What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

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

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

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

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

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

Then, two big steps:

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

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

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

— The Grantville Gazette Staff

All Steamed Up

Written by Gorg Huff

Adolph Schmidt sat in an inn in Badenburg the evening of his father's wedding to Ramona Higgins, caught between wishing the Ring of Fire hadn't happened and thankful it had. Up-timers, he thought as he sipped his beer, are rude, self-centered jerks . . . who are the making of my family. Adolph was bit ambivalent about up-timers. About the fact that while others were being promoted around him, he was being held down by his father, Karl. Who doted on David Bartley. I'll commit a war crime . . . well, maybe just murder, if one more stupid up-timer asshole says "sieg heil"to me.At the same time there is the knowledge they bring . . . the family is already much richer than it ever would have been in the old history.And there are the other things that up-timers brought, like knowledge of electricity. Which brought him full circle. Adolph had been trying to get some interest in the notion of small-scale electric plants in the weeks leading up to the wedding. He hadn't been getting that far, but was making slow progress.

Now the Partow twins, Brent and Trent, just mentioned that it's one of the projects that they are interested in and people are falling all over themselves to invest. It just isn't fair. And it seemed that his father, who was at best neutral to the idea when Adolph brought it to him, was already involved in the planning to set up this new mutual fund to finance the twin up-timer mechanical geniuses in doing it. It just isn't fair. Adolph had another swig of beer.

****

The next morning Adolph had a horrible headache and his father was off on his wedding trip, what the up-timers called a honeymoon. Adolph was left to run things but not really in charge. Responsibility without authority. Adolph was expected to manage things without making any decisions more than the most minor. Success was expected and would be ignored, failure would be more proof that he wasn't ready for a real leadership position.

The Higgins Sewing Machine Corporation, the Badenburg Sewing Machine factory, the Badenburg electroplating shop, and the other companies owned in whole or in part by HSMC chugged along smoothly under Adolph's management. He made three trips to Grantville to arrange for the production of devices that certain of the businesses would need. One of them took him to the Grantville high school where the concrete program was just getting started. Yes, they could make him concrete but the cost would be high and the quality not great. After some discussion he decided to go with stone and mortar. He noticed in passing several of the up-timer girls in the hall and was noticed in turn. Adolph had apprenticed to a blacksmith; he was a young, healthy man who had worked at skilled but hard labor since he was twelve. He was a physically powerful young man and looked it.

He was also the eldest son of the Schmidt family of Badenburg, which meant he was a wealthy young man. He looked that, too.

Since everything was working well there was nothing for Papa to notice when he and Ramona got home. Adolph didn't even get a "good job."

****

Unknown to Adolph, while he had noticed the high school girls, they had noticed him. Questions were asked, a name was discovered. Adolph Schmidt, the son of Karl Schmidt, yes, the one who married Ramona Higgins and bought the HSMC. Rich and going to be richer, considered something of a catch in Badenburg, at least since the Ring of Fire. One of those asking was Heidi Partow. She had had no idea that the twins knew anyone that cute.

Heidi mentioned seeing Adolph Schmidt at school, Brent shrugged.

Heidi mentioned that it would be nice to invite Adolph over to dinner. Brent looked at her. "What's up?"

"Nothing! I just thought it would be polite."

Trent looked at Heidi, then at Brent, then back at Heidi. "Oh great! She's got the hots for Adolph Schmidt."

"I do not!" was out of Heidi's mouth long before her brain was engaged. It was like something she would have said when she was twelve, or maybe eight when boys still had cooties. And it made her wonder if maybe she did, a little bit. She had made the suggestion because she had seen the guy and was curious. Granted he wasn't a member of the nobility, not even the lower nobility, and since the Ring of Fire the possibility of marrying a real prince had become a lot more than a fairytale for up-timer girls. On the other hand, the Schmidt family were the up-and-comers in Badenburg. And, well, he was good looking in a Conan the Barbarian sort of way and he dressed well. But she was really just curious, wasn't she? It didn't matter. Trent was going to have to be taught a lesson. Certain youthful acts of indiscretion were brought up. Things the twins really wouldn't want Mom and Dad to know about.

Adolph Schmidt was invited to the Partow house for dinner.

****

Adolph had no real clue why he had been invited. Maybe it was to talk about the generator factory they were trying to find the time to set up, he wondered as he rang the doorbell. Adolph was still impressed by doorbells even if he knew better.

Dinner was friendly and fun. The Partow twins were hard not to like; Heidi was pretty bordering on gorgeous and Mr. Partow knew all about engines. They talked horsepower, internal combustion versus steam. Mr. Partow was for internal combustion. It just stood to reason that with the fire inside the engine you got more bang for your buck.

Trent, just being Trent, argued for steam. You got more bang, sure, then had to throw most of it away with a cooling system that added complexity. You needed an electrical system to provide a spark, still more unnecessary complexity.

Adolph joined the fray in defense of Mr. Partow and internal combustion. "Don't underestimate the craftsmen of our age."

"Oh, I'm not." Trent said. "I've seen your work, Adolph, and the work of other down-time craftsmen. I know how good you guys are. I don't doubt for a second that you guys could build an internal combustion engine by hand, given the time. It's the time that's the killer. Your time, Adolph, is simply worth too much to waste on handcrafting a radiator."

"How is it any more wasted on a radiator than it is on a boiler?" Brent piled in on the side of internal combustion.

Now Trent was all alone, trapped, cornered, but not giving up by any means. "Granted it's too valuable to waste on handcrafting anything that can be machine made, but why pretend that the boiler of a steam engine costs efficiency and ignore the loss of the cooling system in internal combustion? And what about the electrical system? A steam engine uses a constant flame; you don't need to be worrying about sparking a new explosion fifty times a second. All these extra complexities are extra costs as well."

"And yet you and Brent are setting up to make generators?" Adolph asked.

"That's more Brent's thing than mine," Trent said. "I was pushing the pedal-powered washing machine."

"Which is the silliest thing I've ever heard," Heidi broke in.

"Much as it breaks my heart to disagree with such a beautiful young woman," Adolph said without feeling or displaying the least bit of heartbreak. In fact, he grinned at her as he continued, "You're looking at it from the point of view of a woman who has an electric washing machine and the power to run it. Look at it from the point of view of, say, my sisters who have spent time with a wash board and a tub of soapy water. From their point of view, the pedal-powered washing machine that offers the possibility of clean clothing without the red, rough hands and the aching back that comes with the use of washboards is quite the dream come true."

"Sure, I understand that but if you're going to build home power plants anyway . . . which Brent is, why bother with the pedal-power washing machine?"

"A couple of reasons," Adolf said more seriously, "the pedal washing machine is faster to put into production and less expensive. Especially when you add in not only the cost of the electric washing machine, but the power plant as well. Granted the power plant will be useful for many things, but it's simply too expensive for many a poor family no matter how useful. It will be decades, I fear, before our notion of middle class comes to equal you up-timer's notion of poor."

"Which is where saving the lives of husbands that can't afford to buy power plants comes in," said Mrs. Partow. "Because you'd better believe that any man who expects me to use a washboard is headed to an early grave," she added, giving Mr. Partow a hard look.

Mr. Partow cringed which brought general laughter.

"We're working on the home and small business power plants," Brent said. "Well, Henry, uh, Hieronymus—what a name—Steiger is working on them and consulting us whenever he runs into a bug. But there are enough bugs still in the system that they're still essentially hand making them. Which we shouldn't be doing anyway."

"They'll get faster I'm sure." Mr. Partow said.

"Yep," Brent agreed. "If Henry can ever get back to building a production facility rather than hand making generators."

"You could always say no!" Heidi said.

"If only!" Trent said.

"Why can't you?" Adolph asked.

"Politics!" Brent said it like it was a dirty word. "The mayor of Weimar has to have a generator and has to have it now. Not after we get into production."

"Oh." Adolph said. The mayor of Weimar had visited his family a week before and Adolph had mentioned electroplating as a useful business. Adolph hadn't had any intent to cause the twins grief but the mayor had been going on about needing jobs for the people that were flooding into Weimar now that it was considered halfway safe and he really needed businesses. Well, Adolph had set up the electroplating subsidiary for HSMC and it wasn't like it was something they were keeping secret. Adolph knew of several other operations near Grantville. All using power generated from inside the Ring of Fire but Adolph hadn't really thought about that. Adolph didn't 'fess up but he did feel he had to say something in the mayor's defense. "They really do need the industry," he started.

But Trent was already waving. "I know they do. So do the other people that are screaming about needing them now. That's the problem! If it was just some smuck wanting to show off we'd tell 'um to go fly a kite with a key tied to it if they wanted juice.

Adolph's confusion must have shown.

"Never mind. A reference to Ben Franklin," Trent said. "The point is we do know they need the things which is why we can't just say no. Even though in the long run it would get more out faster."

Adolph nodded. He knew about the pressure that up-timers were under to get something out the door now. Heck, HSMC was under the same pressure. He'd also gotten chapter and verse about what a bad idea it was to yield to that pressure if you could possibly avoid it. Always a bad option, if occasionally the best of a bad set of options.

All in all, Adolph found it a quite enjoyable evening and he learned a great deal. As he thought about it over the next several days he began to seriously consider steam as something that would make sense in somewhat the same way that the pedal-powered washing machines did. It was workable. Adolph decided to try to discover just how workable. There had to be something wrong with it. There had to be, else why weren’t they arlredy doing it?

****

Herr Frystack was reasonably willing to talk about steam engines with Adolph, though his primary interest was trains and the re-creation of the glory days of steam trains. They had several talks and Adolph learned quite a bit. He began to get a feel for how the engines, both steam and internal combustion, worked. Even after a year and more and much of the magic having rubbed off, the how of their working had been abstract, theoretical. Now, talking with Herr Frystack and playing with the working model steam engines with their cylinders and pistons, pushing and pulling against the pressure contained in a cylinder, and then seeing that pressure move the piston and turn the flywheel, it became real for him—as real as his hammer and the fire in his forge. There were more talks over the next weeks with several of the steam heads and a few of the recruits to the cause, both up-timer and down-timer, who had joined since the Ring of Fire. There were books on steam power and the many types of steam engines and on model engines. That is, engines that could be used in models.

Adolph learned what was wrong with steam engines. They were loved. Each steam engine was a thing of beauty, handcrafted by a hobbyist. They weren't working engines, though they worked quite well. They weren't factory made by people who made their money by getting them out the door and into the hands of paying customers. They were the products of artists and artisans doing it for the love of the doing. Great stuff; marvelous stuff; glorious stuff; and utterly impractical. It was one of the things that had been hardest to take about what came out of the Ring of Fire and not just for the down-timers, but for the up-timers as well.

It was more the way of going about it than the machines themselves. A power drill is incredibly more efficient than a hand drill, but it is still just a tool. As a tool it spends most of its time sitting on a stool or a table somewhere waiting to be used. Take it and put it in a frame so that a chair leg will fit in the frame just one way and so that pulling the lever will turn on the drill and drill a hole just the right depth and suddenly you have a device that, in combination with others, will turn out a chair leg in a few seconds or a few minutes. What the up-timer historians called the early modern period was the end of the age of the craftsman and the start of the age of the industrial worker. As long as steam engines were produced as works of art, even if they were made using the most modern tools available, they would be too expensive for general use. The trick of it, the horrible degrading trick of it, was taking out craftsmanship and replacing it with standardization and simplification. That was what they did to turn out the quantity of sewing machines they turned out and that was how Adolph would have to do it if he were to produce an affordable steam engine.

One of the example engines had, in the world up-time, run on compressed carbon dioxide. It became the basis on which Adolph designed what he hoped would be his primary engine. The model had only four moving parts, excluding bearings. The modified version would have a couple of extras, to save on wear by replacing the ball with a cap. He would have a cylinder made of four parts bolted together, both because it would be easier to make that way and because it would allow changes to the engine by changing one of the parts. Adolph knew that this would make the engine less robust and heavier at the same time. But it was a matter of needing to replace parts in five years rather than ten and the parts would be easier to replace.

The piston and piston rod go to a crankshaft, which was designed in such a way that more than one piston could be attached, so that the same parts used to make a one-cylinder four-horsepower engine would make a two-cylinder engine and so on. The idea being to have the smallest number of parts make the largest number of engines. That idea might seem to be in conflict with the cylinder being made in four parts bolted together. And, in fact, it was in conflict with it. But while the cylinders could be poured in one piece, the machine tools needed to finish a one-piece cylinder were much more complicated and expensive than the machine tools needed to finish four separate pieces. There are compromises in any design and Adolph had consulted with the twins as well as Herr Frystack several times before he had a proposal that he thought was good enough. All this took a great deal of time, what with Adolph's day job.

****

"What's this?" Karl Schmidt asked as his son handed him the folder.

"It's a proposal for a new business, Papa."

"I don't have time to add another business," Karl said. Adolph should know that without Karl having to tell him.

"I'll run it, Papa," Adolph said. "It's production steam engines. They are actually easier to build than sewing machines."

Karl didn't believe that for a minute and he didn't have time to go over a pie-in-the-sky proposal from a son who was supposed to be managing much of the day-to-day operations of the Higgins Sewing Machine Corporation. And shouldn't have time to come up with said pie-in-the-sky proposal in the first place. Who knew what was going wrong at the plant while Adolph screwed around trying to be an up-timer. It didn't occur to Karl that Adolph was still being paid as a journeyman smith, in fact rather less than a journeyman smith might be hired for in Badenburg today. Adolph hadn't gotten a raise since the Ring of Fire. Which, if anyone had pointed it out, Karl would have felt that it was perfectly just. After all, Adolph was working for the family business and he wore the best clothing at the family's expense, ate at the family table . . . the journeyman pay might well be seen as a rather generous allowance. It didn't occur to Karl—as it doesn't occur to many parents—that an adult full-time employee who happens to be your son is still an employee. All Karl could see was his son goofing off again when he should have been working. He might have seen more if he had actually looked at the proposal. But he didn't. Instead he blew up and spent fifteen minutes telling Adolph to stop wasting his time and get back to work.

Adolph took it, as was his habit. Granted, he had sadly unfilial thoughts about hammers and tongs but he took it. He also decided that he had to get away from his father, or at some point those thoughts about hammers and tongs might take on all too real a meaning.

****

Adolph Schmidt didn't know what to do, so he talked to his sisters. Who were worried but generally supportive; they knew their father. Unfortunately, there wasn't all that much they could do. Also, while trying to be modern, Karl was actually more supportive of his daughters' projects than his son's. They recommended that he go see David Bartley. Which wasn't something that Adolph wanted to do. He couldn't help thinking of his young stepbrother as an interloper in the family. To go to David to get him to intercede with his papa was more than Adolph could bring himself to do.

"No, not that," His eldest sister Gertrude said. "I doubt David could change Papa's mind either. You should see if that fund that David runs will fund the new project."

"David doesn't run it," Adolph said, unable to keep the resentment out of his voice. "Frantz Kunze and a board of directors . . ."

Seeing his sister's expression he ran down and Gertrude spoke. "That's just the sort of talk that makes Papa think of you as a child." She smiled, then, "And it's also just how Papa sounds when he doesn't get his way."

Adolph had to smile at his sister. "How did you grow so wise, little goose?" Giving her the nickname she had hated as a child.

She shook a fist at him, laughing. "I'll goose you, you. Jerk!" she used an up-timer word. "Seriously though, talk to David. He's not so bad really, and he's not trying to displace you in Papa's heart."

Adolph grimaced. "I know and that just makes it worse. He's not trying but he's still all I hear from Papa."

****

Adolph couldn't bring himself to go to David Bartley, not yet. Instead he went looking for other investors. He was always welcomed in politely; he was always shown the greatest respect. Then he was always asked how much his father was investing. He learned quickly to say he hadn't asked his father to invest in this, he wanted to do it on his own. Which was in a sense true, he had offered the project to HSMC, not his papa. But it didn't help. He was a down-timer not an up-timer, he was not yet twenty-five and if Herr Schultz wasn't involved, no, so sorry, we can't help you.

Worse, word of his quest for investors got back to his father almost immediately, as Adolph had known it would. That led to a screaming match between him and his father, who still didn't look at the project.

"The project isn't the issue," Karl Schmidt bellowed. "It's the betrayal."

"What betrayal?" Adolph bellowed back for once. "I brought it to you for HSMC and you weren’t interested."

Things went downhill from there. Adolph wasn't ordered out of the house, not quite. And he wasn't fired because Karl had no one to replace him with, but Karl was now looking for someone. He told Adolph so that night.

****

"Yes, we heard about it," Heidi said. "Why didn't you take it to your dad first?"

"I did," Adolph said. "He wasn't interested."

"Then what's he complaining about?" Heidi asked.

Adolph tried to explain but it didn't seem fair to him either. He'd come to the Partow's home to try to get the twins endorsement. Brent and Trent were convinced that it was doable—profitable was another question.

"It's just not what we do," Brent said. "We figure out how to build stuff and even how to build it without wasting money and so far as I can tell this is a good project as far as these things go. You're using specialized machines rather than powered handcrafting and that's good. It'll increase production and save a fortune in the long run. But will there be a market at the sales price? Talk to David and Sarah."

Adolph was pretty darn sure there would be a market at the sales price, even if it cost twice what he thought it would to build the engines. What most up-timers didn't realize was just how expensive even the worst paid labor was at doing physical work that a machine could do. And it wasn't just adding power Adolph had gotten chapter and verse on Thomas Blanchard and Henry Ford. A backhoe is an incredibly expensive piece of equipment. One had come through the Ring of Fire and two more little ones had been built since. Yes, a backhoe was horribly expensive, especially hand-built in the here and now, but not as expensive as a hundred guys with shovels. Not even if wages paid those hundred guys were so little as to leave them starving to death. He nodded to Brent. "I'm sure it's viable."

"I think so too," Trent said, "but we've been wrong before."

****

David almost wished it was a crappy idea. Instead he took one look and knew it was a money maker. Adolph, as much as any down-timer, understood how up-timer tech could be integrated with down-timer tech to make stuff with the best compromise between initial investment and long-term costs and it showed. In fact Adolph understood it better than most up-timers. He had seen that the major bottleneck would be skilled labor and maneuvered his business proposal away from that danger. He knew what the down-time foundries could do; he knew just what machines a specialized foundry would need to make the parts for steam engines without depending on skilled labor that didn't exist. David turned a page. Sales of the first model would pay for the development of later models. Steam had the advantage that it could use anything that burned. Gas, coal, wood, cow chips—if it would burn and boil water, it would power a steam engine, which made it less dependent on any particular fuel supply. With the still heavy restrictions and high cost of gasoline, that was an important consideration. He could see the twins' fine hands all over the proposal, which said important and encouraging things about Adolph's ability to accept advice and consult with others on what he didn't understand himself. In fact, if this was anyone else, David would already have the contracts out.

He told Adolph as much. "Unfortunately, your dad's been talking to people since you had your fight. I've been told that if you brought a project to me I was not to authorize it on my own but bring it to the board." David shook his head. "Your father has gotten to be an important man and while there are some who resent that, there are a lot more who don't want to piss him off."

"So it's no again?"

"Not necessarily. Frantz Kunze isn't going to roll over for anyone, not even Karl, and they didn't say to turn you down, just that they wanted to look at it," David said. "It'll take a few days."

As it turned out it took more than a few days. The Croat raid happened while they were still talking about it. Kaspar Heesters got back from Amsterdam while they were still talking about it, with a shit load of money. But that didn't help. The problem had never been the money. Finally, on a close vote, the board said no. They said no, though Adolph didn't know it, out of fear that Karl would be pissed enough to expose the way OPM had been started. Which would still embarrass some very important people, in spite of what it had done since.

Meanwhile, David had decided that aside from being a good investment, what Adolph wanted to do was needed. He wasn't willing to screw Adolph over, so he talked privately to Frantz Kunze, Sarah Wendell, the Partow twins, and his Grandmother Delia. Then, using HSMC and OPM stock as collateral, they borrowed the money. Sarah, who was handling Jeff and Gretchen's wedding present by doing exactly what she was doing with her own stock, included them in the deal.

So Schmidt Steam was a lot better funded than HMSC had been and rather better planned as well. The prototype engines, three of them, were built in Twinlo Park, the twin's research shop. They were, so to speak, handcrafted with machine tools. Because they were being made to test the design. So were the prototype flash boilers, both versions. The engines needed slight tweaking and led to a tweaking of the specialized machine tools that would be used to finish the parts. If the escape valve was shifted a quarter inch to the right, the attachment of the radiator would be easier. So the fitting to the machine that drilled out the escape valve was adjusted so that the cylinder body would rest turned a quarter inch to left. The designs were tweaked, then sent off to Grantville machine shops to have the parts fabricated. All while Adolph was still working for HSMC.

****

Karl was finding out how important Adolph actually was to the running of HSMC and getting more and more pissed off the more he learned. The truth was that while in most ways Karl was a good business man and a good boss, he had a blind spot where his kids were concerned. That blind spot focused on his son. It was there where his daughters were concerned as well, but was overwhelmed by the standard boy's role/girl's role thing. Also because while Karl could and did learn from experience, Adolph had the unfortunate position of being the experience Karl learned on. And while Karl learned, he wasn't that good at admitting he'd been wrong.

By the time the tweaked machine tools were ready, there was a cold war between father and son. No blows exchanged and few words. Adolph, unable to go to his father about the question of where to set up shop, instead went to the Sewing Circle, to the Partow twins, and at their recommendation to David and Sarah.

****

"Magdeburg," David said. "It's going to be the capital but most of the people are dead and more than a few of them are dead without heirs. With their property going back to the crown and the city council, there's land in town and it's right on the river so you'll have access to iron, sand, clay, coal and whatever else you need. Perhaps more important, it's outside of Karl's influence. It's not like Karl rules the roost here, but he is an important person. In Magdeburg, well, people have heard of him because of the sewing machines but mostly it's going to be Karl Who? David Who? for that matter.

"Adolph Schmidt, who is setting up a foundry and steam engine factory with the backing of several money men back in Grantville, can be his own man in Magdeburg, not his father's rebellious son." Then David gave Adolph a sardonic grin. "And David Bartley won't be caught in the middle of the muddle."

"Try and get in good with the Committees of Correspondence," Sarah added. "It looks like they are going to be a power in Magdeburg more than here."

