compilation on extinct and dormant peerages and baronetcies contains truly large numbers of names.

There's no point in pouting and deciding that if you can't name your hero Leland then you won't submit a story to 1632 Slush at all. Change him to Lambert or Lancelot. Flexibility is the name of the name game.

Other sources:

Smith-Bannister, Scott, Names and Naming Patterns in England 1538-1700 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997) (Oxford Historical Monographs)

THE END

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Grantville Gazette Volume 28

Table of Contents

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

FICTION:

The Common Market

Written by Terry Howard

Time to Spare, Go by Air

Written by Jack Carroll

Or the Horse May Learn to Sing

Written by Virginia DeMarce

On His Majesty's Secret Service

Written by Kerryn Offord

Interlude

Written by David Carrico

A Great Drowning of Men

Written by Walt Boyes

Small Problem with Cafe Press Store

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

SERIALS:

Northwest Passage, Part Three

Written by Herbert and William Sakalaucks

No Ship for Tranquebar, Part Two

Written by Kevin H. and Karen C. Evans

NONFICTION:

Steaks or Cheese?

Written by Karen Bergstralh

Borax Bonanzas

Written by Iver P. Cooper

The New Magdeburg—After the Ring of Fire

Written by David Carrico

COLUMNS:

Name That Tune—Oops, Character

Written by Virginia DeMarce