****

Magdeburg was a bustling disaster area, Adolph thought as he looked at the place for the first time since the sack. He was on a slight rise near the city—there were no hills worthy of the name near Magdeburg. He had driven from Grantville to Magdeburg in a steam car powered by one of the prototypes. It had two cylinders, giving it about eight horsepower and a small Lamont boiler barely big enough to provide the steam the engine needed. It had a chain drive going from the engine to the rear axle. The twins had had the steam wagon built at Twinlo. It was mostly wood, but had air shocks and wider, shorter wheels than a normal wagon would have. Oddly enough, it performed pretty much like a wagon pulled by a team of eight fresh horses. At least insofar as speed was concerned. But his horses ran at a trot the whole way, only slowing when going uphill, or when Adolph adjusted the steam and put on the brakes. It was a test of the steam engine and the steam wagon design. And for the most part a successful one, Adolph thought.

It was not a practical device for sale. Not this year and probably not next. The engine and boiler had cost nearly fifty thousand American dollars to make because they were the first of their kind and had been made a piece at a time as a way of testing what would be needed to make the parts in quantity. The body had cost almost as much again though Adolph hadn't been charged that much for it. The twins had wanted to build it.

It would, he knew, have driven an up-timer to distraction. Having to stop every couple of hours to put more coke in the fire pan. Trundling along at ten or twelve miles an hour. Bumping along, because when compared to an up-time car it was a very bumpy ride. In spite of the shocks and the padded bucket seat, when iron-rimmed wheel met rocky road neither gave much and the shock of the encounter was transferred to the body of the wagon. But for someone used to ox-drawn wagons more often than horse-drawn, it was a miracle of speed, comfort and endurance. It was also advertising, which is why Adolph had continued to drive even after he had reached the Elbe rather than take a riverboat the rest of the way.

David and Sarah—and when he thought about it, Adolph—had all agreed that showing up in Magdeburg in the steam wagon would excite interest in the project and make the hiring of workers and finding of property to rent or buy for the factory easier. It would be much harder to question whether he could actually make steam engines if he had driven into town in a wagon powered by one.

So Adolph sat in his bucket seat on a cold March morning in the year 1633 looking at the burned out hulk of a city. And a burned out hulk it was, but not an empty one. Workmen were everywhere in this history, as he knew they wouldn't have been in the first. This was to be Gustav's capital and the Captain-General of the CPE would not have a ruin as his capital. So a combination of government money, mostly loaned to the Captain-General at the absurdly low rate of three and a half percent, and private capital often invested by the Abrabanel family in the purchase of city lots and the starting of businesses, was flooding into the city—bringing with it jobs. Many of those jobs involved working for Jews connected in some way to the Abrabanel clan. The population of the new Magdeburg was self-selecting to be tolerant of Jews and American ideas. While Magdeburg wasn't a Jewish city, it was going to have a larger Jewish contingent than most cities in Europe and those Jews would be able to live anywhere in the city and wear whatever clothing they wanted. It was a new idea to Adolph, one that had come out of the up-timers . . . but, surprisingly, not one that bothered Adolph Schmidt in the least.

Badenburg was too small a town to have a separate Jewish quarter and Adolph had played with Jewish children as a child. He had been perhaps a little less prejudiced than most, but not much. Then Rebecca Abrabanel on the TV set, and the leader of the up-timers marrying her . . . well, it might have happened in a down-time town. Rebecca Abrabanel was beautiful, after all. But it would have been a great scandal and ruined Mike Stearns as a leader. To the up-timers, though, it was nothing. No scandal at all, so what, and if you're upset by it, what's wrong with you? To this extent at least Adolph Schmidt had assimilated up-timer ideals by association with the up-timers and with the Jews of the Abrabanel clan with whom he'd done considerable business.

Which reminded Adolph that there was a representative of the Abrabanel bank he needed to see first thing. He had a bank draft from the Badenburg Bank to deliver to establish his account. They would also be of considerable help in finding quarters and buying, or perhaps renting, a site for a factory. Adolph let off the brake and turned up the steam, then proceeded toward the west gate of Magdeburg. His wagon drew a crowd and he got directions to the banking house managed by the Abrabanels here in Magdeburg.

"Yes, Herr Schmidt. I received a note about your coming and your needs." The banker looked not the least like Rebecca Abrabanel and was named Frantz Goldman. "I'm a cousin on my mother's side to Balthazar Abrabanel . . . well, second cousin . . . or perhaps third . . . once or twice removed.

For a moment Adolph was reminded of the up-timers stories of dwarves and their complex family relationships. But, no. It was simply that every Jew in central Germany was busy trying to come up with a relationship to Rebecca Abrabanel. Adolph hid a smile. Heck, if he were Jewish he'd be trying to come up with one. Come to think of it . . . Now Adolph let his smile show. "Then we're related. Give or take another remove or six."

"What?" Surprise, even shock, covered Herr Goldman's face. "I thought you were a gentile. Not that it matters here . . ."

Adolph held up his hand. "I am. Lutheran, in fact. The relationship is on the other side. If it exists at all. I never checked. My father married Ramona Higgins and Grantville is a small town with everyone related to everyone. I know I'm related to Jeff Higgins and so, of course, to Gretchen Richter. They have stock in HSMC." Adolph shook his head. "I don't know whether to be thrilled or chagrined by the sudden additions to the family tree. But be assured that Rebecca and Balthazar Abrabanel could only add glory to any family, so far as I am concerned."

"You know, I never really thought about that," Herr Goldman said with an air that seemed to say it was an issue he wished he didn't have to deal with.

"Well, we're all related if you go back far enough," Adolph said. "Whether it's Adam and Eve or some tribe in Africa fifty thousand years ago. All human beings, all family in one way or another." And that too, from Herr Goldman's expression, wasn't something he was looking forward to contemplating. Adolph tried another subject entirely. "What's available in terms of property in Magdeburg?"

With relief they shifted to the discussion of business. Magdeburg had a large number of properties on the market, unfortunately most of them had titles in question. Dead people have heirs and while much of the property would go back to the crown, which would and which wouldn't was still an open question.

"Rumor has it that the parliament . . . is it of the CPE? . . . will settle the matter, perhaps setting aside a fund to settle law suits of misplaced heirs so that the crown or the city council can sell the land with clear title." Goldman shrugged. "It hasn't happened yet, though, and may not. Meanwhile, the few places that have clear title are going at a premium price."

That wasn't good news. "What about the cost of labor?"

"Well, it's not as high as around Grantville," Goldman said, "but it's pretty high with all the construction going on." He went on naming the daily pay rates for masters and journeymen of various crafts and for common laborers. He was right; it wasn't as much as people got in Grantville or Badenburg. It was closer to what they got in Jena. About two-thirds of what they'd get in Grantville. Which wasn't so much bad news as news less good than Adolph was hoping for.

"What about raw materials, iron ore or bar iron, food, cloth, that sort of thing?" Adolph asked, hoping for some good news. He got it. Apparently enough engines had made their way to the Elbe to increase the flow of goods and lower the prices. Food, wood, coal, bar iron and copper from Sweden, fish and whale oil from the North Sea, all flowed up and down the Elbe and Hamburg was afraid enough of Gustav that they were only being mildly piratical about the duties they charged on goods coming through their harbor.

All of it taken together looked to make Magdeburg one of the better places to live in central Europe. Low cost of living in terms of food, clothing, and even shelter, combined with high wages. On the other hand, it made it only half way a good place to start a business. Material costs were low but wages were high and so was land that had clear title. For now Adolph needed a place to stay while he looked for a factory site. He asked Herr Goldman about it and was directed to an inn with a stable he could store the wagon in.

****

A week later Adolph was at a dead stop. The problem was simply that this was Magdeburg, not Badenburg or Grantville. He didn't have his papa looking over his shoulder and criticizing everything he did, but he also didn't have the position that he had back home. Grantville might be the God-dropped magic land, but Badenburg—at least as the Magdeburg patricians saw it—was still the sticks.

Adolph had grown up as a medium large fish in a small pond. Then after the Ring of Fire he'd became a big fish in a bigger pond. But Magdeburg was a really big pond, and in spite of the letter of credit Adolph was seen as an itty bitty fish. Commanders of armies and great nobles lived here. This was the capital of the Confederated Principalities of Europe. Okay, it was a burned-out ruin that had been shrinking in size for fifty years before the sack. But it was a snooty burned-out ruin. And all Adolph was, was the probably-soon-to-be-disinherited son of a provincial industrialist.

Herr Simpson had been made admiral and was building a naval base and ship yard here. The rich and powerful of Magdeburg didn't talk to him. Not outside of doing business. And if they weren’t talking to a prominent up-timer, they certainly weren't talking to some schmuck who happened to live a few miles from Grantville.

"Adolph Schmidt to see Fredric Decker," Adolph introduced himself at the Freedom Arches. He was finally taking Sarah Wendell's advice, even though Gretchen Richter wasn't one of his family's favorite people. The objection to her and to the Committees of Correspondence wasn't personal, it was political. The Schmidt family were what Ben Franklin called the middle people and what more radical revolutionaries called the bourgeoisie. Usually just before they brought out the guillotines as tools of social reeducation. The Schmidts were quite literally the owners of the means of production.

Yes, Adolph's father was a senator and a member of the Fourth of July Party, but he was part of the Quentin Underwood branch of the party, not the CoC. Adolph, at first glance, was the sort of person the CoC was quick to recruit, a journeyman craftsman with nothing of his own but skill. But Adolph was a journeyman waiting to become a master, not struggling to become one. His father had owned the smithy he was a journeyman in even before the Ring of Fire. Adolph had sat beside his father at every union negotiation from the formation of the union on. And those negotiations had been friendly enough while the workers were in the room. Papa was a politician these days, after all. After they left, Papa complained quite a bit, or chortled, if he had to give up less than he'd expected.

All this had been going through Adolph's mind during his walk over. Going round and round in his mind rather, because he didn't have a clue what to do about it. He'd expected to deal with the workers after he had a factory located but here he was, unable to even find a property that had clear title. And Herr Goldman had been less helpful than he had hoped. Adolph's connections in Magdeburg were almost nonexistent.

"Yes? Herr Schmidt from where?" asked a middle-aged man with the burns on his hands that said the man had been a blacksmith for some years. Adolph had similar scars dimpling the backs of his hands, if not as many.

"Sorry," Adolph took a moment to calculate how many Adolph Schmidts there were in Magdeburg at any one time. The number was probably greater than one even the day after the sack. "Adolph Schmidt from Badenburg next to Grantville. I was recommended to Herr Decker by Frau Veronica Richter."

"The one with the steam APC?" One of the younger fellows in the Arches piped up.

"Yes, though it's not armored," Adolph said. "That's what the letters stand for: Armored Personnel Carrier. What I have is a mostly wooden wagon that is powered by one of the prototype steam engines I had made up in Grantville. Driving it up here rather than taking the train and river boats was to test the engine in the field, as the up-timers say. I just call it a steam wagon. "

"So you're Karl Schmidt's son," The blacksmith said.

"Yes," Adolph said, though it clearly wasn't a question.

"Our guest is rich," another of the older men said.

"My father is rich," Adolph answered, fully aware that rich was a four-letter word among these folks. "I am, I suspect, disinherited."

"Nice disinheritance," the kid said. "Say, Mom, if you disinherit me do I get a steam wagon of my own?"

"You'll get the back of my hand, you imp," an older woman said. "See if you won't"

"Aw, I get that anyway," the kid said, not visibly cowed.

"My father had nothing to do with the steam car." Adolph couldn't keep the stiffness from his voice.

"So I'd heard," said a man about Adolph's age, maybe a few years older. "I'm Fredric Decker. We were expecting you earlier." He waved Adolph to a corner.

"I've had difficulty finding quarters. Not for myself, for the factory. If you were expecting me I assume you know why I'm in Magdeburg."

"Rumor and a little better," Fredric said, "but only a little. Grantville is some distance away and the telegraph is expensive. Tell me about this business you want to start."

"I want to build steam engines, the small sort, that are inexpensive enough to be used by a decent-sized market. For instance, the engine that powers my wagon would also power a tractor to pull a plow. Not the sort of plows that the up-timer tractors pull, but bigger than are mostly used down-time. It will run the powered tools in a small to medium shop. Turn a grain mill, power a dozen sewing machines, or a like number of drills or lathes or hammers."

"What does it need? This steam engine."

"The engine itself, a boiler and it should have, but doesn't have to have, a radiator," Adolph said. "If it doesn't have a radiator then it needs a good source of clean water, preferably distilled. There is a boiler, called the Lamont after its up-time inventor, that one can even use sea water, but it'll . . ." Adolph ran down. "Sorry. I sound like the twins. You meant what will it take to build them, didn't you?"

Fredric nodded. "I've heard of the Partow twins but never met them. Are they as brilliant as people say?"

"Yes and no," Adolph said. "Grantville draws brilliant people as a magnet draws iron. Some of the brains that have arrived since the Ring of Fire are so smart it's scary. They make the twins seem a little slow and me feel like an idiot. But the twins are very practical when it comes to mechanical things, without losing any enthusiasm. They are willing to listen and learn from just about anyone. I would say potent, more than brilliant, describes them best. A potent combination."

Fredric nodded and brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. "So what will you need to build your engines?"

"A foundry to pour the parts and to make the steel they need from Swedish bar iron. And operators for the finishing machines. Which are being made in Grantville and will be shipped as soon as I find a place to ship them to. The operators need not be particularly skilled. These aren’t general purpose machine tools but specialized to do one or two preset jobs, in one case five jobs depending on which attachments are used." Adolph brought himself back again. "The point is skill is not necessary. A willingness to work at a boring repetitive job is."

"Why not use the general purpose machine tools?" Fredric asked and Adolph could tell by the way he said "general purpose machine tools" that Fredric wasn't entirely sure what they were.

"They are powered machines that are very flexible in what they can be made to do and require a high level of skill in their use. Almost an art. Herr Partow, the twins' father, is a machinist and as much a master craftsman as any smith that ever held a hammer. And that's why I'm not using them. You can produce a machine tool a lot faster than you can a machinist. In fact, a couple of the machines we'll be using are general purpose machine tools with attachments added so that the workman can't use their flexibility."

"What?"

Adolph gave him a sardonic grin. "I know it sounds silly, even crazy. But we don't have the master machinists and even if we did they would slow down the process if they worked without the attachments. We break down the making of the parts to a series of very simple operations. Each worker does his operation and puts the partially finished part on the table for the next worker." Adolph shrugged "It works. I just wish we could use it for producing the crucible steel."

"Why not get your steel from the US Steel company? I understand they are doing well there?"

"Transport costs, at least till the tracks go all the way to the Elbe. Well, partly transport costs. I know how to make crucible steel so we can make better steel here and make the parts a little lighter. Crucibles are a more expensive way of making steel but they were used up time for the best grades of steel."

"So you'll be making steel, pouring the steel into rough shapes, then finishing it with machines sent from Grantville."

"Yes, and steel tube boilers," Adolph said. "Swedish iron is ten guilders to the hundred pounds in Hamburg last I heard, but copper is seventy guilders to the hundred pounds. I think we can afford the iron and coke to make steel . . . better than making the boiler tubes from copper. And the same process for the radiators."

"What about rust?"

"I asked the same thing of Herr Andy Frystack," Adolph said. "Apparently it's not just water, it's water with air in it that causes rust. If you're not just letting it sit around with high oxygen content water in it, rust isn't that much of a problem. Sediment is a worse problem. For that you should used distilled water or the Lamont boiler. Anyway, I need to set up a factory."

"And you’re here to hire?"

"Not yet." Adolph shook his head. "I would be, mind, if I had a place to put the people to work. But Herr Goldman hasn't been able to help much in finding a place with clear title."

"That's because you're not a burgher of Magdeburg or a member of the nobility," Fredric said. "Goldman makes a big deal of his relationship to the Abrabanel family these days, but he was a money lender before the sack and was one of the first to flee. His real loyalty is to the power structure that was already here. As soon as you find a place on your own, he'll arrange for one of his friends to buy it and rent it to you."

"Damn," Adolph blurted. He'd been around the up-timers long enough that casual blasphemy was casual with him. "Sorry. An up-timer habit," he apologized. "The truth is, I half suspected something like that. Certainly, he didn't seem an ardent supporter of expanding the franchise. The problem is how am I going to find a property to which I can gain clear title without having him pull it from under me? How am I going to find a property without his good offices?"

"We might be able to help with that," Fredric said.

"Might?"

"Oh, we're certainly able but, bluntly, what's in it for us? What's in it for the CoC or the poor of Magdeburg to have one more rich man setting up shop?"

"Jobs certainly," Adolph said. "Are you looking for a fee of some sort?" Adolph sat back and thought, actually that wasn't unreasonable. They would be providing a service and one of considerable value. But, as it turned out, that wasn't what they were after. The CoC was a presence in Magdeburg but it wasn't the only presence. At this point there was as much question about who would control the streets as who would control the town council. Rather more in fact, since Gustav Adolph of Sweden was going to be in ultimate control of Magdeburg.

"What we want is assurance that you will hire CoC members." What they wanted was a union shop. A union shop with good jobs and profit sharing so that they could show people that the CoC could get people good jobs. The CoC wasn't a union. It was a borderline revolutionary cabal, but if people were going to join, it would help if there was at least something in it for them.

"I won't hire people who won't work or can't do the job," Adolph said. "The up-timers call it feather bedding. Apparently with the idea that the employee spends his working day resting in a feather bed. Well, I don't own a feather bed. Not even at the inn where I'm staying and I'm darn sure not going to hire people to sleep on one."

"They'll be good workers," Fredric assured him.

"I do my own hiring," Adolph insisted. "Certainly I'll hire your members if they are qualified, but I have to decide that."

"And here you were just saying you didn't need skilled craftsmen," Fredric complained. Which was true enough.

They talked—negotiated, really—for some time. Fredric even brought over several prospective employees. Most of whom were, in fact, qualified and a few who weren’t. Adolph had apprenticed as a smith; his father had run a foundry most of his life and for all intents and purposes Adolph had been doing the day-to-day running of the foundry, the smithy, the electroplating shop and been involved with the crucible steel shop for the last year. He knew what the workers needed to know and could spot a faker pretty quickly. Adolph didn't think that Fredric was trying ringers on him so much as simply that Fredric couldn't tell from conversation who was a qualified foundry man or smith and who wasn't. So far as the crucible steel making . . . well, there simply weren’t a lot of qualified people for that in Magdeburg. Adolph wasn't willing to say there weren't any. Admiral Simpson was in Magdeburg with up-timer help, but those folks weren’t at the Freedom Arches. At least not looking for a job. For machine tool operators, well, Adolph's machines were designed to take skill, or lack of skill, as much out of the equation as possible. They couldn't take it all out and there were probably going to be some problems but to keep them at a minimum he need people that would listen and understand and at the same time people that wouldn't screw up through boredom.

In any case, they came to an agreement. Adolph would hire union men, that is, members of the Committees of Correspondence or associated groups and the CoC would help him find and acquire clear title to property in or near Magdeburg.

****

The lot Adolph bought was on the Elbe, but upriver a couple of miles from Magdeburg proper and on the other side of the river. It was a good buy because if you didn't have cheap water transport it was inconveniently placed. It cost about two-thirds of what Adolph had expected to pay and Adolph had underestimated land prices in Magdeburg, failing to take into account the level of land speculation in the new capital city.

For Adolph, who had three prototype steam engines and was up here to manufacture the things, a couple of miles upriver in a covered steam boat was no trouble at all. He took one engine that produced about four horsepower and used a two-foot-long piece of bicycle chain for gearing, had a propeller made at a blacksmith shop and once it was all installed in a eighteen-foot long, eight-foot wide boat, he had a steam-powered water taxi. Every morning and every evening it made several trips across and up the river from the Magdeburg docks to the factory site, carrying the workmen that first had to build a factory before they could start building engines.

Because the property Adolph had been able to get clear title to was what was left of pasture land after it has been run over by armies, the first thing needed was guys with shovels, to dig a quay with a berth for the taxi. Then, crushed rock for fifty feet of road up from the quay to the foundry building, which was to be next door to the finishing building. Which they decided to build first so that there would be a place to put the machine tools, already made in Grantville and just waiting to be shipped. Of course, they wouldn't have anything to finish until they got the foundry going, but at least it would be a place to put them that was mostly out of the rain. Right now they were racking up storage fees in the Higgins' warehouse.

****

"I have someone I want you to meet," Fredric told Adolph as they were having a not very good dinner at the Freedom Arches. "A foundry master." Adolph had learned that his dealing with the CoC had closed some doors to him. Not that they'd been all that opened in the first place. But the patricians and craftmasters of Magdeburg didn't want to talk with him.

"What is he, another country bumpkin come to the big city?"

"No, born here in Magdeburg," Fredric told Adolph. "Survived the sack, put everything he had or could raise into rebuilding his foundry. Things seemed to be looking up when he got a contract with the ship yard that Admiral Simpson is building. When he goes to turn in his first load of parts, the up-timer inspector turns down the whole lot. Seems the steel's not up to spec."

Adolph was nodding but Fredric kept right on talking. "He was going to make a fuss till this up-timer pulls out a file and proceeds to cut his good steel like it was iron."

"Not enough carbon in his mix I'd wager," Adolph said.

"Probably," Fredric said. "Anyway they gave him a cheat sheet and told him he had one more shot before he got put on a 'don't use' list."

"Those cheat sheets are pretty good," Adolph said.

"Not for Herr Kalb. Says he's read over the thing and just can't fit it in with what he does."

"The two trains," Adolph said.

"What?"

"The up-timers use word problems in their schools." Adolph shrugged. "So do we. Anyway one of those word problems is called the two train problem. There are two trains, one is traveling forty miles an hour from city A and the other is traveling sixty miles an hour from city B. City A is five hundred miles from city B. They both leave their stations at five in the morning, what time will they pass each other?"

Fredric's eyes were glazing over a bit and Adolph grinned. "The trick part of the problem is figuring out which is necessary information for solving the problem and how it's necessary. In this case, since we only care about when they will pass each other not where, what matters is the average speed. Which is fifty miles an hour. Five hundred miles at fifty miles an hour is ten hours, half that is five hours. They left at five in the morning, so they will pass each other at ten in the morning." Adolph shrugged. "Some people are good at word problems like the two train problem and others aren't. I'd guess Herr Kalb is one of those people who aren't."

"Probably." Fredric agreed "but what's to be done about it?"

"It's just a guess, but if he goes through the process with someone who knows how it works working with him on it, he'll pick it up all right. He's a master foundry man, after all. He should know his metals."

"Could you take him through it?"

"Probably. But, not to put too fine a point on it, what's in it for me?"

"You'll have to work that out with him, but the man does have a working foundry."

****

The cheat sheet was more in the way of a booklet. With information on mix, pours, quenching, and tempering. Herr Kalb was used to pouring cast iron. You don't temper cast iron and it will generally shatter if you try to quench it. Adolph, on the other hand, while not really an expert on crucible steel making was familiar with the process and could combine that with the cheat sheet and his own notes. First they had to get just enough carbon in the mix. . . . It was going to take some time.

It did take time. Adolph spent day after day with Kunz Kalb as they experimented and tested pours of crucible steel and learned to adjust the amount of carbon by injecting air into the crucible or adding powered coke and cutting it off from the air. It wasn't easy and it wasn't quick. Adolph's own factory buildings were built with very little supervision from him. He couldn’t be in two places at once. On the upside, Kunz Kalb understood iron and foundry work. He even understood most of the up-timer's notes. It was just putting the two together into a coherent whole that had given him trouble. With Adolph's help he learned what was crucial in different grades of steel. Put another way, he learned how to connect the notes to the reality of making steel parts.

Adolph got twenty cylinders and twenty pistons with piston rods, cylinder heads, and valves, steel tubing and sundries, by which time Herr Kalb had a good working knowledge of the making of crucible steel. So the finishing machines got put to use before the foundry was up and running. In fact, the foundry was put on hold. A deal with Herr Kalb was cheaper in the short run and might prove cheaper in the long run as well.

Bending, shaping and welding the steel tubing into boilers turned out to be a fairly time-consuming process even with the machines they had. The boilers weren’t all that challenging, technically. They were just tedious, having lots of connections, none of which could leak when hot and under pressure. It was nothing that they couldn't do, not even anything they couldn't have done before the Ring of Fire. Assembling the steam engines themselves proved the easiest part of the process. They had few moving parts. Those parts, while they did have to deal with considerable heat, didn't have to deal with explosions going on in the cylinders. That's a difference of thousands of degrees at peak.

****

"So," Fredric asked. "When will you have steam engines for sale?"

"We'll have the first one ready in a couple of months," Adolph said. They were again in the Freedom Arches. " After that, it's hard to say but I figure that we'll have one every couple of days."

"Why so long then so fast?"Fredric's tone made it pretty clear that he felt Adolph was talking out his ass.

Adolph wasn't offended. Instead he remembered his father telling him about a conversation with a tailor about how fast sewing machines would be made. "Longer setup time and shorter production time is one of the hallmarks of industrialization." Adolph sounded portentous even to himself but darn it, it was true. "I know it seems awfully fast. Though, in fact, it's pretty slow. You're thinking like I have one guy in the shop taking the iron we buy from Sweden, the crucibles and making the steel, then making a cylinder, finishing the cylinder, going back, getting more steel, pouring the piston, finish . . .

"It doesn't work that way. We get the poured cylinders five at a time because that's how many cylinders Herr Kalb makes from a crucible of steel. Five cylinder bodies, five cylinder heads, five valve balls, per pour. He does another pour to produce four pistons, eight piston rods, and a fly wheel. And we've been getting them for the last couple of weeks. And ever since we got the first batch in, Kurt has been finishing cylinder bodies. We have thirteen of them finished and ready to go in the shop and Jurge has finished fifteen of the cylinder heads. They've got a little competition going, which is fine with me." Adolph raised his voice a bit so Kurg and Jurge could hear him as well as several other CoC members who were employees. "As long is their quest for speed doesn't affect quality."

"Anyway." Adolph grinned at Fredric. "We're building up a stock of finished parts while we wait for Grantville to send us some more of the specialized machines we use. One of them is what Brent calls a can lidder even though it doesn't do a thing about lids. What it does is fold over the steel in two pieces of pipe to connect them. But the fold is a lot like the fold used to attach lids to aluminum cans up-time. It produces a good airtight seal."

"Fine, but since you've got some of the parts finished and ready why not go ahead and put together some steam engines to get some income coming in?"

"Mostly because I'm about two hundred thousand American Dollars ahead of where I thought I would be at this point," Adolph said.

"What?"

"Remember when I got here I was planning to build my own foundry to pour my own blanks?"

"Yes."

"I didn't end up doing that. Instead I'm getting a good price on blanks from your friend and there are a couple of other foundries interested in the work. So I didn't spend a couple of hundred grand building a foundry and it doesn't look like I'm going to need to anytime soon. But even if I hadn't had that piece of good luck, I still wouldn’t be doing it. It's always a bad deal to take people off a task that lets them put out a hundred bucks worth of work in an hour and put them on a job that lets them put out five. All those finished parts and mostly finished engines that we are building up are money in the bank. And as long as I'm not desperate for cash I'm going to keep right on banking them."

"Can't you just sell the engines that are ready now?" Fredric asked, interrupting Adolph's thoughts.

"No." Adolph shook his head. "It's the boiler that turns the heat into force, the engine turns the force into work . . . you have to have both. We could build pot boilers, basically just big sealed pots with a fire under them and pipes running from them to the engine. But they are really wasteful of energy. Twice as much coal for half as much steam. The more surface area the more heat is transferred to the water and less is wasted heating the surrounding air. Why the sudden curiosity?"

"It's not sudden," Fredric said. "There have been questions about what your engines would be able to do since you showed up in the steam wagon. You turned around and put one in that boat you use to take the guys to work and I understand you can pull it out of the boat and use it to run the factory you've got out there."

That was overstating things just a bit, Adolph thought, but not too much. "Just about, yes."

"I asked around out at the Navy Yard. And learned some of the stuff you can use steam engines for. Sawing wood, grinding grain, just about anything you can do with muscle, wind or water you can do with steam. Meanwhile, there aren’t enough people in Magdeburg to do all the jobs there are. Which makes finding work for people pretty easy. But at the same time, knowing that your shop is all CoC members, friends of the Committee who do things like grind grain into flour have started asking us if your engines might help out with the labor shortage. Feeding a team of nags to have them walk around in a circle . . . well, that's grain that could feed people."

"Yes. That's what they are for. Hook up a one-cylinder with a flywheel to a grain mill and you can send the nags to the glue factory. So, the reason you're asking is you've got friends who want to buy steam engines?"

"Well, who are interested in the possibility anyway," Fredric said. "I'm not sure how willing they will be to pay the price you're asking."

Adolph had worked it out. Each four-horsepower engine with boiler cost about thirty-five hundred American Dollars to make. About seven hundred of that was materials: bar iron, coke, copper, acid, electricity, welding flux, and so on. The rest was labor and the finishing machines amortized out over several hundred boilers and engines. There was some savings as the number of cylinders went up, the eight-horsepower, two-cylinder engine cost about sixty-five hundred, with similar savings on the twelve and sixteen horsepower versions. "The best I can do is twelve hundred American Dollars per horsepower. That's five thousand for a four-horsepower, single-cylinder engine, ten thousand for the eight-horsepower."

"That's more than the horses would cost."

"It sure is and worth every penny and then some. You have to feed a horse whether you're riding it or not and most of the time you're not. It's like an engine that's always on but most of the time it's not hooked up to anything. The same is true of a man who rows a boat or turns a hand drill."

****

After that, Fredric or other members of the CoC brought around friends of the Committee and expressed hope that they be placed at or at least near the front of the waiting list if they decided to buy the steam engines. Not everyone did and deciding not to buy the steam engine wasn't always a mistake. There were some places where the advantage it would give didn't justify the expense. However, there were a lot of places the difference between muscle power or the inconsistent wind and water power more than paid for the cost of a steam engine.

In August of 1633, Adolph was informed by messenger that Abrabanel Bank had moved. It was now located in the more radical section of the city. The part of the city that was controlled, in all but name, by the CoC. Adolph went to visit and learned that Herr Goldman was no longer managing the bank, though he still worked there. Apparently there had been complaints. Adolph hadn't lodged any of them, at least not officially. He exchanged mail regularly with his sister and his backers back in Grantville and may have commented on occasion that Herr Goldman seemed less than enthusiastic about, well, anything modern, be it political or mechanical. By that time, Adolph had a decent stockpile of mostly finished steam engines and partially made boilers and radiators. He had also caught up completely with Herr Kalb and Adolph was looking for new suppliers, else he would have to finish the foundry part of the operation. Which he didn't really want to do. He could build a foundry and have control over the whole of the process from iron bar to finished power plant. But it seemed a waste when there were already several foundries that could do the work. It would also cost a lot of money for not that much long-term savings.

The new Abrabanel banker took him to visit foundry operators and managed to convince several of them that making the parts of steam engines would be a good business to get into, because Herr Schmidt had a solid business with good credit. All in all, it was a very productive couple of days and the new manager was apologetic about his uncle's actions.

****

Adolph was forced to make the occasional exception to his "don't waste your time hand crafting steam engines" because of delays in getting some of the specialized machine tools he needed. Not because he needed the money, he didn't. People needed the engines. And if Fredric was still friendly and supportive Gunther Achterhof was just plain scary. To make it worse, when you included the time and labor to hand assemble the boilers, Adolph was taking a loss on every engine he sold. But sell them he did, just as few as he could get away with.

Almost all of the steam engine sales were industrial, powering boats or factories of one sort and another. Herr Kalb had bought one to provide forced air to get higher heat, another to provide power for winches to lift crucibles of hot liquid steel. Hooked up to one of the generators which were starting to trickle into the Magdeburg area by now, one of the four-horsepower engines would provide about three kilowatts of electricity, a little less. Enough up-time to run two or three households but down-time enough to run the electrical devices of a small village or a business. Schmidt Steam wouldn't become the household word that Higgins was already starting to become. Instead it would become a different kind of name, an office word, one that people in business knew.

And that was what finally started to force open the doors of the Magdeburg middle class. Well, that and the new Abrabanel banker. They wanted the steam engines he had. Labor costs were going through the roof, even unskilled labor like ditch digging. A Fresno scraper pulled by a couple of horses could dig a ditch faster, cheaper and better than men with shovels; pulled by a steam tractor it could dig that ditch faster still. And coke was cheaper than hay—much less wheat—for the amount of work done. So the patricians of Magdeburg gradually realized that yes, they needed these new contraptions. By then, of course, they were behind the curve. Adolph was selling the engines as fast as he could make them and he wasn't limiting his sales to Magdeburg. All up and down the Elbe, people were buying steam engines in advance of production and the patricians of Magdeburg were near the tail end of the line.

They'd put themselves there for reasons of social position, political power and fear of an uncertain future. With Adolph and other businessmen, with the CoC and with the workmen pouring into the city because of the word that work was available, there had been a lot of "hold the line against the low class invasion." But they were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work and innovation going on, and most of them by now had realized that the winds of change were approaching hurricane force.

They weren’t actually stupid people. In fact they were much like Adolph's father. They weren’t going to apologize for snubbing him, not in so many words. But they knew they had blown it. Adolph and even Fredric Decker were invited into the homes of the city's moneyed class.

Which is how Adolph learned that Fredric had a background much like his own. They were at the home of one of the patricians of Magdeburg. Herr Durr was a moderately astute and blunt fellow who had asked Fredric and Adolph to dinner.

"I was rather surprised to get your invitation," Fredric said, over knockwurst and sauerkraut.

"Having realized how much influence you CoC people were acquiring, I hope to get a feel for your goals."

"Well, that explains Fredric," Adolph said, "but what about me? Granted my employees are all CoC people but I'm hardly a CoC activist. Just a manufacturer of steam engines."

"And the son of Karl Schmidt, one of the wealthiest men in Badenburg and owner of the Higgins Sewing Machine Company, related by marriage to the Higgins family of Grantville, with family connections in half the cities in Thuringia. When we got around to looking we noticed that you seem to be . . ." Herr Durr ran out of steam. He wasn't quite blunt enough to say "the right sort of people" or "our sort of people." Though both Adolph and Fredric heard it as Durr was thinking very loudly.

"So that's the reason you invited me rather than some of the frankly more important members of the CoC here in Magdeburg."

"What. No! It's simply that, well, you're not as frightening as, say, Gunther Achterhof." Durr paused. "Wait. Are you of the patrician class?"

"I was . . ." Now it was Fredric's turn to run out of steam. Then he took a deep breath. "I was studying law in Jena when—" He took another breath. "—the town I'm from found itself in the path of one of the armies. That was in twenty-nine. My family was killed and the shop . . . more than a shop, really. My father had three journeymen and a dozen apprentices working for him. He made the copper and bronze utensils for several nearby towns and villages." Fredric shrugged, but it didn't really come off. "Anyway, the army came through, my family was killed, the shop was looted and burned. Part of the reason I had been sent off to Jena was my father and older brother, though skilled at their trade, were less skilled at bookkeeping and recording things. When the smoke cleared, the debts owed my family had disappeared. And I was penniless in Jena. When the up-timers came to Jena's rescue, I was a day laborer sleeping under eves all too often. I joined the CoC half out of desperation. Anything that looked like work might be in the offing looked good to me."

"So you’re not the sort of fanatic the Richter woman or that fellow Spartacus are," Durr said more than asked.

Fredric gave Durr a hard look. "I am quite as dedicated as Gunther or Spartacus." Then gave a lopsided grin. "Spartacus, by the way, is a member of the lower nobility.

"Herr Durr, I've been a patrician and a man without a city. I know that there is some truth to the notion that the guilds are protecting people from shoddy workmanship, but I also know that they are even more protecting themselves from having to compete with newer, better ways. More, I know what that protection costs the poor. I've experienced it. So, yes, I am dedicated to the goals of the CoC. I would like to achieve those goals with as little harm to the masters and craftsmen of Germany as possible, but if it puts every burgher in Germany out of a job, I'd still be dedicated to it."

Then Fredric looked over at Adolph. "It's not my business, Adolph, but I'd give a lot to have a father again even if he was a stubborn old fool who was threatening to disinherit me. Yes, the added perspective that I have gained lets me see more clearly, I think, but the cost was too high. Don't throw away what can so easily be lost."

"Actually, he hasn't threatened to disinherit me." Adolph tried to lighten the mood. "He may or may not have disinherited me when I left and for a while after I left my sisters were forbidden to mention my name in front of him. But from my most recent letters, he seems to have calmed down some. Not a lot, but some. I suspect that my success will go farther toward getting me back into his good graces than anything I could say."

They talked about business after that. About the market for steam engines and possible competition. After they left Herr Durr's home Fredric commented that "Herr Durr has a quite presentable daughter . . . ?"

"And," Adolph noted, "he seems to be preparing ground to present her. You should watch out, Fredric, since you have let slip that you are of the appropriate class."

"Me?" Fredric said. "What about you? Or do you have an up-timer girlfriend back in Grantville?"

"Why do you think I'm in Magdeburg?" Adolph laughed. Then from nowhere the image of Heidi Partow slipped before his mind's eye and he swallowed.

****

Three days later Heidi arrived and Adolph wondered if he was developing second sight. But no.

"I'm your new sales manager."

"What on earth do I need a sales manager for?" Adolph asked. "Wait a minute. Has someone else started a steam engine factory?"

"I imagine so but that's not all." Heidi reached in her bag and brought out a booklet.

There were drawings and text about how you might make a steam pump, they were calling it. It was basically a bellows run backwards, and as Adolph read it he thought it would work not well, but it would work. "It couldn't handle much pressure," he said.

"The twin creeps say it doesn't need to. Something like five pounds per square inch and you're going to have a couple of tons of force. That's enough to lift a pretty big hammer or a fair amount of water up a well."

"But this is crap compared to the engines we're making here. The amount of steam you need to operate it is going to be over the top! It's going to weigh tons! It's . . ."

"I know. The twins know. Even David Bartley knows," Heidi said. "And David Bartley can't screw in a light bulb without help."

"David's not that bad," Adolph said, and it was true. Adolph was almost sure that David could screw in a light bulb, even one of the down-time made ones, if he had to. Almost sure.

"I'm just going by what Trent says," Heidi admitted. "Of course, he and Brent think that anyone who can't rebuild an engine with their toes is mechanically inept.

"The point is the local lordling or village counsel or whatever can pay ten bucks for this and have the local craftsmen make it against the . . . what is it . . . ten thousand American Dollars you're charging?"

"Well, not quite. The ten thousand dollar model is an eight-horsepower engine and comes with a flash boiler and radiator to recapture the steam and inject it back into the boiler at just below the boiling point which saves fuel. This thing!" He pointed at the booklet. "Uses a pot of water with a pipe going out the lid. You have to take off the lid and pour in a bucket of water to refill it. You'll burn down a forest trying to use this thing. And you'll have to replace it every few months as the steam cooks the leather."

"I surrender! I surrender!" Heidi held up her hands. "I'm not David Bartley but I'm not a mechanic either. I'm more the artistic type. Which is why I'm here. I took art classes all through high school and the last year I took a couple of advertising and marketing courses. I'm not like a Madison Avenue ad agency, but I'm pretty good."

"And wanted to come to the big city?" Adolph asked.

"Nope." Heidi said quite firmly. "There's big and there's good. Magdeburg is big all right and it's going to get bigger. But there is more talent in Grantville than anywhere else on earth. This is like leaving Greenwich Village to go live in Detroit." Heidi found herself a chair. "And that's the problem," she admitted. "Yes, an up-timer can make good money researching stuff in the library. But if you want to be a commercial artist, well, you're competing with people like Rembrandt. Not Rembrandt himself, yet, but he could show up any time. Damn it, I was always a pretty good artist, I had dreams of getting a job at . . . Oh, never mind. I couldn't get a job in Grantville, not in art or commercial design or marketing."

Adolph was a little bit shocked as he listened to and watched Heidi Partow pour her heart out. He was quite sure that this wasn't how she had expected the interview to go either.

Heidi visibly pulled herself together. "So when this thing showed up in Grantville and the twins were talking about it, I said I could fix it. And I think I can, given the chance." She looked Adolph in the eye and he could see unshed tears in her eyes. "So, I used family connections to get a job." She handed him a letter.

Adolph nodded and took the letter. He knew in a way how she felt. He hadn't been thrilled to have David Bartley as one of his major investors and the backer who had found most of the rest. "Sometimes you have to do what you have to do," he said in English.

"It's 'gotta do,'" Heidi said, with the beginnings of a smile. "Anyway, if it were just another company the folks back in Grantville wouldn't be all that worried. It's going to be a while before the steam engine market even starts to get saturated. But the cheat sheet thing makes every leather worker or smith in Europe your competition. And while the output of each is insignificant, the output of all of them could saturate the market pretty good."

Adolph was shaking his head. "You can't use one of these on a boat or a wagon. They're too bulky."

"You don't have to make them all the same size, do you?"

"No, but a bellows can't handle the pressure that even a wooden cylinder can, much less good steel. To get the same power one cylinder of ours has it's going to have to be a whole lot bigger. A couple of psi just ain't the same as a couple of hundred. No, these are going to be limited to stationary locations where there's a fair amount of room. You won't be using one to pull the winches on a sailing ship any more than to power a river boat."

"So how much of your market is stationary with plenty of room?"

Adolph grimaced. "A lot of it."

"So yours are better but more expensive?"

"Yes. Initially at least. A low pressure steam pump like these has to use more fuel and probably a lot more. Also they are going to wear out fast. You put steam, even if it's barely steaming, into leather . . . it can't be good for it."

Heidi didn't say anything and Adolph looked over at her she was biting her lower lip as he had seen her do sometimes in Grantville when she'd been thinking hard. He waited.

"Build one," Heidi said. "Build a couple or even several that will have about the same output torque, horsepower or whatever, that your one-cylinder engines have. Then do a bunch of side-by-side tests. How much fuel does it use to do the same stuff. How much it weighs, how much space it takes. Meanwhile I think I have an idea for an ad campaign."

"Why?"

"So we can tell people what they are paying for."

****

Why not, Adolph thought. It's no worse than having the guys hand assembling boilers. And there was that letter that she had given him. It was from Schmidt Steam's board of directors. A board made up of most of the investors, in other words most of the owners of his company. It specified the salary she was to be paid out of his operating budget, a pretty high salary by Magdeburg standards. It also instructed him to cooperate with her. On general principle he wrote a letter of his own to Schmidt Steam's board of directors. A bit of nepotism was okay and he even understood that the Partows wanted Heidi to have a reasonable income. But this project of hers . . . when you counted in the labor and materials to make the darned things it was an expense considerably more than Heidi's salary for six months. Oh, and by the way, when am I getting that can lidding machine you promised me?

Three days later he got back his answer. Do it! "There are thousands of the instruction sets being printed up in Jena. While the threat isn't immediate, if you expect to stay in business more than a few years you're going to have to give people a reason to spend the money to buy the steam engines."

Adolph got to work. He hired two more journeymen blacksmiths and had them build the bellows steam engine according to the instructions in the pamphlets. It took them a surprisingly long time. First putting together a good solid bellows is a job of work. Second, just turning around the valves didn't quite cut it. The one-way valves work fine for a system where you're turning work into moving gas, not so well where you're turning moving gas into work. That took a valve that could be switched open and closed by a mechanical linkage. The instructions were clear enough but it was still a new device. To get the things to work took quite a bit of tweaking, and once they worked they took a lot of steam to run, which in turn—even using one of Adolph's boilers—took a lot of coke. Using a cast iron pot with a lid wired on and a tube going from pot to bellows engine, they took even more coke. For the amount of work done, either in the engineering sense or the practical sense, they were much more expensive in terms of fuel than his engines. They were still better than using a horse, an oxen or a man.

Adolph picked up a boiled egg and waved at the bellows pump. "What do you think, Rudy? Is it worth it?"

"Sure is." Rudlinus Nussbaum had a blacksmith's build, light brown hair, hazel eyes, a friendly manner and a chip on his shoulder. He was a CoC member like all of Adolph's employees, even Heidi. He expressed his CoCness by giving his opinion on the work being done freely and openly. He wasn't rude about it particularly, but most masters weren't that keen on hearing "you're not doing that right" from a journeyman. Especially when he was right. Which is why he was looking for a job in a city where there were four jobs for every three men. "I've done my time pumping a bellows and it's hard work. We've hooked this thing up to the testing gear but all that tells you is how it compares to your steam engines. Well, I think we ought to hook up a horse to the testing gear and a man and an ox as well."

"That's a good idea," Adolph mused. "We'll give all the guys in the shop a go." He grinned. "Let Heidi give it a try too. This whole thing was her idea."

They learned a few things. One was that the horse power calculated by Watt was considerably more than a draft horse of the seventeenth century put out on a regular basis. Adolph didn't know why that was but it was. Horses put out sustained work of around four-fifths of an official horsepower, oxen about half, men about a tenth. That meant that the little eight-horsepower steam engine, which even with boiler and radiator only weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds, was, in theory, worth eighty oarsmen.

Adolph pictured a Viking long ship with empty oarlocks and a little steam engine pushing it along. It wasn't true, of course. As it happens, propellers are innately inefficient and so is exerting all that force against water at one point rather than eighty. When all that was taken into account, the steam engine on the little water taxi that they used didn't go that much faster than it would have with twenty men at the oars. Assuming of course that you could fit twenty oarsmen in the little thing in the first place. Which explained nicely why the little thing trundled right along at a good clip.

****

When they had run all the numbers on the bellows engines, a couple of different versions of it, and compared cost and running cost. It didn't really answer the question: Is it more cost effective to buy one of the Schmidt engines or get by with one of the cobbled together bellows engines? Because the answer to that question depended on who you were, what you needed it for, and how much money you had.

There were people, even villages, for whom five or ten thousand dollars might as well be a million. It was more money than there was in the entire village. Cash money anyway. Their rents, mostly paid in a percentage of the harvest, were more than that. It didn't matter. That sort of cash money was simply unattainable. And the villagers or village couldn’t get a loan and wouldn't if they could. Because that was how people got behind and got thrown off the land.

There were people and villages who might manage it, but would still be better off to start with something that they could make themselves, even if it would cost more to run. People who could replace grinding the grain by putting their backs into it with grinding the grain with a bellows engine didn't need even the four-horsepower single-cylinder Schmidt engine. Meanwhile, the people in the shop were starting to look at him a little funny.

Adolph had, mostly by accident, gotten himself in with the CoC, and while some of his employees were members of the CoC to, for instance, help them get a job, there were a number of the true believer type that made his father rage about radical insanity. And made Adolph himself think in terms like, "not playing with a full deck, a few bricks short of a load, bats living happily in belfries." Mostly it wasn't a problem. For the most part the CoC guys were excellent workers, the slightly loopy ones as much as the sane ones. But since they had started the experiments they were looking at him different. Like he was getting ready to force people to buy his engines when there was a cheaper alternative available. Which was utterly ridiculous, because there was no way Adolph could do that even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. Well, not much anyway. So he was less than sanguine about how Heidi would react to the results of the tests.

****

Adolph presented his results to Heidi. "I almost hate the idea of advertising against these. I know that even if we cut our prices to the bone there are going to be a lot of people that simply can't afford our engines. These might actually be a viable alternative for people that can't afford ours."

Weirdly enough Heidi was grinning at him. "Can I quote you on that?"

"What?"

"In our ads, I mean," Heidi said. "It's called 'damning with faint praise.' Rather than saying they don't work, we tell people that they do work but not as well as the real steam engines that we make. That does two things. First, it makes us sound reasonable and honest. Second, it makes it a matter of pride to have one of ours if you can possibly afford it. Because having one of the homemade ones makes you look like you're poor."

While he had been running the tests, Heidi had been working up an ad campaign. Well, two. One for if the bellows engines really sucked and one for if they were pretty good. Now she showed the second one to Adolph, with blank labeled boxes for the test results. It was not exactly soft sell and it played heavily to the vanity of the buyers.

One ad, called "Rocket Ship to the Moon," showed a rocket ship in 1685—according to the cartoon. It had four frames and was supposedly an interview with a parent of one of the astronauts. And in the background of each picture was a Schmidt Steam engine chugging along. In the fourth picture, they got to talking about it and the old fellow explained that his granddad had bought it back in 1635 and they still used for household power. "Still works," the old fellow said. "With proper maintenance it'll work for another fifty years." That sheet didn't even mention the bellows but the notion that this was a thing to look at as a durable good. Accent on the durable. Buy one, treat it right and pass it on to your kids and their kids. Other ads did talk about the bellows engines and the pamphlets that were out there, some of which were accurate and useful and others not so much. It even mentioned the names of the good ones, and encouraged people who didn't think they could afford a real Schmidt Steam Engine to make themselves a bellows engine as a stopgap measure.

When Heidi got to the end of her presentation she added a bit. "Could your guys put together a booklet of instructions on how to build a bellows engine using what you learned from making these and what you already know about steam?"

"Maybe we could, I guess. Why?"

"Because the capper—the perfect ad—would be to put out our own modified design for a bellows engine that's better than the one out now and at the back of the booklet we put an ad for Schmidt Steam Engines with copy something like, "When you're ready for the real thing contact us here."

And that's what they did. It took some consulting with the twins back in Grantville on design but they put together a decent low-pressure high-volume steam engine that could be built out of the stuff that could be found in any village in Germany and put together by any decent craftsman.

For the next year, through the death of Hans Richter and the change from the CPE to the USE, they made steam engines and printed ads and booklets. They had just gotten the final machine and were running about six months behind on orders when on October 7, 1633 Hans, who neither Adolph or Heidi had ever actually met, flew his fatally injured Belle into the Danish ship and the pages of history. Adolph and Heidi were in what would become Hans Richter Square when Princess Kristina ran across the stage to hug Hans' princess and steal the collective heart of central Germany.

The morning after, half of Adolph's work force was gone to the volunteer regiments. And if he hadn't had a business to run, Adolph would have been with them. But it still left him short of trained workmen. Heidi suggested hiring women, something that simply hadn't occurred to Adolph. But Ermegart, the CoC lady who had replaced Fredric, thought it was an excellent idea and at least they were less likely to run off and join the army.

The new hires had a learning curve to go through, but once through it were just as good as the guys had been. From then on Schmidt Steam had an integrated work force. And guys and gals being guys and gals, that led to marriages and later still maternity leave and daycare. That all happened gradually though.

It was almost a year and a half after Adolph had arrived in Magdeburg that Heidi popped into his office and announced. "We're being sued."

"Who? Why?"

"According to them we stole their idea for the bellows steam engine and violated their copyright on the booklet."

"Oh, come on! We hardly make a profit on the booklets. They're really ads for the engines."

"And that's why they're so pissed, I bet. Our booklets are cheaper and better than theirs. That has to hurt their sales."

Adolph put his head in his hands. What next?

****

Bibelgesellschaft

Written by Bjorn Hasseler

"He kommen . . . he comes . . . no, he goes . . . "

Katharina Meisnerin tried not to fidget while Friedrich struggled with the translation.

Dr. Green took pity on him, sort of. "Friedrich, parse that word, please."

"Aorist tense . . . passive voice . . . indicative . . . "

"Are you sure about that?"

"Uh, no."

Katharina watched Dr. Green very carefully. "No" was usually the safe answer when he asked that question, but every once in a while it was a trap, just to see if a student had any confidence in his answer.

"Then what is it?"

Friedrich hemmed and hawed before finally admitting, "I don't know."

"Anyone?"

Katharina made sure to be studying her book intently. If she so much as twitched, she was going to get called on.

"Katharina?"

Alas, sitting still didn't always work. "It's a participle," she answered.

"Correct. Friedrich, continue."

Friedrich contemplated the participle for about ten seconds and ventured, "Second person, singular, from poreuomai, translated 'going.'"

"Do participles have person?"

No! Katharina thought loudly in Friedrich's direction. Case, gender, and number . . .

"What is a participle?" Dr. Green looked around the room. "Katharina?"

"A participle is a verbal noun."

"What do nouns have instead of person?"

"Gender?" Friedrich guessed.

"And?"

"Number."

"And?"

"Case?"

"Yes. So what is this?"

"Masculine, singular . . . nominative."

"Correct," Dr. Green said. "However . . ."

The bell rang. Thank you, God, Katharina prayed.

"However it is not passive, but deponent," Dr. Green finished quickly. "For homework parse the rest of the verbs including participles in verses eighteen to twenty."

Katharina started gathering up her books, hurrying to get to last period gym class on time.

"Katharina," Dr. Green called.

"Yes?"

"We've received a letter. I'll read it at the Bibelgesellschaft meeting."

"Thank you." Katharina practically floated down the hallway. Dr. Green knew she disliked gym class, so he'd timed his news to give her a distraction.

****

Forty minutes later, Katharina had to admit that basketball wasn't actually cruel and unusual punishment. It just seemed that way because she could be doing something productive with her time. The gym teacher finally dismissed them, and she headed for the locker room.

"You know, Kat, you could be a good player if you'd just put in some extra practice. You could stay after tonight and practice with the team."

Katharina recognized a recruiting pitch when she heard one. "No thanks, Kelli. I have a Bibelgesellschaft meeting. Dr. Green told us we've received a letter."

Kelli Fritz rolled her eyes. "It's a letter. What's the big deal?"

"But it could be about a manuscript." Katharina tried to rein in her excitement. She'd occasionally been told that it scared people.

"I don't understand why your Bible society is looking for old Bibles. We've got perfectly good German and English Bibles. Now if you were making a new one in one of the Native American languages, that'd make sense. Or Turkish. Even Amideutsch."

Katharina shook her head. "Amideutsch isn't fixed yet. There's no need for an Amideutsch Bible, anyway. Almost everyone who can read it could read Hochdeutsch or English. As far as Turkish and the Native American languages, Alicia and Nona need to find native speakers to do the translation."

"The Abrabanels?" Kelli prompted.

"Kelli, why would the Abrabanels be interested in translating the New Testament? And they read the Old Testament in Hebrew, anyway."

"But a couple of them came to one of your meetings," Kelli recalled.

"We had some questions about the Hebrew in a few Old Testament passages," Katharina told her. Which was entirely true. The Abrabanels had also passed along that they thought a Bible translation in any of the Native American languages would be an excellent idea, and that a relative who worked for the government had assured them that even if any such Bibles had to be given to Cardinal Richelieu for transport to the New World, that would be okay. But that wasn't something Katharina intended to repeat.

So she redirected the conversation slightly. "In the meantime, those German and English Bibles you mentioned are not 'perfectly good.' They're good, but we can look at the Greek and Hebrew manuscripts and make the German and the English Bibles better."

"How can you make the English better?" Amy Fodor chimed in. "Back up-time, we had the Dead Sea Scrolls and everything."

"Shh!" Katharina looked around quickly before deciding that the girls' locker room probably didn't contain any Turkish spies. "We do not want the Turks finding out about those."

"Sorry. But what else is left for you to do?"

"What's left?" Katharina was aghast. "Even you up-timers didn't have an up-to-date Majority Text in English. Just finding the manuscripts that you had but didn't collate will take at least a century!"

"So where are you going to look for them?" Kelli asked.

"We've made some inquiries, and we're going to Jena this spring to see if the theological faculty will help us." Then realism set in, and Katharina added, "Or at least write letters of recommendation for us. And Dr. Green has a letter. Why don't you come hear what it's about?"

"I can't. Practice. Let me know about it tomorrow, okay?" Kelli was equally adept at dodging a recruiting pitch.

"Okay."

The last bell rang, and Katharina hurried toward the set of classrooms everyone had started calling "the language wing." She met up with her friend Barbara on the way.

Dr. Green was tidying up after his other class, and Horst Felke was already there. He pointedly looked up at the clock. Katharina just smiled. She knew she and Barbara were on time. Getting there before she did mattered to Horst. He seemed to think it scored points for him in his ongoing competition with her.

Katharina was honest enough to admit that she really enjoyed outscoring Horst on a test. He usually beat her in math and science. She usually beat him in history. They were evenly matched in the languages, where they dueled for top of the class. But Katharina didn't see the Bibelgesellschaft as an arena for competition. If Horst figured out something before she did, so be it. She was more concerned with getting as much information as possible accurately organized and set out for use by . . . whomever could use it. The Bibelgesellschaft was nondenominational.

It had gotten its start over a misunderstanding. Horst and a couple of his friends had accused the Anabaptists of not believing in the Trinity. And then, knowing Anabaptists wouldn't fight back, they'd punched her brother Georg. Henry Sims and Gena Kroll had immediately flattened Horst and his friends. Herr Principal Saluzzo had assigned all concerned to go talk to both Father Larry Mazzare and Dr. Al Green. They'd quickly found out that their disagreement stemmed from differing biblical texts in 1 John 5:7-8. Both Mazzare and Green had insisted that this was not a doctrinal issue, and Katharina and Horst had grudgingly agreed to work together to find the best readings.

So the young Anabaptist woman didn't bat an eye when two Jesuits entered the classroom. Their presence wasn't a problem for her. Figuring out what to call them had been. "Do not call anyone on earth your father." Horst had pointed out that Matthew 23 also said not to be called teacher, either. A heated discussion had broken out between the Bible society's Catholics and Protestants. Katharina's brother Georg had calmly observed that the verse seemed to be about religious authority, and that since honor was due to whom honor was due, it was acceptable to address a school teacher as a teacher. Since Johannes Grunwald, SJ, had been one of the Latin teachers, the students had addressed him as Magister Grunwald. And they did the same for Johannes Olearius and the other Latin teachers. And since Athanasius Kircher had written books and was regarded as an authority on any number of subjects, it would probably be acceptable to address him as Magister Kircher. In fact, Kircher was reasonably famous, and Katharina was pleasantly surprised that the Bibelgesellschaft was one thing with which he made an effort to stay up-to-date. To be honest, she was also more than a little surprised that her normally quiet brother had so quickly thought of a solution that everyone could live with. It also meant that Al Green was Dr. Green to all the students, even if most of their parents knew him as Brother Green.

Horst's fellow Catholics Mattheus Beimler and Johann Speiss arrived next. Mattheus was an old Grantville hand who attended Calvert High. He was sixteen and headed for university as soon as he graduated. The BGS was only one of his wide array of interests. He took after Magister Kircher in that regard. He might become a priest some day, but he was equally likely to become a lawyer or scientist. Johann was, in the up-time phrase, tall, dark, and handsome. He attended the new Jesuit collegium in Grantville rather than Calvert High and had his heart set on being a priest, much to the dismay of many a young lady in Grantville.

A couple of Lutherans were right behind them. Markus Fratscher and Guenther Kempf were headed into the pastorate and wanted a good working relationship between the BGS and the University of Jena since that was where they hoped to attend. At least, Guenther hoped to attend there. He was also a member of the Young Crown Loyalists club and was determined to attend university in the USE. Markus, on the other hand, was Lutheran to the exclusion of anything else. He made no secret that he'd rather attend the University of Wittenberg, but Jena would do if the war got in the way.

Alicia Rice and Nona Dobbs wandered in. Alicia was a Methodist. Nona was Baptist. They were not just interested in missions but in going themselves. That was something that had never even occurred to Katharina. Part of up-time missions had been Bible translation, so here they were. It was hard for Katharina to tell how realistic their plans were. She sometimes thought that their idea of taking the Gospel to the Native Americans was romanticized to the point of impracticability. On the other hand, Dr. Green's books indicated that stranger things had happened in the other timeline.

"If everyone would take a moment to pray?" Dr. Green requested. They did so, silently. It was another compromise that the Bible society had arrived at. Green's prayers alternated between long and boring and long and exciting enough to make the Catholic and Lutheran students uncomfortable.

"Is there any correspondence to report?" Dr. Green asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Yes," Magister Kircher spoke up. "We're received a communication from Rome."

Katharina sat up straight. This was unexpected.

Kircher continued. "Most of it dealt with other matters but there was a postscript acknowledging 'the up-timers concern for the uncial manuscript of the Holy Scriptures known to them as Codex Vaticanus, B, and 02. We find the Gregory System fascinating. Please send a complete inventory of the Gregory manuscripts and their locations. The Father-General has promised assistance in tracking them down.'"

In spite of her own astonishment, Katharina noticed a number of reactions ranging from Horst's look of triumph to Dr. Green's firm "Well, that's not going to happen" to an awestruck "Father-General Vitelleschi?" from one of the Catholic students.

"We must, of course, follow our vow of obedience," Athanasius Kircher said mildly.

Katharina was devoutly thankful that Kircher was an even-tempered man. Obviously he had to follow his orders. Equally obviously, Dr. Green didn't want any one group—Catholic or Protestant—controlling access to the biblical manuscripts or having exclusive knowledge of where to find them. Then she realized something.

"You have to do it, don't you?" she asked Kircher.

"Yes. Of course."

Katharina grinned. "Brilliantly done."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Athanasius Kircher protested.

"Sure you don't." Katharina was certain that American sarcasm was fully warranted. "The University of Jena really has no option now but to join us. It's that or be left behind."

"What do you mean?" Guenther asked quickly.

"The Catholic Church is going to get a list of manuscripts," she explained. "If the Lutherans want one, too . . ."

"You arranged for that letter!" Markus accused Kircher.

"I've also received a letter. Two letters, actually," Dr. Green stated. He slipped it in so smoothly that Katharina was convinced that he had probably aided and abetted Kircher's stratagem. "The first may not be of interest to you. It's from Moises Amyraut. You may have heard of him as Amyrald. He was the father of four-point Calvinism in the old time line—and this time line, too. He has some fascinating ideas about the two calls, the general and specific calls to salvation."

Dr. Green caught himself before the BGS zoned out completely. He was getting better at that, Katharina noted.

"But I'll save that for Sunday school," Dr. Green said. "The other letter, the one you're interested in, is from Archbishop Ussher." Before anyone groaned he added, "He relayed information to us from Patrick Young."

Katharina sat bolt upright. Patrick Young! The Royal Librarian of England! That meant . . .

"Patrick Young is studying Codex Alexandrinus, which was given to Charles I by Patriarch Cyril of Constantinople seven years ago. He specifically checked 1 Timothy 3:16 for us . . . ." Dr. Green read from the letter. "'I have examined the First Letter to Timothy, chapter three, verse sixteen. The reading is theta sigma, which as you know is an abbreviation of Theos. I must confess I an intensely curious as to why you sought this reading of this particular manuscript, and I beg that you furnish an explanation at your earliest convenience. I have the honor to be, etc.'"

"Woo-hoo!" Katharina shouted.

Everyone in the room stared at her. Dr. Green and Magister Kircher were clearly amused.

****

Katharina watched her friend Marta approaching the table with her lunch tray, and she realized Marta looked distinctly unhappy. Marta dropped into a chair and before Katharina could ask what was wrong, she blurted, "Katharina, I can't go to Jena."

"Why not?" Katharina asked quickly.

"My parents say the BGS is not trusting God for protection."

"What? Last month they said it was too dangerous, so Dr. Green hired guards."

"I know. But Father visited Brother Altmann last evening and came back saying we are not trusting God."

"It's not your fault, Marta," Katharina reassured her. "Brother Altmann has always been the most cautious of the elders." Then a thought struck her. "Does that mean Joseph can't go either?"

Marta nodded unhappily then said, "Katharina, what are we going to do?"

Katharina thought. "We could ask Dr. Green to talk to your parents."

Marta shook her head. "No, that's part of the problem. Brother Altmann mistrusts Dr. Green, and my parents are very influenced by Brother Altmann."

Katharina sighed.

****

Two days later, Alicia Rice interrupted Katharina in the hallway before school started. "Kat, I can't go to Jena."

"How come?"

"My mom thinks it's dangerous."

Katharina frowned. "Dangerous for down-time Anabaptists or Catholics, maybe. Dangerous for up-timers? Jena? Who would dare?"

"I know, I know! But Mom was talking to Reverend Mary Ellen, and they decided it could be dangerous. Mom worries a lot, with my brother Adam in the National Guard."

"This is a lot less dangerous than the National Guard," Katharina pointed out. "We might get street corner speakers criticizing sectarians and Catholics. But they might not even notice us."

"Hey, it's not my idea. I want to go to Jena."

"I'm sorry, Alicia. I know you do."

"I explained that the guards are really for you Anabaptists and for the Catholics because the BGS is going to a Lutheran town. Nobody in Jena is going to attack an up-timer. Especially at the University. The students pretty much are the CoC, right?"

Katharina nodded.

****

Katharina was quiet for the whole bus ride home. She dropped her books on the table and didn't even make an attempt to start reading something before Mother decided there was enough time to work in the garden before dinner.

The hills weren't really conducive to agriculture but there was enough room for a big vegetable garden. It followed the usual practice of two paths forming a cross in the middle but the land had been a hillside so Father and Georg had built a terrace on the uphill side of one of the walks. Mother was very . . . not proud, because Brethren weren't supposed to be proud . . . but very pleased with the garden. The terrace meant that she—and Katharina—had an easier time reaching the plants on the upper level.

Before coming to Grantville, the Meisners had had little more than a kale yard. Now they had a proper garden. There was still a quarter of kale, but there was also a quarter of up-time lettuce and spinach. The third quarter was peas, up-time peas, and up-time string beans, and the fourth was everything else. They even had a border of herbs.

There were a lot of potatoes and onions further down the hill. Someone—Katharina wasn't sure about the details—was paying a subsidy for potatoes that got used to grow more potatoes. The Freedom Arches was paying more but had agreed not to take more than a certain percentage. But they would happily take onions, too. The soil of the farm being what it was, potatoes and onions helped the Meisners get by.

Katharina thought things through while she pulled weeds. She had been counting on Joseph to do the talking for the Anabaptists in the BGS. He was one of the young Anabaptist men that Joe Jenkins thought might make a decent preacher some day. Horst and maybe Mattheus would speak for the Catholics, and probably both Markus and Guenther for the Lutherans. Her brother Georg was the only other Anabaptist boy in the BGS. Georg was involved mostly to humor her. Which meant she'd probably have to do the talking for the Anabaptists. Barbara wouldn't want to. Speaking in public isn't a problem for me, Katharina told herself a little firmly.

****

Several days later, Nona's parents were talking with Alicia's parents and the Bibelgesellschaft trip to Jena came up. By the end of the conversation, it was deemed to be too dangerous for Nona as well.

****

Finally the day arrived. Katharina was up before dawn, eager to be off to the University of Jena. Plus she got to the hot water before Georg did. She was showered, dressed, and halfway down the stairs to breakfast before she realized she'd heard no indication of Georg stirring.

"Hurry up, Georg!" she called. She thought she heard a "Mmrrff" in return.

"We'll be late!"

She heard his voice through his bedroom door. "Kat, we can't leave until everyone's there at eight of the clock. Is it even dawn yet?"

"Yes. Well, almost."

"Then it's only five and a half of the clock. I'll be down by six and a half."

Katharina and Georg's mother was already in the midst of cooking a big breakfast before they left. That wouldn't have been possible when they'd first moved to Grantville, but electrical lines had reached the Mennonite and Anabaptist settlements in the hills last year. There had been some discussion over whether they should follow the precedent of the up-time Amish and not use electricity. But there had also been the counterexample of the Mennonites using complex water pumps. Katharina hadn't cared about the technical details. What was important was the elders had accepted the power lines and hot water. Joe Jenkins' statement that electricity wasn't theology had clinched the matter, in Katharina's opinion.

"Get up, Georg!" Mother ordered. "You need a good breakfast. You'll need your strength."

Katharina smothered a grin. Georg just needed to drive the wagon. He had no intention of speaking to the professors at the University of Jena. In fact, he was mostly just going along to keep an eye on her. She sighed. She was seventeen years old and was one of eight students going. Plus there were the two pastors. Plus Pastor Green had hired bodyguards, just for a trip to Jena. They could have gotten there quickly by train, but Mother felt that was too extravagant. The elders had agreed. If it was extravagant or comfortable, there was a good chance it was sinful. When reported back to the Bibelgesellschaft, this had caused Pastor Green to mutter about spirit/matter dualism. Katharina was fairly sure he'd been muttering about Plato being in for a warm afterlife, too. The Lutheran members of the Bibelgesellschaft had taken it in stride, however, and even assured Katharina that even up-timers tended to think like this, and that one of them had even told them about a man up-time who had made up stories about a town with both Lutherans and Catholics and gently poked fun at their tendency to equate fun and comfort with sin.

In addition to making Garrison Keillor something of a hero to the Bibelgesellschaft, the decision that the train was too extravagant had resulted in the elders suggesting a wagon. After all, they didn't want the Bibelgesellschaft to walk to Jena as if they were refugees. That utterly contradicted their reasoning against the train, in Katharina's opinion, but since the elders had decided to make one of the community wagons available, she had decided not to point that out.

Pastor Green had been delighted. He said that their bodyguards had horses and could ride along. And that they could all meet at Neustatter's European Security Services. That way they wouldn't be leaving from any of the churches, and couldn't be accused of being under the thumb of any one denomination. Sometimes being non-denominational was a pain in the neck, Katharina reflected.

After Katharina and Georg had been fed more than was strictly necessary, Georg had hitched the horses to the wagon. Father and Mother had hugged them both and provided a litany of warnings. They'd promised to send a telegraph message home from Jena.

Georg stopped the wagon a little way down the road to pick up Barbara. There they received more warnings. But finally they were off. Georg was in no hurry, and neither were the horses. They heard church bells ring seven times as they skirted Grantville. Katharina fidgeted all the way. Finally Georg pulled up in front of Neustatter's European Security Services.

Sure enough, Horst Felke was already there, Katharina noted, as was Dr. Green. By the time Georg had tied the near horse to a hitching post, and helped the girls down from the wagon, Magister Kircher was coming down the road. The Jesuit scholar was wearing his clerical robes and a backpack.

After a round of good mornings, Dr. Green nodded toward the door. Katharina followed Magister Kircher and Horst inside. The office was small, with a Franklin stove in the back, just like the one Father had put in at home. There were two men seated in chairs by the stove, and a young woman at a desk to the left of the door.

All three of them rose instantly. One of the men had a commanding presence, and Katharina guessed this must be Herr Neustatter. He was fairly tall for a down-timer with broad shoulders and the look of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He had scary eyes, Katharina decided, the kind that appeared to know everything. Plus he was wearing a gunbelt. It wasn't the neat, official kind that the Polizei wore, either, but a rough leather belt that dipped down on one hip. The holster held an up-time pistol, nearly as large as down-time pistols.

"Guten morgen, Magister Kircher, Magister Green." He examined Horst and Katharina for a moment. "And Master Felke and Miss Meisnerin, if I'm not mistaken." He shook hands with all of them. "I'm Edgar Neustatter. I will be commanding your escort today."

He had a pronounced accent, Katharina noted. Bavarian, or perhaps Austrian.

"I don't recall mentioning the names of any of the students," Al Green commented.

"You didn't," Neustatter confirmed. He continued in German. "I am training my men in investigation. I sent one of my team leaders to Calvert High." He gestured toward the blond young man next to him. "May I introduce Hjalmar Schaub? I assure you, he is older than he looks. Hjalmar has been in the field just as long as I have, since 1626."

Herr Neustatter was definitely unsettling, Katharina decided. Not only had he referred to Calvert High the way the students did, but he had also clearly anticipated what Pastor Green was about to say. Hjalmar Schaub looked really young. And he'd been checking up on them. That was . . . disturbing. She stole a glance at Pastor Green. He seemed to feel the same way.

"I apologize for seeming to investigate you," Neustatter said smoothly, "but sometimes my clients aren't aware of something that affects their safety. As a security consultant, I dislike surprises."

"Did we surprise you with any safety concerns?" Athanasius Kircher asked. The Jesuit scholar hadn't blinked an eye at Neustatter's explanation.

Neustatter gave them a wry grin. "I have learned more about church politics than I ever wanted to know. I understand enough to know that your BGS would like to find the most accurate Greek Bible so that you can make better translations."

That was a remarkably succinct explanation, Katharina thought. It usually takes much longer than that to explain the BGS to a pastor. And where did he find out that we started calling the Bibelgesellschaft BGS among ourselves? Then she realized that as soon as Neustatter had gotten down to business, the Austrian accent had vanished.

Neustatter was still speaking. "I also understand that collaboration between people from several different churches alarms the more extreme members of all of those churches. Which is why you came to us, yes? Hjalmar, would you assemble your team out front?"

After he left, Neustatter indicated the woman at the desk. "May I introduce Miss Astrid Schäubin. Miss Meisnerin, you and Miss Kellarmännin will be her principals."

Katharina shot Neustatter a surprised look and examined Miss Schäubin. Long, blonde hair was swept forward over one shoulder and curled inward perfectly at the ends. Her blouse was the latest Grantville fashion, a more or less up-time style made of heavier down-time fabric. She wore riding skorts and leather boots. And a gunbelt, although hers was the neat black polizei type. Katharina wasn't sure what to think of her. She couldn't help feeling dubious about a woman in what was essentially a mercenary company.

Neustatter was very perceptive. "She's quite good." He didn't sound offended.

"I'm sorry, Miss Schäubin," Katharina apologized. "I've never met a lady soldier before."

Astrid surprised her in return. "I've never met a lady theologian before."

Katharina smiled. "Fair enough. But that's not really what I am."

"Me, either," Astrid noted. "As Herr Neustatter said, you and Miss Kellarmännin are my principals."

"Does it bother the men?" Katharina asked before she could stop herself. "That you're a bodyguard?"

"Sometimes. It worries my brother, and some of the men have their doubts."

"Me, too. Being in the Bibelgesellschaft, I mean. Some people don't take us seriously. Come meet Barbara. She's outside."

The two of them left, still comparing notes in being a woman in what was usually a man's job.

Neustatter looked at Green and Kircher. "That worked out nicely."

Once outside, Katharina saw that the rest of the Bibelgesellschaft members who were going to Jena had arrived.

"Barbara!" Astrid called. "This is Miss Astrid Schäubin. She is our bodyguard."

"Miss Kellarmännin."

Barbara giggled. "I'm not anyone important. Only teachers call me Fräulein. I'm Barbara."

That was undoubtedly a good idea, Katharina thought. "And I'm Katharina."

"Then you must call me Astrid."

"I don't think I've met anyone named Astrid before," Barbara said.

"It's Danish. My family settled in Holstein long ago. We lived there before the men went off to war."

"Did you go with them?"

"No, after they first came to Grantville they came back and got their families. We all came to Grantville then."

Katharina waited for the rest of the story, but evidently that was everything Astrid intended to say on the matter.

Hjalmar reappeared with two other men. One of them was a big man. He had a smile on his face, which was a good thing, Katharina thought, or else he would look really intimidating. The other man was . . . average in all respects. Katharina tried to study him carefully, because she thought she'd probably forget and mistake him for a passerby. Neustatter introduced them as Karl Recker and Otto Brenner respectively. Georg had loaded everyone's luggage already, so they climbed aboard the wagon. Kircher and Green seated themselves on the bench next to Georg, while the students sat on the benches along the sides of the wagon. Katharina was right behind Georg with Barbara next to her and then Markus and Guenther. Johann and Mattheus were across from them on the right side.

So much for interdenominationalism, Katharina noted.

Neustatter and his team each had horses. Hjalmar and Neustatter rode ahead of the wagon while Karl, Otto, and Astrid brought up the rear. There was enough other traffic on the road that outriders would just get in the way.

Georg half-turned his head. "So what do you think of your bodyguard, Katharina?"

"She's . . . interesting," Katharina said quietly. "She's the only woman who works for Neustatter. It's kind of like being a girl in the Bibelgesellschaft, I think."

"She is the team leader's sister, yes?"

"Schaub, Schäubin," Katharina pointed out. "Of course."

"Some women have been following the up-time custom of taking their husband's names," Georg said mildly. "But since they have the same chin and jawline, I assumed they are brother and sister."

Katharina got a sly look in her eye. "I didn't realize her jawline was so interesting."

"Facial recognition was part of the forensics class," Georg said. "I like to keep in practice."

Katharina sniffed. Georg had gotten bored during all the extra evenings she'd been working on Bibelgesellschaft matters and taken an elective. She was still thinking of a comeback when Georg warned, "Hold on. There's a slope ahead at the Ring Wall."

Katharina felt the wagon slow almost to a stop. "You don't have to be quite so cautious, Georg," she teased.

"It's not that," Georg said. "There are men blocking the road."

Katharina looked past Georg and saw about a dozen men drawn up across the road to Jena. They were passing one wagon through while a couple others had pulled off to the side of the road.

"That's . . ." Pastor Green began.

"Yes, it is," Father Kircher agreed.

Neustatter and Hjalmar had already turned their horses. Hjalmar spurred to a gallop as soon as he reached level ground. Neustatter's horse ambled back to the wagon, giving every sign of being bored.

"It seems there will be a slight delay," Neustatter drawled.

"Who are those men?" Horst demanded. "They have no right to block the road!"

"I believe I mentioned extreme factions in each of the churches," Neustatter reminded him.

"But we've accounted for Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Disciples of Christ, Baptist, and Anabaptist," Green protested.

"Ah, but if I'm not mistaken, Master Fratscher and Master Kempf are from Pastor Kastenmeyer's Lutherans. The men in the road are from Pastor Holz's Lutheran church. That is the church my men and I belong to as well."

Katharina's heart sank. Pastor Pancratz Holz was just as much a bigot as Ferdinand of Austria or Maximilian of Bavaria. If their bodyguards were part of his congregation, there was no way they'd reach Jena.

"Did you know about this, Neustatter?" Al Green demanded.

"I had my suspicions," Neustatter acknowledged. "I suspect that Pastor Holz assumes he can block the road because the place he is doing it is outside West Virginia County. It is outside Chief Richards' jurisdiction."

"It seems Holz has outthought us," Kircher said.

"Not entirely," Neustatter said. "I sent Hjalmar to find an SoTF Marshal. This is within the marshals' jurisdiction."

Katharina's jaw dropped.

Neustatter noticed, of course. "Don't worry, Miss Meisnerin," he said. "I'll get you to Jena."

"I suppose we ought to see what they want," Pastor Green said. "Georg, keep hold of the reins."

Kircher climbed down from the wagon to let Green out. Some of the men in the road started shouting at them as soon as they realized Kircher was wearing his clerical robes.

Neustatter turned to one of his men. "Karl!" The two of them spurred forward on either side of Green and Kircher.

"If you gentlemen are almost done with the road, we'd like to pass through to Jena," Green said mildly.

"You heretics will not be going to Jena."

"Why is that?" Neustatter demanded.

"Because they are heretics, Herr Neustatter," Pastor Pancratz Holz explained. "They want to change the Bible."

"What I gather, Pastor," Neustatter drawled, "is they're wanting the University of Jena's help in finding old Bibles."

"They're trying to change the Scripture! I've read their books. They questioned everything about the Bible uptime!"

"No, we're not!" Al Green burst out. "I'm no liberal! And I'm not a higher critic, either." He proceeded to call the wrath of God down on a couple individuals named Graf and Wellhausen and then loudly pointed out that the Bibelgesellschaft had freedom of assembly, and if they wanted to assemble in Jena, they would, thank you very much. Pastor Pancratz Holz retorted that his congregation also had freedom of assembly, and if they wanted to assemble on the road to Jena, they would, thank you very much.

Back at the wagon, Katharina asked, "What's happening?"

"The Lutheran pastor is shouting," Georg reported. "And Pastor Green is shouting back. And they all look confused and angry." He sighed. "And now the Lutherans are shouting again."

Katharina saw the first projectile. She expected Pastor Green and Magister Kircher to run for it.

Instead, Neustatter's horse plunged into the group of men, who scattered in all directions. Neustatter wheeled the horse around and pursued a couple who hadn't scrambled quite far enough for his liking. The other guard circled in the opposite direction, forcing the men on the left away from the road.

"Take the wagon forward!" Astrid shouted to Georg.

Georg looked at her, looked at the disturbance ahead, looked back at Astrid, and flicked the reins.

"Is it safe?" Katharina asked.

Astrid brought her horse alongside the wagon. "I'll watch this side. Otto will watch the other side. Keep moving."

Georg looked rather startled but complied. When he reached Kircher and Green, he slowed not quite to a complete stop, and the two clerics scrambled onto the wagon.

"Holz is rallying his men," Kircher pointed out.

Sure enough, the mob was coming back together further down the road, minus a handful of men whom Neustatter and Karl had driven far to the side of the road. Neustatter turned back toward the road and nudged his horse to a canter. A couple seconds later, Karl did the same.

****

Astrid Schäubin wished her pastor weren't trying to forcibly prevent her clients from traveling to Jena. Pastor Holz did have a point—their clients were mostly heretics, Catholics and Anabaptists. On the other hand, their clients had a point, too—they were bound for a Lutheran university to present their case as to why denominations that disagreed with each other should work together to examine and preserve ancient copies of the Scriptures.

One man pitched a stone at Neustatter as her boss cantered toward the men in the road. It went wide. Neustatter kept coming. Astrid saw the men edging backwards, and then they broke. Neustatter and Karl scattered them again.

Georg kept the wagon rumbling steadily forward. Holz was determined, but he and his men had to run to keep pace with the wagon. Neustatter and Karl were able to keep them away from the wagon. They were growing more and more frustrated but fortunately there wasn't much available to throw at the horsemen.

One man made a run at the wagon, and Neustatter wheeled his horse around to head him off. Twenty yards from the wagon he lashed out with a boot and sent the man sprawling. Neustatter gestured at Astrid to take it from there while he turned back toward Holz—just in time to find another man making a break toward the wagon. He stopped that one, too. The third one was on his way in when everyone heard a siren.

A Grantville Police Department cruiser rolled up behind the wagon. One officer got out but the driver stayed in the vehicle.

"This isn't Grantville!" Holz shouted. "You have no jurisdiction here!"

The officer passed the wagon. "Brother Green. Father Kircher."

"He's not Grantville police," Georg observed.

"That's Marshal Thomas. The marshals work throughout Thuringia-Franconia," Astrid answered.

Up ahead, Marshal Harley Thomas was explaining that fact to Pancratz Holz.

"You cannot give orders here! This is Schwarzburg!"

"And I'm a SoTF marshal. We have jurisdiction throughout the entire state. Pastor Holz, it's illegal to interfere with other people's right to assemble peaceably."

"But it won't be peaceably! They're going to Jena to try to destroy the Scriptures!"

Harley Thomas sighed. It looked like it could be a long morning.

"There's only one of you."

The marshal stepped up in Holz's face. "Yeah. But it looks like you only brought one riot with you, Holz. So get out of the way. Now."

The situation wasn't improved by Neustatter laughing out loud at that point. But Holz very grudgingly got his men out of the road.

They did make a few threats as the wagon rolled by.

"Any Lutheran who consorts with you heretics is risking excommunication!"

Green looked over his shoulder and said, "I'll be sure to warn Johann Gerhard."

Katharina surveyed the party. Markus and Guenther were on edge. Astrid seemed a bit upset, too. Well, that made sense. They were all Lutheran. Holz could make trouble for them. So was Neustatter, although he didn't seem to care. He was enthusiastically shaking hands with the marshal. Then he beckoned Astrid's brother Hjalmar and waved the wagon on. Katharina looked around and saw Karl riding ahead and Otto on the other side of the wagon. They didn't seem worried, either, but she didn't know them well enough to really tell.

About ten minutes later, Neustatter rode up beside Astrid. Katharina strained to hear their conversation.

"Miss Schäubin, I've sent Hjalmar back to Grantville to talk to the other men and their families. And to keep an eye on Pastor Holz. I know he wanted be along on your second mission, but someone needs to brief Ditmar's team. The men won't care. We all had to pretend to be Catholics in Wallenstein's army. But Stefan and Wolfram's families have been Lutherans all their lives."

"We could all just go to St. Martin's in the Fields," Astrid pointed out. "It's Philippist but it would do until the new Flacian church on the Badenburg Road opens."

Katharina eyed the two Lutheran members of the Bibelgesellschaft. They were both obviously listening, too. Markus looked very satisfied, Guenther less so.

"Excuse me," she ventured. "I haven't studied much about the Flacian-Philippist dispute, but you obviously have strong feelings about it."

Neustatter shrugged. "Flacians follow Luther more closely. It pi . . . annoys the Catholics more. Uh, begging your pardon, Father Kircher."

"Our pastor in Holstein was Flacian," Astrid added.

"And our pastor in Holstein was Flacian," Neustatter agreed.

Astrid knew what she ought to say. She opened her mouth and . . . nothing happened. She tried again. "Um . . ."

"Yes, of course," Neustatter agreed. "If Miss Schäubin and the others want to go somewhere else or all go to different churches, that's quite all right. Well, no, it probably isn't, but they're allowed to. Miss Meisnerin." He touched the brim of his hat and rode off to join Karl in front of the wagon.

After Astrid had recovered, she ventured, "Does he do that often?"

"Read your mind?" Astrid asked. "Yes."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"I'm the secretary. It's quite helpful, actually."

****

The rest of the journey to Jena was uneventful. They hired rooms at an inn and then walked to the university where they were met by the superintendent Dr. Johann Major. Neustatter and his team stood back while Dr. Green made the introductions.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Dr. Green. I really should have seen to that before now. Master Kircher."

Major was accompanied by a couple students, Hans and Christoph, and within a few minutes, he had neatly split off Green and Kircher to go meet a colleague. Neustatter fell in behind them.

Katharina was hoping that Markus, Guenther, Mattheus, Johann, and Georg would lapse into theological shoptalk with the two students. But she found to her surprise that she, Barbara, and Astrid were the center of attention.

"Are you from St. Martin's?"

"No." It would have been amusing but Katharina was suddenly rather concerned about being an Anabaptist in Jena.

"Flacian, then."

"No."

"Then?"

"You know the Bibelgesellschaft contains students from several denominations?"

"Yes."

"I'm Anabaptist."

Christoph deflated. Hans turned to Barbara. "And you?"

"Anabaptist."

He looked to Astrid. "And you are?"

"Armed." She patted her holster.

"You are . . . you are . . ." Christoph stammered.

"A mercenary," Hans finished.

"I work for Neustatter's European Security Services. So does Karl over there."

Heads swiveled. "Well, yes, obviously," Christoph agreed. "But bodyguards? Here?"

"There was an anti-Catholic riot here last year," Astrid reminded them. "Go ahead. I'll watch the flank."

They got the grand tour of the University of Jena, ending up at a display of books.

"Alchemia?" Georg asked.

"By Andreas Libavius. He was a student here in the arts and medical curricula," Christoph explained. "He died in 1616. But it's the first systematic chemistry book. These are all books by university faculty or students."

Katharina glanced over the titles. Methodus tractandarum controversiarum theologicarum.

"That's one of Dr Himmel's books. And Passionale Academicum, right next to it."

There was one in English. Sixe Bookes of Politickes or Civil Doctrine, Done into English by William Jones.

"Oh, Justus Lipsius was a professor here for a while. He converted from Catholicism. Then when he got hired at Leiden he converted to Calvinism. They say he was really a Stoic all along. But a lot of influential men speak well of these books—Richelieu, Olivares, Maximilian."

"Perhaps those aren't the best possible endorsements," Guenther remarked.

"And these?" Katharina asked.

"Loci communies theologici and Meditationes sacrae are Dr. Gerhard's books," Markus answered. "Some of us are Lutheran."

"And this is a draft of the first section of Confessio Catholica," Christoph announced proudly. "Dr. Gerhard is demonstrating the catholicness of the Augsburg Confession from Catholic sources."

"Oh, please," Johann Speiss protested. Mattheus just rolled his eyes.

"A draft?" Katharina put in quickly.

"Yes. He has just started it. It probably won't be published for a few years. The book display is to show some visiting students. They're here from Latin schools and from some other universities. It's some sort of up-time idea. They call it 'recruiting.' As if a university were an army."

As if on cue, a number of other students entered the hall. Introductions were made all around, and shoptalk broke out. Katharina edged back out of the crowd and tried to locate Barbara but found herself talking to a student from the University of Erfurt.

They shook hands. "Johannes Musaeus."

"Katharina Meisnerin."

"You are . . ."

"Not a student here, no. I'm with the Bibelgesellschaft in Grantville . . ."

After the tour, they rejoined Kircher and Green. They had a couple hours on their own before a formal dinner with the theology faculty. Katharina was sure she would never be able to keep all the names straight, but she made sure she knew who the three Johannes were: Johannes Gerhard, considered the number three Lutheran theologian ever, after Luther and Chemnitz; Johannes Major, the superintendent who had welcomed them; and Johannes Himmel, who had written a couple of the books on the display table. Katharina had him pegged as the strictest of the three. Blessedly she didn't have to do anything but make occasional conversation and eat.

After the dinner, the BGS went back to the inn. Neustatter and his team fell in around them as they left the building.

"You didn't get to eat!" Katharina realized.

"We'll eat at the inn," Astrid said.

"That's not fair."

"I would rather be able to just eat than worry about etiquette and professors. What did you have?"

Katharina recited high-class but quite traditional fare.

Astrid smiled. "The main reasons we picked this inn are because we trust the innkeeper, and it is safe. It also has a well-deserved reputation for cheap food. But that's okay—I like stew and fries."

When they reached the inn, most of the BGS elected to stay up for a while. Neustatter pulled Astrid aside.

"Miss Schäubin, you and Otto go ahead and eat."

"But you . . ."

"Will eat later. You've got first watch."

Astrid discovered that being on watch was boring. After an hour, she upgraded that to really boring. Finally a door swung open and Neustatter ambled out, looking ridiculously chipper.

"Guten morgen, Miss Schäubin." His eyes twinkled. "Get some sleep."

****

The BGS met the University of Jena theology faculty mid-morning in a large room. Hans told them it was used for disputations and really large lectures. The BGS students looked around nervously as various U Jena students filtered in. Athanasius Kircher didn't seem the least bit uncomfortable, Katharina noted. He just shrugged off his backpack and started methodically arranged everything he thought he might need. Dr. Green was doing much the same thing.

"This looks like one of those new-fangled tiered lecture halls," he muttered to Katharina. "Minus all the computers and AV, of course. No matter—we have everything we need."

Once everyone was settled, Johann Gerhard gestured to Albert Green. "Doctor, would you care to begin?"

"Thank you, Dr. Gerhard. We all want to know what the original text of the Holy Scriptures is. As printed editions become more common and more numerous, it has become apparent that there are a great many differences between manuscripts. By AD 2000 up-time, significant progress has been made in categorizing these differences into manuscript families. Some of that information came through the Ring of Fire with us, but much of it will have to be recreated.

"We all know we disagree on a number of theological issues. Dr. Gerhard, you have one set of beliefs. Pastor Kastenmeyer has another. Father Kircher here has yet another. And I have a fourth. What we found up-time was that when it came to correctly assessing what the original biblical text is, these differences largely didn't matter. Yes, occasionally, we are going to find textual variations that favor your position over mine or mine over yours. But our differences are almost all caused by two other reasons: first, differences in interpretation rather than differences in text and second, whether we regard Church traditions as authoritative or only Scripture as authoritative. Or as Brother Chalker and his new converts believe, Scripture and new tradition, which they believe to be an ongoing ministry of the Holy Spirit. I happen to disagree with them but I raise the issue to point out differences with the Pentecostals are also a matter of authority and interpretation."

"If I may, Dr. Green?" The question came from Dr. Johannes Himmel. Green nodded. "If our differences are matters of authority and interpretation, why make the effort to reconstruct the original text?"

Al Green paused for a second, then said. "For me, textual criticism is a means of confirming the inerrancy of the Bible and a tool for apologetics. Uh, that is a tool for defending the faith. I'm sorry, I don't remember if the term 'apologetics' was, uh, is used in this time period or not."

"From what we have read in your encyclopediae, your up-time denominations struggled with secularism," Himmel observed.

"Yes," Green agreed.

"Do you expect the same struggle in this world?" Himmel asked. Katharina noted that he and all the Jena professors were watching Green very closely.

"Yes," Green answered again. "First, because we brought secular ideas with us through the Ring of Fire. Second, because I really can't conceive of a future where we don't have to struggle against secularism. Which is weird since I know it's going to be different than up-time."

"Can you give us an example of how collecting and classifying biblical texts will help against secularism?"

"Certainly. Up-time in the late 1800s and 1900s there were people who asserted that the Gospels weren't written until a couple hundred years AD."

"That's preposterous!"

"Obviously. But it was largely a matter of faith until certain papyri manuscripts were analyzed. The Bodmer papyrus that we called P66 has the text of the Gospels—Luke and John anyway—and was written about AD 150."

"I take it that no one in your time thought the original documents survived. Or even the first set of copies," Johann Gerhard said slowly. "So then they would have acknowledged that the Gospels were written in the first century. Or several copies before AD 150."

He figured that out right quick, Katharina reflected. Of course, he is the top Lutheran theologian alive today.

"If they're willing to accept evidence at all," Gerhard added. "I have noticed that once one has staked his reputation on something, one becomes surprisingly inured to arguments that would be readily convincing to another."

Green chuckled. "Yes. We all claim that it is only others who attempt to remake reality as they would have it."

"So in the end it is still a matter of faith," Gerhard finished.

"Has to be."

Katharina watched Dr. Gerhard nod slowly, like her father did when he had considered and decided on a course of action.

"So studying the biblical manuscripts will likely result in some proof texts," Dr. Himmel summarized. "But why should we join with you to do this?"

"We will get more done, faster, if we work together."

"I don't think we should work with sectarians and Anabaptists."

Katharina tensed. They were expecting this, though, and had decided how to handle it.

Al Green grinned. "You don't think we're saved. Well, fair enough. I'm not entirely convinced about you all, either."

There were gasps throughout the room, and a couple people sprayed their drinks.

Green's eyes twinkled. "I think we both have concerns about our brother Athanasius here. And he about us, no doubt. As for me, I'm more than a little concerned that seventeenth-century Lutheranism seems to value adherence to a body of doctrine more than adherence to Christ. And I can only assume that you in turn are quite concerned that I'm not under any ecclesiastical authority outside of my own church's board of elders."

Katharina briefly wondered if they were going to lose Dr. Himmel to apoplexy. But Dr. Green seemed to have gauged Dr. Gerhard just right.

"That is, indeed, chief among my concerns," Gerhard answered.

He's actually just a little bit amused, Katharina realized. Her eyes cut sideways. And Magister Kircher is struggling to keep a straight face.

Dr. Johannes Major spoke up for the first time. "Doctrinal differences would seem to be a good reason for each of us to pursue our own studies."

Al Green sat down. "Horst?"

Horst stood up and confidently faced the three Johannes. "There is a danger in each of us going his own way. Once it becomes known that we all value manuscripts of the Holy Scriptures, they could become one more prize to fight over in this war. The Calvinists in Basel hold Codex Bezae, which I freely admit is a manuscript that has some readings that appeal to me as a Catholic.

"Suppose I wished to consult Codex Bezae before publishing an edition. The Calvinists may or may not grant me access—especially if they had reason to suspect that I might find readings that supported teachings of the Catholic Church. Or suppose that you reverend doctors came to believe that manuscript B is the most accurate. Since this codex is housed in the Vatican Library, would it not be a temptation for us Catholics to impede a purely Lutheran effort? Let us argue theology and attempt to convert one another in our free time, but let us work together on the text for the benefit of all."

Good job, Horst, Katharina thought.

"A bold request, young man," Dr. Major said. "How was it done in the other world, the up-time?"

Green gestured towards her. "Katharina."

Katharina rose and addressed the faculty. Dr. Himmel's face was pinched. Dr. Major was a little startled. She concentrated on Dr. Gerhard.

"Up-time a very large majority of textual scholars favored a group of manuscripts called the Alexandrian text or the Critical text. Eberhard Nestle published an edition in 1897, and it went through many revisions. Kurt and Barbara Aland were the primary editors in the late 1900s, and it was known as the Nestle-Aland edition." She picked up a small blue volume from the desk. "There is one twenty-fifth edition, four twenty-sixth editions, and one twenty-seventh edition in Grantville. The other members of the editorial board were Johannes Karavidopoulos whom we believe was Orthodox, Carlo Martini who we believe was Catholic, and Bruce Metzger who was probably Presbyterian. The United Bible Society used the same basic text, and there are two copies of their third edition in Grantville." Katharina held up a red volume.

"There was a smaller group of scholars who favored a group of manuscripts called the Byzantine Text or Majority Text because most manuscripts were classified in this group. All of our printed editions in our world are Byzantine, including the Complutensian Polyglot, Erasmus' edition, Stephanus's editions, and the one the Elzevir brothers published last year. They used the phrase textus receptus which up-time became synonymous with a particular strand of the Byzantine text. There are two Majority Texts in Grantville. This is one of them. Hodges and Farstad." This volume was white with a stylized Bible on the front. "The other, Robinson and Pierpont, exists only on Dr. Green's computer."

Katharina smiled. "Horst is Catholic. I am Anabaptist. When we discuss the text, sometimes, that matters. More often we disagree because Horst favors the Alexandrian text, and I favor the Byzantine text."

Dr. Himmel spoke up. "Fräulein, what role would you and the other young women have in this enterprise?"

Katharina took a deep breath. "Dr. Himmel, we have no intention of preaching. In Romans 16:1, Paul mentions Phoebe. She probably delivered the Epistle to the Romans for him. Let us help deliver the manuscripts." Katharina held her breath.

"If we were to join the Bibelgesellschaft, what needs to be done?" Gerhard asked.

Katharina exhaled slowly. That question was a really positive sign.

"Markus?" Dr. Green prompted. They were counting on the Lutherans in the BGS to clinch the deal.

"Manuscripts need to be identified and their variant readings catalogued. This had not been completed up-time, and we just don't have most of their records. It is likely that we won't be able to positively match some manuscripts with their up-time designations, so a new numbering system will be needed. And most of all, we need patience. Instead of using strong chemicals on Codex Ephraemi Rescriptus like they did up-time, we should wait until the technology exists to read it safely. There are other manuscripts which could be in danger if their locations become widely known. Examining others will require delicate negotiations. Ideally, whomever we send should speak for as large a part of Christianity as possible. Guenther?"

Guenther quickly took Markus's place. "While we welcome all those interested in preserving the Scriptures, there are some people we would really like to be involved. We believe that the University of Jena has the prestige to approach these men.

"Patrick Young, the Royal Librarian of England. Already he has examined Codex Alexandrinus for us and cleared up a reading that was disputed up-time.

"Bonaventure and Abraham Elzevir. Katharina mentioned the Greek text they published last year. And we will eventually need a publisher.

"Father Gavril, the Orthodox priest in Grantville. We will need full cooperation with the Orthodox.

"The heads of two monasteries: The Lavra on Mount Athos in Greece and St. Catherine's in Sinai.

"And we're going to need Calvinists involved, too."

"The duke of Brunswick-Wolfenbuettel. Actually, we're not sure which duke. But one of the dukes of Wolfenbuttel this century has—will—would have collected a huge library including biblical manuscripts.

"Hugo Grotius."

"You dream large," Gerhard noted. "Still, that may be easier than you think."

"Moises Amyraut."

"He's being tried for heresy, isn't he?"

"He was acquitted up-time," Dr. Green spoke up. "Even though they stacked the jury against him. And this time he has up-time Reformed writings to help. I saw to it."

Guenther resumed his list. "A man named Seidel would have brought manuscripts from the east sometime this century. We have no further information. We don't even know if he is alive."

"It would probably be good if the other Lutheran universities were involved as well," Guenther concluded.

"That could also be delicate," Dr. Gerhard observed. "I think we would like to confer. If you would excuse us?"

"Of course."

Dr. Green nodded to the Bibelgesellschaft, and they began gathering their things. Johannes Musaeus joined them, as he was also not a student at the University of Jena.

Once outside, Johannes spoke up. "That was a good presentation. I was not sure what to expect, but now I hope the faculty works with you."

"Thank you."

"If they accept, I definitely need to attend here. If you'll have me, I'd like to join your Bibelgesellschaft."

"Welcome aboard." Markus was the first to shake his hand. "We can always use more Lutherans. Flacian, I assume?"

"Yes. Definitely."

They settled down into shop talk. After about an hour, Katharina got up and started pacing. She was distracting herself with how many paces long the building was when Georg joined her.

"Relax, Kat."

"I can't. What if they don't want to work with us?"

"I think they will."

The morning dragged on. Katharina paced and prayed. Some of the others had started discussing sending a delegation for food when the door finally opened. Dr. Gerhard came out. The Bibelgesellschaft converged.

"One question, please," Gerhard asked. "Magister Kircher, you did not say anything." The Lutheran theologian studied the Catholic theologian for several seconds. "Rome wants information on the manuscripts, doesn't it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Have you been ordered to send it?"

"Yes. Dr. Gerhard, I would much prefer not to race you to the manuscripts. Rome wants the information. I have no directives concerning anyone else having the information as well."

"But we would have to work with Catholics."

"And I would have to work with Lutherans." Kircher grinned. "I am willing to make that sacrifice. But I would very much like to study some Sahidic manuscripts."

Katharina held her breath.

"Magister Kircher," Gerhard said, "I think I would also prefer not to race you to the manuscripts. I might not get as many as I'd like." He glanced at Dr. Green. "You two have made this work so far?"

"Well, we're both pretty busy," Dr. Green answered. "It mostly works because the students make it work."

Dr. Gerhard smiled. "I expect that will continue. Very well, ladies and gentlemen, the University of Jena theology faculty will join the Bibelgesellschaft."

The students erupted in cheers. Katharina hugged Georg and then sought out Horst and extended her hand. Horst had a big grin on his face as they shook hands.

She could just barely hear Dr. Gerhard. "If all of you would come back inside?" He waved Kircher and Green through the door. "We're going to need some Calvinists. I think we should start with the University of Basel . . ."

****

A Marriage of Inconvenience

Written by Kerryn Offord

Zaandam, near Amsterdam, January 1634

Cornelius Hardebol looked down. Some thirty feet below he could see members of the mill workforce already starting to collect around the crumpled form of Anthonius de Plancken.

The master papermaker had fallen to his death, and Cornelius hadn't even had to push him. That wasn't to say he'd never thought about it. As a senior journeyman papermaker, the next step of his climb up the guild hierarchy was dependent on the guild declaring there was a vacancy for a new master, or by filling a dead man's shoes.

Cornelius broke the last of the ice that had been preventing the fantail turning and swung out of the way as the blades of the small windmill started to rotate. Happy that the job he and Anthonius had started was successfully completed, he clambered down onto the stage that surrounded the windmill, and hastened over to the railing that surrounded the stage. He had hoped that Pieter Peeck's shouted announcement that the master was dead hadn't woken Anthonius' wife. Unfortunately, just as he arrived at the rail, he saw Mevrouw Goverts appear. That meant there was no longer anything to gain by risking the fast way down. So instead of going over the rail and dropping to the ground, he took the stairs.

"It was an accident," he heard Pieter Peeck explain to Anthonius' wife. "I saw it all. Mijnheer Hardebol wasn't even close to the master when he fell."

Cornelius swore under his breath. Young master Peeck was going to be lucky to survive his apprenticeship. He grabbed the helpful individual by the scruff of his neck and hissed into his ear an instruction to "shut up" before pushing him back into the arms of the gathered apprentices.

"I was just saying that it was an accident," Pieter protested.

Cornelius stared Pieter into abject silence before returning to more important matters. The widow was kneeling on the ground holding Anthonius' head in her lap and crying enough to float an East Indiaman.

"Pieter, go and get the Schout. Tell him Master de Plancken has fallen to his death." He paused a moment to stare straight at Pieter. He had a position in the CoC to maintain and he didn't want any rumors started before he could talk to the Schout. "And that's all you tell anybody, understood?" Pieter swallowed once, nodded, and hurried off.

They couldn't move the body until the Schout gave permission, and they couldn't leave it exposed to the elements and anybody who came calling, so he instructed Willem de Grauw to get a cargo cover. When the junior journeyman returned Cornelius gestured for the female household staff to escort Mevrouw Goverts into the house while he, Willem, and the apprentices spread the sheet of heavy canvas over the body. Then he sent everyone back inside while he waited beside his late employer and mentor for the Schout.

****

Tears continued to run down Lysbeth Goverts' face as she stared through the window at her husband's covered body. He'd been a good husband, and a good father to the girls. Yes, he might have been upset that Janneke hadn't been the hoped for boy, but he hadn't held that against her, or Janneke.

Now her friendly easy-going husband was dead. Why had the silly old fool insisted on going up with Cornelius Hardebol to free the fantail?

Later that day

"We'll be all right for a while now, Cornelius," Willem de Grauw called.

"I'll see you later then," Cornelius told the junior journeyman. Normally he wouldn't leave the working mill in the master's absence, but today the master wasn't going to come back. He tidied up in the small workers' bathroom before going in search of Lysbeth Goverts. As the senior journeyman he had first claim on the mill and the rank of master that went with it—if he could persuade the widow to marry him.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He gathered his hair and tied it with a bit of ribbon before removing his work apron and donning his doublet. He was as clean as he could get. It was time to go calling.

"Yes?" the housemaid asked when he knocked at the door to the master's house.

"I've come to speak to your mistress," Cornelius explained.

"The master's not cold and you're around already," Anneke Bellier said.

"It is my right," he insisted.

Anneke sniffed inelegantly and guided Cornelius to a reception room. "Wait here. I'll see if the mistress wants to talk to you."

Cornelius couldn't settle, so he wandered around the room. He was staring vacantly out a window when Anneke returned with a teary eyed Lysbeth.

He really wished she hadn't been crying. It made what he had to do so much less palatable. However, the mill couldn't continue for very long without someone with the authority to give orders.

Their eyes met, and Cornelius was the first to blink. "Mevrouw Goverts, I know you've just lost your husband, but the mill is without a master, and that situation can't be allowed to continue for long."

"And who do you suggest should take charge of the mill?" Lysbeth asked.

"Me." Cornelius thumped his chest. "I should like to take over the running of the mill."

"Very well, consider yourself in charge."

"You know that isn't what I meant, Mevrouw Goverts. The master is dead, and now there is a vacancy in the guild for a master. I want that position."

"The only way you'll become master of this mill is by marrying me," Lysbeth said.

"That condition isn't unexpected." Actually, it was the normal way these things were handled. "I am prepared to marry you."

"Well, I'm not prepared to marry you, so please leave."

Cornelius studied Mevrouw Goverts. She looked shattered by her loss. "We'll talk again when you're not feeling so emotional."

****

Lysbeth was still muttering to herself when Anneke returned from showing Cornelius out.

"Did you say something, mistress?"

"That man as good as said it would be a chore to marry me, but that he'd do it if that was what it took to take over my mill."

Anneke glanced in the direction Cornelius had taken. "He's being very honest."

"There is such a thing as being too honest."

"Would you rather he'd declared he'd been in love with you since he first saw you, but that . . ."

Lysbeth glared the teenager into sniggering silence. Maybe she shouldn't have let Anneke read her romantic novels. "Don't you have some work you should be doing?"

That evening

"Mommy, Mommy, something's wrong with Papa."

The screaming penetrated Lysbeth's fatigue. That was her four-year-old daughter screaming out, and it could only mean one thing. Lysbeth struggled to her feet and hurried to the room where the men had laid out Anthonius.

Little Maritje was trying to waken her papa, and becoming quite distressed that her papa wasn't responding. Lysbeth put her arms around her daughter and pulled her away from the bed. "Papa's gone to heaven, Maritje. God needed him."

"But that's Papa right there," Maritje insisted.

Lysbeth lifted her daughter and carried her out of the room. She was met by the curious faces of the house staff and the apprentices who lived in the lower rooms of the house. Anneke had her arms around Lysbeth's eldest daughter.

She placed Maritje in Anneke's arms and immediately the three girls were entwined in a group hug. Then she turned her gaze on the apprentices. There were only the four of them of them, as the mill couldn't support more.

"I'll get Mijnheer Hardebol," Pieter Peeck volunteered before hurrying off.

Lysbeth almost called Pieter back, but someone had to deal with Anthonius' body while she comforted her children. Instead she sent the other apprentices off with the cook to eat, and then she sat down with Anneke and her daughters and gathered the three of them in her arms.

Minutes later firm footfalls penetrated Lysbeth's misery. She looked up to see Cornelius enter the room with Pieter trailing behind him.

"Pieter here tells me you need some help?"

Was there a hint of smug male superiority in that face? Lysbeth mentally cursed male facial hair that hid so much. She sent Pieter off to eat before leading Cornelius to the room where her husband lay. "Maritje discovered Anthonius' body."

"So? She has to know her papa is dead some time."

Lysbeth couldn't believe the callousness of Cornelius' words. "She's only four years old."

Cornelius shrugged. "Plenty of children lose parents at a younger age."

"Maritje became very upset when she couldn't wake her father," she explained. "I'd like you to move Anthonius to somewhere the girls can't stumble across him accidentally."

"If you'd like to keep your children out of the way, I'll use the back entrance."

Lysbeth watched in horror as Cornelius rolled Anthonius up in the sheet and lifted him onto his shoulder. "You can't carry Anthonius like that," she hissed.

"Do you want the body moved or don't you?"

It wasn't much of a choice. Lysbeth nodded.

"Then stop creating obstacles."

Lysbeth followed Cornelius to the back door and very nearly slammed it after him. How could the man be so insensitive?

Next day

After the day from hell Lysbeth hadn't thought things could possibly get worse. She'd been wrong. First there had been the Schout. Jan Honckelboer had felt he had to explain why he didn't think Cornelius had anything to do with Anthonius' death. She tried to circumvent the explanation, as she'd never considered that possibility. However, Jan had been so engrossed in the sound of his own voice that nothing could stop him. Still, even Jan Honckelboer had to run out of things to say eventually, and she'd finally managed to get rid of him after not more than two hours. Then, just as she was showing the Schout out, the representatives from the guild council arrived. She let them in and led them to her office where she directed them into seats before settling in Anthonius' chair on the other side of the desk. She knew what was coming, because she'd been in the same situation nearly ten years ago when she inherited her father's mill.

"The mill needs a new master," Lieven Steenwinckel informed her. "As the owner you have a choice. Either you sell the mill to someone acceptable to the guild . . ."

"I'm not selling my mill," Lysbeth said. And it was her mill. It'd been hers since both her brothers died fighting the Spanish back in 1621. Initially she'd taken charge to save the mill for the time when her father would recover from the triple blow of losing her mother and brothers so close together, but he'd never recovered. Instead he'd just dwindled away, dying shortly before her eighteenth birthday.

"Your desire to keep such a profitable mill is perfectly understandable, Mevrouw Goverts. However, that leaves but one option open to you. Much as it distresses me to suggest it, you must marry a journeyman acceptable to the guild."

Lysbeth clamped down hard on her tongue. Mijnheer Steenwinckel didn't look very distressed at all. She took a moment to calm down. "And who might the guild consider acceptable?"

The lawyer held out a hand to his assistant, who promptly gave him a sheet of paper. Lieven placed the paper in front of him and adjusted his spectacles. "Of course you are free to select some other journeyman, but the guild would prefer that you pick one of the following." He glanced down and read from the list. "Rut van Hooges, Cornelius Hardebol, and John Mason."

Lieven took off his spectacles and stared intently at Lysbeth. "The council hopes that you will accept Cornelius Hardebol as he is highly placed with the Amsterdam CoC, and his elevation to the rank of guild master can only be beneficial to the council."

"What about being beneficial to me?" Lysbeth demanded.

"The guild council will ensure that the contract that is drawn up adequately protects you and your children," Lieven said.

"Like they did for Giertie Badie?" Lysbeth demanded, thinking of the poor woman who'd been virtually forced to marry Hendrick de Hooges.

Lieven looked blankly at Lysbeth and looked a question at his assistant. The man leaned over and whispered into Lieven's ear. "Ah! That was before my time, Mevrouw Goverts. A most grossly mismanaged affair. There is no need to fear that you would lose the mill, Mevrouw Goverts, not when I write the contract."

"Well, thank you for your time," Lysbeth said without any attempt to lend the words credibility. "I'll consider the names you've given me, and make my decision."

"We can't have the mill without a master for too long, so I'm afraid we must insist that you make a decision before the end of next week. Otherwise the guild will be forced to take action. To help speed things up I've already talked to our preferred candidates, and they've promised to talk to you as soon as possible," Lieven said as he started to collect his papers. "I'm sure we can have this settled in no time at all."

Lysbeth saw her unwelcome guests out and slumped into Anthonius' chair and cursed him. Why did he have to go and die? It had taken her nearly seven of their ten years of marriage to get him properly trained, and now she was going to have to repeat the process with a new husband.

Later that day

"Mijnheer de Hooges was so angry, Mistress. I can't tell you how happy I was when Mijnheer Hardebol called down from the stage," Anneke Bellier said as she returned from seeing out Rut de Hooges.

Lysbeth looked up in horror, afraid that the disgruntled journeyman might have taken out his disappointment on little Anneke. "He didn't hurt you?"

Anneke shook her head. "But if Mijnheer Hardebol hadn't been there . . ."

The shudder that went through the maid's petite frame reinforced Lysbeth's belief that Rut, like his father before him, was prone to violence. "Well, there's no way I'll be marrying him."

"Good."

"Let's hope John Mason is better."

Anneke snorted. "Couldn't be worse."

"No," Lysbeth agreed.

****

John Mason was a thirty-six year old journeyman. He'd been working at Master Swartwout's mill since he returned from his journeyman's journey ten years ago to be close to his aging parents. He was happy working under Master Swartwout, but he wasn't one to let an opportunity go begging. And marriage to Master de Plancken's widow was definitely an opportunity to advance up the guild hierarchy.

"Hello, Rut," he called to the journeyman leaving Master de Plancken's mill.

Rut pushed past, totally ignoring him. John watched the journeyman hurry off. Oh dear, it looked like Rut's hopes had suffered a setback. John smiled smugly. That wasn't going to happen to him. He knew he was the best man to take over the de Plancken mill, and persuading Lysbeth Goverts to marry him shouldn't present any problem.

There was a young girl playing with a doll by a side door. John recognized Anthonius' middle daughter and walked over to her. He crouched down so he was at her level. "Good afternoon, Mejuffrouw Maritje."

Maritje de Plancken hugged her doll and smiled at John. "Hello."

He gestured to the doll. "Who is your friend?"

"Esterken."

John reached for the doll's hand and bowed down to kiss it. "A pleasure to meet you, Mejuffrouw Esterken."

He enjoyed the smile that appeared on Maritje's face. Then he noticed a switch in the direction she was looking. He followed Maritje's gaze to find Mevrouw Goverts watching. Slightly embarrassed at being caught playing with the young girl, he hastily stood. He dropped a slight bow of his head in greeting. "Mevrouw Goverts."

"Mijnheer Mason. You'd best come in. Maritje, Mevrouw Willemse has something for you in the kitchen."

Maritje waved to John before running off, and John waved back. "A most delightful young girl," he commented.

"Yes, she is. How can I help you Mijnheer Mason?"

****

Lysbeth had been so hopeful when she'd seen John with Maritje. With Rut de Hooges already out of the running, she'd thought she'd discovered a viable alternative to Cornelius Hardebol. How wrong she'd been. At least she knew Cornelius was interested in the new technologies she and Anthonius had introduced to her mill over the years. John Mason, on the other hand, had definite views on the traditions of the craft. Those views including total resistance to the idea of giving a woman any say in what was done in her mill. That had been the last straw. She stood up, forcing John to do likewise. "It was very good of you to call, but I'm sure the rest of the men at your mill must be wondering what's keeping you."

She kept up a flood of idle chatter as she escorted John to the door. She stayed standing on the steps until John disappeared down the road. Then she turned and looked up. As expected, Cornelius Hardebol was there. She pointed a finger at him, then crooked it and gestured inside.

Late February1634

"Amen."

Lysbeth smothered a sigh of relief. At last it was over, and now she could get up off her knees—such an inelegant position, especially with people watching. She waited for her new husband to get to his feet and help her up, and then they followed the minister to where the parish register was kept. They signed the register and waited for the minister and witnesses to sign. Now, officially, the business of their marriage was over, they could concentrate on the reason for the marriage—running her mill.

In addition to the mill workers, some sixty of her and Cornelius' closest friends and business acquaintances had assembled in the guildhall for the reception. When she and Cornelius appeared they were already in place at the tables. A cheer went up for the happy couple, and Lysbeth allowed Cornelius to pull out her chair for her. Then the serious business of eating, drinking, and talking began.

****

"Congratulations, Lysbeth. You made a wise choice."

"You really think so?" she asked hopefully. She still had doubts about what she'd done.

"Oh, definitely, I've heard Cornelius speak in CoC meetings, and he's a real force for modernization," Frederick van Dyke said. "With Cornelius in charge your mill will continue to be at the forefront of paper making technology."

She glanced across the room to where Cornelius was talking to one of the merchants who dealt with their paper. Even though it was their wedding reception, she was still surprised that nobody she talked to had anything bad say about Cornelius, but then, they didn't have to live with the callous and uncouth creature. At least he seemed capable of dealing with customers without giving them offense. Satisfied that her new husband was doing what he should to further the business, she turned back to Frederick. "How's business? Is the siege causing you many problems?"

"Siege? What siege?" Frederick looked around at the tables set around the hall laden with food and fine wines. He gestured to include the whole hall. "Oh, you mean this siege?"

Lysbeth grinned. The current siege of Amsterdam was certainly unlike any she'd ever heard about. "Yes, this siege."

"Business is doing well, too well, actually. I've got a strong catalog, but I'm having difficulty getting enough paper at a suitable price to meet demand. I don't suppose . . ." he looked at her hopefully.

Lysbeth regretfully shook her head. "I'm sorry, Frederick. We'd love to help you if we could, but we're barely keeping up with demand for our fine white as it is."

Frederick released a heavy sigh. "I was afraid of that. If only the other masters had been as forward thinking as Anthonius and Cornelius, I wouldn't have this trouble getting paper."

"If I hear of anyone who can help you, I'll get in touch."

"Thank you, and now I best stop monopolizing the bride."

Lysbeth watched Frederick wend his way through the guests to the drinks table. She knew that his print shop's line in romances was selling well—she had copies of all his books—but was it really doing that well?

****

Cornelius wanted to rip off the fine clothes he'd been forced to wear for the wedding and change into something more comfortable, but his opportunity to do that was still hours away. He took another sip of ale and surveyed the guests. There was a fair smattering of guild members and CoC people—although quite a few were members of both organizations. He searched the hall until he located his wife. She was talking to one of the cheap fiction publishers. Frederick van Dyke wasn't someone she should be wasting her time with. Not when there were potential customers for the mill's paper to cultivate.

"Dead man's shoes, ay? How do they fit?"

Cornelius turned to the source of the question. Andries Calandrine wasn't one of his favorite people. However, he was a customer for the mill's paper, so he concealed his true feelings for Andries' crudity. There was no way he was going to admit to Andries that the betrothal hadn't been consummated, nor that the marriage wouldn't be consummated until Lysbeth felt ready, so he lied. "None of your business." The grin on his face left it up to Andries' twisted imagination to fill in the blanks.

"You lucky bastard."

"You would marry a widow nearly thirty years your senior," Cornelius pointed out. Andries had married his widow nearly six years ago.

"How was I to know she came from a long-lived line? I expected her to pop off years ago, but no. She's still going as strong as ever." Andries gave a regretful sigh. "She's going to outlive me, I just know it."

Cornelius located Andries' wife in the hall. Right now she was enjoying a discussion with one of Lysbeth's friends. For a woman close to her sixtieth year, she did look remarkably healthy. "It could have been worse. There could have been a child hoping to take possession of the mill."

"You mean, like the three girls you've been lumbered with?"

"I knew what I was taking on when I proposed to Lysbeth."

"At least she's young enough to give you a son. It's going to be years and years before I can marry a woman young enough to give me one."

A week later

The door to Cornelius' office burst open and Pieter Peeck staggered in. "Master Hardebol, the mistress says you need to come immediately."

Cornelius dropped the pen he was writing with, ruining the letter he'd been writing, and shot to his feet. "What's wrong?" he demanded as he grabbed his coat and hurried after Pieter.

"The journeymen at Schepmoes' mill have abandoned the apprentices." There was true horror in Pieter's voice when he said that.

Cornelius tried to remember who the journeymen in question could be. He had his coat on and the first button closed before his brain spewed out the names. Rut de Hooges and Arent Waldron. "Where are the journeymen now?"

Pieter shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, Master Hardebol."

Cornelius decided to save his breath and wait until he could talk to Lysbeth.

****

He found her in Master Schepmoes' house administering first aid to a couple of the senior apprentices. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Sijmon and Jacob caught Rut and Arent stuffing Master Schepmoes' remaining possessions into sacks and tried to stop them. They got beaten up for their trouble," Lysbeth explained as she tied off a bandage around Sijmon's head.

Cornelius looked around the room. There were signs someone had looted the house. "Is the rest of the house like this?"

Lysbeth tugged at a small boy and pushed him towards Cornelius. "This is Kaspar. He'll show you around."

The boy was young, probably no more than twelve or thirteen, but he also carried the signs of recent combat. He was hesitant about approaching Cornelius and glanced back appealingly at Lysbeth.

"It's all right, Kaspar. Mijnheer Hardebol won't hurt you."

The boy looked Cornelius up and down, and looked back at Lysbeth in obvious disbelief.

"It's true, Kaspar." Lysbeth pushed him towards Cornelius. "Now, go and show my husband what the bad journeymen did."

Cornelius held out a hand to Kaspar. "Come on, you'd better show me the damage."

****

Cornelius had intended that last as just a throwaway jest, but he was soon shown to have spoken nothing but the truth. It wasn't malicious damage he was finding. It was something much worse. Rut and his hanger-on had destroyed the fittings of the mill in their search for anything of value they could steal. There wasn't a piece of easily accessible metal left in the mill. They'd even taken the brass wire mesh from the screens used to make paper. This was not going to be a quick fix. There was no way the mill could be put back into production without a lot of investment, and who in their right mind was going to invest in Schepmoes' mill when the absent master would be the person to benefit when he returned from his voluntary exile?

He sent Kaspar to join his fellow apprentices and retired to the mill's stage. He leaned on the railing and gazed into the distance. He had no idea what was to be done. Not for the mill, and especially not for the apprentices who were almost destitute. It was a matter for the guild, but he couldn't see what it could possibly do.

"We can't just let this mill stand idle," Lysbeth said as she stepped up beside him.

He continued staring into the distance. "Nobody's going to invest their money into Schepmoes' mill."

"That's easily solved," Lysbeth said.

That had him looking at his wife. "Do tell," he invited.

"You buy the mill."

Cornelius almost choked. "That's impossible. A master can't own more than one mill."

"Why can't a master run more than one mill?"

"Because he has to supervise the production," Cornelius said, much in the way he'd instruct Pieter, the troublesome junior apprentice.

"You mean like Teunis Schepmoes has been so closely supervising paper production in his mill?"

That stymied Cornelius. Teunis wasn't the only guild master to have abandoned Amsterdam in the face of the approaching Spanish, leaving their journeymen to keep their businesses running. It was a pretty hard argument to combat, so he tried a different tack. "Master Schepmoes' mill isn't for sale."

"Neither was mine, but the guild would have taken it from me."

"Not taken," Cornelius said. "Forced you to sell. You own the mill. Just like Master Schepmoes still owns his mill."

"Taken, forced to sell, what's the difference?" Lysbeth asked.

"They would have paid you what it was worth," Cornelius said.

Lysbeth smiled. "There you are then. Ask the guild to force a sale, and buy it for what it's worth, which at the moment isn't a lot."

Cornelius shook his head. She just didn't understand. "The guild can't just force a master to sell his mill to someone else." Oh, boy, the look on her face. If he ever wanted to really anger his wife, Cornelius knew he'd just discovered a way.

"But the guild could force me to sell?" she demanded.

"Because you aren't a master papermaker," Cornelius said. The fact that a woman could never be a master was perhaps something better left unsaid.

"The guild can still force Teunis to sell," Lysbeth insisted.

"How?" Cornelius asked. "What legal justification could the guild possibly have to force a sale of Master Schepmoes' mill?"

"How does breach of contract sound? Or how about the fact that the seven apprentices he abandoned are now a charge on the guild? Someone has to take them on and continue their training, but nobody's going to take them on unless they get paid an apprenticeship fee."

The sale of the mill would raise funds to allow the apprentices to purchase new apprenticeships, but that still left a question unanswered. "Why are you so insistent on buying Schepmoes' mill?" Cornelius asked. "You already have one."

"I'm not thinking of buying his mill. I'm thinking that you should buy it. You do want to own your own mill, don't you?"

Cornelius swallowed. "Well, yes, but—"

"If you can't afford it, I'll even raise a mortgage on my mill for the difference."

Cornelius stared at Lysbeth in disbelief. "You're willing to risk your mill just to get me out of it?"

Lysbeth nodded. "Not that it's that much of a risk. You are far too good a papermaker to fail—"

Cornelius smiled at hearing the first compliment he'd received from his wife.

"—especially when you're risking all your own money."

Cornelius winced. He should have expected a sting in the tail of any compliment from Lysbeth. Mind, it was good to see a smile on her face. There hadn't been many of them since Anthonius died.

"The big question is can Mijnheer highly placed in the Amsterdam CoC Cornelius Janse Hardebol persuade the guild council to accept the idea?"

Cornelius thought of the problems involved in persuading the guild to do anything. Normally, there would be no chance of pulling off what Lysbeth was suggesting, but the situation in Amsterdam and Zaandam wasn't normal. There was a war going on, and most of the guild masters who could be trusted to oppose the idea had gone into voluntary exile when the Spanish invaded. "If I buy Schepmoes mill, then I have total control, no matter how much you invest in it," he insisted.

"Well . . ." Lysbeth said hesitantly.

Cornelius placed a finger under Lysbeth's chin and tilted her head until their eyes met. "Well, what?"

"I do think you should look at making cheaper paper in your mill," Lysbeth said.

"What? Why should I go down market? I'm a maker of the finest quality papers."

"Because I think there's a large untapped market out there waiting. I spoke to Frederick van Dyke at the reception. He's selling over two hundred books a day, and he says he could sell more if he could only get the paper."

The crude numbers struck Cornelius as overly high. Nobody could sell that many books. Then he remembered what Frederick van Dyke was producing—romantic fiction printed on the cheapest possible paper. "Are you suggesting I should make paper for Frederic van Dykes' two-bit trash?"

"Just because he priced them at two reals a copy doesn't make them trash," Lysbeth protested. "Have you ever read one of Frederick's books?" she demanded.

"Of course not." After all, he had standards. What would people think if they caught him reading one of van Dyke's silly romantic novels?

"Then don't knock them. And especially don't mock the translations of the up-time contemporary romances. You could learn a lot about how businesses operated up-time."

"Oh, sure." Cornelius enjoyed the glare she sent his way after that comment. It helped that he knew she was an avid reader of the genre.

A week later, the Zaandam guildhall

There were four men, all masters with mills in Zaandam, sitting at the long table in front of Cornelius. Normally a decision on what happened in the papermakers' guild would be heard by master papermakers, but there was only one other master papermaker still resident in Zaandam. To make a quorum the new Council of the Zaandam Combined Guilds was made up of the only guild masters, other than Anthonius, to have stayed behind in Zaandam when the Spanish invaded. Hopefully they felt the same contempt for the masters who ran as the journeymen and apprentices left behind felt. Seated behind him, listening, were a large number of the journeymen of the Zaandam guilds.

"Why do you think we, the Council of the Zaandam Combined Guilds, should order the forced sale of the paper mill belonging to Master Teunis Schepmoes?" Isaac Harmenszen of the sawmiller's guild asked.

"Because he ran off, leaving his apprentices without proper supervision," Cornelius said.

There were murmurings of disgust from the audience, but a hard glare from Isaac soon quieted the room. "That reflects poorly on Master Schepmoes, but he did leave them under the care of two journeymen."

"And now those journeymen have also run away, leaving a mill that is unfit for operation, and the seven apprentices Master Schepmoes was supposed to be training are now a charge on the guild." Cornelius passed his gaze along the line of guild masters sitting in judgment. "Unless there is someone willing to invest in Master Schepmoes' mill, not only are those apprentices out of work, but so are the rag sorters and cutters who supplied his mill."

"Why would anybody invest in Master Schepmoes' mill?" Thomas Nunes of the papermaker's guild asked. "As soon as he turns up they'd be out of pocket, with nothing to show for it."

Cornelius smiled. Thomas' comment couldn't have been better timed if they'd arranged it. "Precisely," Cornelius said. "Nobody is going to invest their hard-earned money into a mill they don't own. That is why we need to force the sale."

"Are we just talking about Master Schepmoes mill, or any mill where the master has gone into voluntary exile, leaving the journeymen to struggle on as best they can?" Thomas asked.

Cornelius was instantly on alert. It appeared Thomas might have expansionary hopes of his own. "I don't see why any masterless mill someone suitably qualified wants to buy can't be liable to forced sale."

"But that could mean every master who abandoned Amsterdam as the Spanish attacked could lose his mill," Mieuwes Evertsen, a spice miller, said.

Cornelius stared at Mieuwes. He hadn't thought of it like that, but the sounds from behind him suggested the journeymen liked the idea of evicting the absent masters. Certainly there was little respect amongst the men for the wealthy guild masters who'd deserted them in the face of the enemy. "I don't think anybody in this room would have a problem with that," he said. He glanced over his shoulder at the collected journeymen. Every head he could see was nodding in agreement.

"But most mills have more than one journeyman. How do we decide who gets promoted to rank of master?" Thomas asked.

"What if the journeymen aren't all promoted to master? Instead we just permit them to own all or part of a mill," Isaac suggested.

"But ownership implies mastership, and you can't have more than one master to a mill," Dirck de Varden of the saw miller's guild said.

"Why not?" Isaac asked. "For that matter, the last few months have clearly demonstrated that you don't even need guild masters to run the mills. Otherwise industry in Zaandam would have ground to a halt shortly after the Spanish invaded."

All chatter in the meeting hall ceased. Everybody felt that this was an important moment in the history of the Zaandam industrial zone. Cornelius glanced behind. Everybody was leaning forward in their seats so as not to miss what happened next. This meeting had moved a considerable distance from the original intent of permitting him to buy and run Schepmoes' mill. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. "Gentlemen, it is obvious that there is considerable resentment aimed at the masters who abandoned us. Does any man here think we owe any of those guild masters anything?"

"No," the crowd roared. The four masters before him nodded agreement with what he'd said.

"Then the council must decide that the mill of any absent master can be purchased by the journeymen working the mill. And because few individual journeymen will be able to afford to buy the mill, I suggest that the council also rule that mills can be owned by partnerships of guildsmen."

There were roars of approval from behind him, and Isaac was forced to hammer his gravel against his desk for several minutes to restore order. Finally the room was quiet. "Thank you, Master Hardebol. However, you have drifted from the question before this council. You have given good reasons why Master Schepmoes' mill should be put up for sale, and you have indicated your willingness to purchase it. The committee will now take a recess to discuss what we have heard and make a decision. This session is adjourned." Isaac brought down his wooden mallet one last time before he and the other three members of the committee stood and walked out.

Cornelius was in limbo. He didn't know what to do. How long would the committee take to make up its mind? He found a seat and collapsed into it.

****

Cornelius strode out of the guild hall brimming with confidence. He took a couple of steps to one side, to keep clear of the door, and checked the letter he'd been given. The guild had decided to put Master Schepmoes' mill up for sale—to raise funds to cover the expense of resettling his abandoned apprentices—and as there were no journeymen currently employed at the mill, he had first refusal. He screwed up his nose at the bit that specified an independent valuer must be employed, at his expense, to determine fair value for the mill. However, he'd got everything he asked for. Now to give Lysbeth the good news.

He found her sound asleep in her favorite easy chair with her baby daughter snuggled up against her chest. He built up the fire and left the letter from the guild council where it would be the first thing she saw when she woke. He hoped that would be some time away, because Janneke had been keeping her awake and both of them were short of sleep. He found a blanket, gently placed it over the sleeping pair and quietly left the room.

****

Janneke's slobbering finally woke Lysbeth. She noticed someone had covered them, and her first thought was it was nice of Anneke, but then she noticed the letter lying open beside her. She wanted to erupt out of the chair and jump for joy, but the quiet bundle lying contently against her chest persuaded her not to. Instead she slowly got to her feet and headed for the nursery where she put Janneke down. Then she went back for the letter and set out in search of her husband.

"You did it," she squealed when she ran him to ground at the mill. Ignoring the interested stares of the journeymen and apprentices, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

There was a smug look on her husband's face when he lowered her to the ground. "I thought you might be pleased."

Lysbeth was sure her smile was just as smug as her husband's. "When do you take over the mill?"

"Unofficially, I can start work immediately. Officially, I have to wait for the valuation to come in and the purchase contracts to be signed, but the council wants Schepmoes' mill running and the apprentices back in training there as soon as possible."

March 1634

Cornelius stood back and watched the shaft rotate. After three weeks of eighteen hour days and pints of blood and sweat, the mill was running again. He glanced over to where Christoffel Brunt, a recently promoted journeyman, was standing. He nodded once and a valve was opened to fill the rag-breaker tanks with water. The roller was lowered into the rising water and started threshing it.

"Some rag," Cornelius called, and Christoffel dropped in several roughly cut squares of clean rag.

The current being generated by the spinning roller swept the rags toward the roller, and they were spewed out the other side. Cornelius grabbed one and checked it. The roller was still too high, so he screwed it down another couple of turns and waited for the next bit of rag to go under. He didn't have long to wait. This time the roller had definitely scraped the fibers. A slight adjustment on the roller and Cornelius was happy. "We'll leave it at that level for now. Right, fill the tank up."

Cornelius left Christoffel to supervise the loading of rags into the rag-breaker tank and moved on to the next stage of the operation. It'd be several hours before the rag-breaker tank would be drained into the working vat, but it didn't hurt to check everything was ready.

After a short tour Cornelius was convinced everything was ready and working properly. He wiped his forearm across his brow and leaned against the wall while he listened to the beautiful sound of the mill working. Lysbeth was going to be proud of him.

****

Lysbeth was waiting for him when he returned home from work that evening. "What's production like?"

Cornelius sighed. Progress in this marriage was slow. "You could at least show some kind of welcome," he protested.

Lysbeth stepped aside to let him into the house. "There's a hot tub waiting."

Cornelius smiled as he walked past Lysbeth. "That's more like it."

"Now, about the paper . . ."

He sighed again. She was like a dog at a bone sometimes. "We made almost ten reams today. By the end of the week we should be able to at least triple that."

"Good. Enjoy your bath. I'll hold dinner until you surface."

Cornelius waved his thanks and made his way to the bathroom. It was a proper up-timer inspired bathroom, with hot and cold running water. This was no small hip bath that a man couldn't stretch out in. The tub was over six feet long and deep enough to easily cover his aching shoulders. He quickly stripped off his clothes and slid into the hot water.

While he lay there he contemplated his marriage. He'd signed the contract Lysbeth had produced because it had been the easiest way to rise to the rank of master and have his own mill. Except it hadn't been his mill, it'd been Lysbeth's. He'd been chaffing at the strain of her constant supervision from the very first day. That was one reason he'd so enthusiastically grabbed the chance to take over Master Schepmoes' mill. However, his wife did have some good ideas. Making paper for Frederick van Dyke had been one of them. Yes, on the business front, things were going reasonably well. Domestically, things weren't going quite so well. Lysbeth still hadn't invited him into her bed—the contract he'd so enthusiastically signed meant he had to wait for Lysbeth to make the first move—however, as he relaxed in the hot bath she'd had ready for him, he was convinced it was only a matter of time before that changed.

****

Cornelius crawled out of the tub and pulled the plug. While the tub drained he dried and dressed himself. He used his dirty towel to clean the inside of the tub before throwing it and his dirty clothes into the laundry basket. Then he headed for the lounge. There, in front of the fire, he settled into the leather easy chair he'd had made to his specifications and relaxed.

He'd barely closed his eyes when he was disturbed. "Story."

He pried open one eye to see the source of his problem. Little Maritje was leaning over the arm of the chair waving a book at him. He closed his eye and settled back, hoping that if he ignored her she'd go away.

"Story," Maritje insisted. The demand was accompanied by a prod in his ribs.

Cornelius opened his eyes to study the source of the disturbance. Maritje had the same firm chin as her mother, and was no doubt similarly self-willed. There was going to be no way of getting rid of the girl without reading her the story. With a heavy sigh Cornelius held out his hand for the book. A quick flick through revealed it was more pictures than word. Good, this shouldn't take long.

Cornelius rattled through the story as quickly as he could and tried to hand it back. But Maritje was having none of it. "You didn't speak like Brillo," she complained.

He tried again. Maritje seemed happier, but not happy enough to leave. He read the story again and again. Each time he repeated the story Maritje crowded him more and more in his chair. He finished a rendition of The Further Adventures of Brillo that he was sure not even Anthonius could have rivaled, to find Maritje had missed most of the story. She was snuggled up against him with her thumb in her mouth, sound asleep.

Cornelius thought about moving her, but that was likely to waken her, and he didn't want to go through the story again. So after gently removing her thumb from her mouth, he lay back and quickly fell asleep.

****

Lysbeth was busy writing a letter when Anneke disturbed her.

"Mistress, you must see this," Anneke said, tugging firmly at her free arm.

Lysbeth resisted. "See what?"

"The master and Maritje."

Lysbeth shot out of her chair and would have run to Maritje's rescue but for Anneke's restraining arm.

"Shhhh." Anneke held a finger to her lips and led Lysbeth to the lounge.

Lysbeth heard Maritje demanding "story" and "again" as she reached the lounge. Surprisingly, she soon heard her husband's resigned voice telling Maritje "just once more." She stood in the doorway with Anneke beside her and listened to Cornelius read to Maritje. It wasn't the rather dull monotone that Anthonius had used. Cornelius was entering into the true spirit of reading to a child, with sound effects and funny voices.

She noticed when Cornelius lost his audience and waited for Cornelius to notice that Maritje had fallen asleep, but he read the story with the same enthusiasm right to the end. Then, and only then, did he notice that Maritje had fallen asleep. She saw him adjust Maritje's position sprawled over his chest and lie back in his chair. Seconds later, she was sure he was sound asleep.

Lysbeth entered the room and almost stood on a small body curled up beside the chair as she walked around it. So Cornelius had caught two of her daughters with his storytelling. She pointed to the form at her feet and gave the watching Anneke a wry grin. Was this the same callous monster who'd seen nothing wrong in Maritje stumbling upon her dead father?

Anneke joined Lysbeth while she gently woke Maria, and the three of them studied the sleeping beauties on the chair. Lysbeth gently lifted Maritje and carried her out of the room. "Bed for you too," she told Maria before she headed for Maritje's bedroom.

****

The apprentices had been fed and watered, and had retired to their room. The girls also had been put to bed. Lysbeth returned to the lounge to find Cornelius was still sound asleep in his chair. She placed the lamp she carried on the table beside the chair and studied the man she'd married. He was a real hard worker, this new husband of hers. That wasn't to say that Anthonius hadn't been a hard worker. She might have been a naïve eighteen year-old when she married him, but she'd never been so naïve that she'd have married a wastrel.

Still, Anthonius had been twenty-three years her senior, and even then he'd lacked the energy that Cornelius had in abundance. Yes, she'd made a good choice in her second husband. He was a hard worker, didn't drink to excess, and it appeared, was good with children. It was with the comforting reassurance of that last thought that she allowed herself to remember what she'd seen when she'd checked Cornelius hadn't fallen asleep in the bath. Yes, he was also in better physical condition than Anthonius.

She waited for the flush of color to recede before she approached Cornelius and nudged him gently until he woke.

Slowly he opened his eyes and stared at Lysbeth. Then he seemed to recognize her and settled back in his chair. "Yes?"

She reached down for his hand and tugged. Cornelius resisted, and their eyes met. She saw that Cornelius was as ready as she was. More, if the way he was slowly tugging her toward his lap was anything to judge by. She shook her head. She wanted comfort the first time with her new husband. She leaned back and pulled on his hand. "Bed."

That was all it took. Cornelius erupted from his chair. It was only her grip on his hand that stopped her falling. Then she was lifted into Cornelius' arms. He'd taken three steps before he stopped. The hall was dark.

"Take us back to the lamp and I'll carry it," Lysbeth suggested.

She got a gentle kiss for her trouble and soon they were heading up the stairs to her bedchamber.

****

Lysbeth snuggled her naked body up against the naked body of her husband. That had been so much better than it ever had been with Anthonius. She whispered into his ear, "We must do this more often."

Unfortunately, some things didn't change. Cornelius was sound asleep.

****

Requiem in Blue

Written by Nicholas Keyser

David Weller hated the silence induced by the pills. Here he was in seventh grade, a child who loved music, and they had given him pills that created silence. It was a silence that David’s imagination compared to what he imagined atheists felt death was like.

Silence was not golden, it was hell.

He dropped the pills down the sink. Running water quickly washed them down the drain. Ever so slowly, the bass drum began to beat against his spine more regularly than the rhythm of his heart.

****

The bass came in slowly, pulsing from each joint, up and down every bone in his body. David felt the deep pulse tie and bind the music together, even when it lay so far in the background that most people wouldn't know it was there. He just continued brushing his teeth, trying to ignore it.

The doctors told him that he had a thing called synesthesia. Something wrong with his head that made his sense of sight and his sense of hearing combine in a weird way.

It didn’t make any sense that his senses didn't divide the way that everyone else's did. If anything, his gift only served to expose reality for the fraud that it is. He didn't really care that other people couldn't understand him. He was just so very used to it. The doctors still made him take the pills.

27 January 2000

The last tender notes of the tenor bassoon faded as David Weller watched the setting sun sink below the West Virginia hills and take on a reedy kind of color. As the darkness of night slowly crept into the sky, he decided to add a full measure of rest. He didn't want his final work of music to end so abruptly. David looked over at the pages of notes and heard the harmony in his brain. It was written on staff paper, normal for written music, but it was written unlike any kind of music anyone else would probably see. Each note was represented by a line of a specific color for the duration of the note. Whole notes were lines that took up the whole measure, while sixteenth notes were like dots.

He knew he was probably taking a risk with the bassoon, but that was what that specific color sounded like to him. He remembered hearing during music class, that when "The Rite of Spring" opened, and people realized that the high notes belonged to a bassoon, actual riots broke out. Full blown riots, simply because of the people's misconceptions of what range a bassoon was supposed to have.

Music that didn't quite fit, by a person that didn't quite fit. Finished, he carefully placed it in the pocket of his backpack. With the world growing dark and quiet in his bedroom, he went to bed, steeling himself for what he had decided to do the next day.

****

In seventh grade, the bullying was even worse than it had been in sixth grade. Telling the teachers only made it worse, because then his tormenters called him a snitch. It would probably be better if he was dead. Then there wouldn't be any more bullies, no more trouble in school, no problems that he would have to worry about at all. Death seemed like the final rest at the end of a long musical work. It was the most beautiful sound a person could hear.

Today was his last day in eighth grade. It also happened to be the anniversary of Mozart's birth, but not many people would know that. He had picked this day because of its connection with music. Sitting in the back of the bus, he silently hummed his final symphony.

The opening: a French horn sounds, containing the very majesty of the first red, then orange, and finally yellow, sun. Then other instruments joined in; first the flutes, and the other wind instruments, like the singing birds of the morning. The strings began slowly and were ever changing like clouds being blown in the wind. A crescendo and the discord among the strings and reed instruments signaled a storm cloud arising. You could almost feel the cold air right before a storm.

The bus stopped and jerked David forward in the seat, jarring him back to reality. Outside, real thunder sounded. The dull-red brick of the school made a faint note in the back of his head as he headed inside. Grantville Middle School, home of the Fighting Gators. He breathed a sigh of relief, and put the symphony that he was going over in his head on hold. His first class was music.

****

"All right, class," Ms. Morat said, turning down the lights. "Today we'll be finishing up with this week's theme of music in film."

Small cheers broke from all around the classroom like metal bearings used on a timpani. "Remember that at the beginning of the week we watched The Sound of Music, learning about the scale. Then yesterday we watched Disney's Music Land, and the idea of discord and harmony. Today we'll watch Peter and the Wolf."

David had already seen it a few times on his own, but that didn't mean he didn't want to watch it again. He loved the duck, Sonya, represented by an oboe, and had adapted her melody for a special part in his symphony. He always wondered exactly how many musicians were in some way synesthetic. Meanwhile, the symphony in his head continued, with a soft percussion resembling the sound of a rainstorm.

****

What the cafeteria was serving was hardly worth considering being called a last meal, a choice of pizza or tacos, with tater tots on the side. What a last meal, he thought. It’s not fish and wine, but I guess it will have to do. Solemnly, he finished and took his tray to the cleaning area.

Outside the cafeteria he placed his symphony in his locker with his other music. It rested next to a finished requiem and a rhapsody he had written.

Notes quivered through the air as he slowly walked down the hallway. He listened to the ending of his symphony, drowning out the loudness of the brightly polished floor. It started with a crescendo of the strings, like a sudden wind heralding the storm clouds being blown away, and the restoration of calm.

When he opened the bathroom door, the oboe melody began. It was life, peaking its head out of its shelter from the storm. Making sure nobody else was inside the bathroom, he entered one of the stalls. He took off his belt, and after making a loop, he tied it to the rail above the stall.

Standing on top of the toilet, the final notes of his symphony were approaching. David waited, listening to the final notes of the French horn, signaling the sunset, and echoing the opening theme of the bassoon. His heart beat calmly as he slowed his breathing. He fit his head through the loop in his belt, and stepped off the toilet.

The music shifted and became softer and softer. David's heart began beating faster, throbbing like a timpani drum. This was not at all a part of his symphony, he thought, straining to hear the final notes, while the beating of his heart pounded furiously. The music died into an impenetrable silence as David's heart stopped beating.

****

Archie Clinter was in his office, doing the normal things that principals do. In the outer office, the secretaries took calls and redirected some calls. Archie sat behind his desk and looked out into the lobby. It was a good day. Not one student had gone to the office for disciplinary reasons.

Allan Sebastian, who taught math walked into the office and up to one of the secretaries. “Has David Weller been checked out?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

Archie walked out into the lobby. “Something wrong?”

“Well, Archie, one of my kids seems to be missing. He was in class before lunch, but didn’t come back. My other kids say that they saw him leaving the cafeteria.”

“We should check the bathrooms, in case he got sick or something.” This type of thing wasn’t rare. Occasionally, a kid might get sick, or maybe even come to school with a small case of diarrhea.

Archie remembered David. David was one of those kids that were picked on often enough. It didn’t help that David was mildly autistic as well.

****

Their search didn’t last long. He was in the first boy’s bathroom they looked in.

The stench of the place pestered Archie to no end. A school shouldn't smell, not like that. He knocked on the stall door. “David, you in there?” he called out. That was when he saw the belt tied around the railing above the end stall.

Slowly he opened the stall door, not wanting what he thought to be real.

David was hanging limply along the wall. His arms and hands were slightly reddened. His eyes were open, and seemed to stare completely through him.

“Get back to the office and call 911,” Archie told Allan, rushing to the sink, vomiting.

Days Later

“Grantville Middle School, how may I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to Principal Clinter. This is Mrs. Weller,” she said, holding back the angry, tearful rage eating away at her.

“One moment, please.”

“Hello, murderer,” she said.

“Mrs. Weller?”

“You killed my son,” she said. Her voice was rasped with anger and grief.

“What are you talking about? He committed suicide.”

“You killed him. My son wasn’t autistic. He was gifted. He didn’t need those pills. Those pills ruined his life. You ruined his life. You were the one that told me that he needed a doctor, that he was probably autistic. And all the doctors want is to say that a kid needs those pills so they can lead a 'normal' life.”

That damned man on the other side of the phone remained silent.

“I hope you rot in hell,” she said, immediately hanging up the phone and breaking down in tears.

8 February 2000

David Weller'sdark oak coffin rested in the front of the church. His entire family sat in the front row, all adorned in black, matching the coffin.

Mary Weller fought back her tears as the music slowly began. The basset horn opened in a slow funeral march. Outside the clouds passed and sunlight broke through to the ground. Light passed through the windows, illuminating the coffin.

Every eye in the church was moved to tears at the beauty of the sound, most of all, hers. She could no longer hold them back. He had specifically requested that Mozart's Requiem be played at his funeral, but she hadn't expected it to be so soon.

The people in the church rose. Mary held a white rose tightly in her hand as her family was the first to pass in front of the coffin.

Placing the white rose along the side, she reached over and gently brushed the cold, dark wood of the coffin.

****

Archie Clinter didn’t know the Weller family too well, but he had decided to go to David Weller's funeral. It just felt like it was the right thing to do. He silently hid himself in the back of the church. The music slowly progressed and more than half of the people had already sat back down.

****

"Mr. Clinter, wait!"

Turning around, he saw a girl heading toward him from across the parking lot. As she approached, he recognized her as David's older sister.

"The police found David's suicide note along with a few other things of David's. I think David would want you to keep this," she said, handing him a ringed binder. "Mom says she needs to be away from here for a while, so we're moving to her parent's place in Belmont, Ohio."

Archie didn't even want to look at the binder in his hands.

Grantville Cemetery

27 January, a few years after the Ring of Fire

The first rays of sunshine broke through the West Virginia hills. The hills were out of place in Southern Germany, and it showed, especially in the disharmony during sunrise near the edge of the Ring of Fire. Meanwhile, dewdrops glistened in the small graveyard outside of town, twinkling like triangles. Archie looked at the grave again.

David Weller

Beloved Son

1987-2000

Every year he came here, to pay his respects. Every year, the reminder of the look in Mrs. Weller's flaming eyes, condemning him to the burning fires of hell. It still haunted him, even though the family had moved out of town and were left up-time. It was almost like demons were torturing him for convincing her that her son was a normal ten-year-old boy. When David had died, she had placed the blame on the men who had made her son "normal."

Now, Allan's words from the previous day rattled him as well.

"He didn't get his name in an encyclopedia. He didn't have a chance. We didn't give him a chance."

Archie's tears fell onto the already moist ground in front of the headstone. Allan was right. We never gave him a chance to make history.

As the first sounds of morning were coming from town, Archie looked back at the headstone once, and walked slowly back to town.

****

The binder David’s sister had given Archie shortly after the funeral sat in a box in his office. Archie hadn't had the courage to look inside then. It simply couldn't remain unopened any longer, though. It had already been years since the boy's death. Maybe it's time to start the process of moving on, Archie thought.

Inside the binder were yellowed stacks of paper. Staffed paper, like those made specifically for a music class.

Gingerly, he picked them up. A few small pieces of paper, along the edges, fell to the floor. The staffed paper was littered with a coloring box worth of colors, drawn out in lines along the measures. He had absolutely no idea what this was supposed to be. Looking at the title on the top piece of paper he nearly dropped the entire stack. Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. But why all the colors?

Archie glanced back to the colorful notes. Yes, there it was, but not in black and white. The classical rhythm echoed in Archie's head. He was able to follow the familiar notes along with the colors, and became even more amazed. Synesthesia. The senses got mixed up. People tasted sounds, and apparently, even heard colors. That's what they said David had. But Archie didn't believe it, not back then. He'd thought David was just, well, lazy. Not trying.

Here, from what he could read of the titles, was some of the best music ever written. All written down by David. After a few minutes he realized that he should get a music teacher to help.

There are some things here I barely recognize, Archie thought. "I'm going to need somebody who really knows music." Back when David was alive, Mrs. Morat was a teacher-in training. David's death had really shaken her, and she moved out of town shortly after the funeral. So, he dialed the high school. and asked to speak to Marcus Wendell.

While waiting, he made a short list of the titles that he could read, even if he couldn’t follow along with the colors. Beethoven's Fifth, Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor, and something called "The March of the Danish Prince," just to name a few. There were also three original works of David’s: "Rhapsody in Orange," "Requiem in Blue," and "Symphony in Plaid," along with dozens of partial pages of scattered notes.

"But why plaid I wonder. I hate plaid."

Plaid or not, maybe, just maybe, David Weller would be remembered after all.

****

The Baptist Basement Bar and Grill

Written by Terry Howard

Jimmy Dick moved down the bar to where Tom Ruffner was putting away the brews way too fast for a man who was going to walk home without taking a nap first. "Hey, Tommy? What's up? You don't hardly come in here anymore. You ain't had a fight with the wife have you?"

"Jenny is going to kill me!" Tom said.

"Well, send her some flowers. That always helps."

"I did. I bought a big expensive vase from that Hungarian potter and I took it to the flower shop and had them fill it full of roses and take it to my wife this morning. But she didn't call the shop so I know she's still mad. She's going to kill me."

"So you decided on a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

"A what?"

"A self-fulfilling prophecy. Like what happened to Oedipus Rex."

"Ed who?"

"Oedipus Rex, the Greek who . . ."

"Oh, him? The one they named the Ed'ipus complex after. I know that one. The lady took her son to the shrink because the school told her she had too. The shrink told her, 'Mrs. Goldstein, your boy is suffering from an Ed'ipus Complex.' And she said, 'Ed'ipus, shmed'ipus, as long as he loves his mother.'" Tommy tipped back his beer and signaled for another one. "What does that stupid joke have to do with anything?"

"Oh, there's a whole lot more to the story that that. First of all, when Oedipus was born it was foretold that he would kill his father and marry his mother. So Poppa told someone to get rid of the kid. Instead of killing the boy that someone gave him away to some shepherds. When Oedipus hit twenty or so he got rowdy and the local law told him to get out of town. So he loaded up his chariot and took off.

"Along the way he ran into a mean old man coming down the road toward him who was suffering from road rage. The old man told him, 'Get out of the way or get run over.'

"'Try it, you old fart,' Oedipus told him.

"'Shut your mouth, boy, before I shut it for you. I'm king around here.'

"Oedipus laughed. 'You and what army?'

"So the old man got out of his chariot and set out to teach the kid a lesson. He couldn't make good on the brag and in the end he died trying.

"Later, Oedipus met up with a mythical creature who told him he had to answer the most famous riddle of all time or get eaten."

"Which one?" Tommy asked. "What is your name, what is your favorite color, or what is the relative flying speed of a sparrow?"

"No, the other most famous riddle of all time." Jimmy said.

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

Jimmy Dick gave up with a sigh, "Yeah, that one. When he answered it correctly the Sphinx was so upset it killed itself. Someone caught it on camera for the evening news and since the city was short a king and he was a good-looking kid they gave him the job. But to get it he had to marry the queen. She was a good-looking woman and a lot younger than her first husband, so Oedipus said yes.

"So you see, if they had kept the boy and raised him up right the prophecy wouldn't have come true."

"What are you getting at, Jimmy?"

"If you get drunk, your wife will kill you."

"She's going to kill me anyway. So I might as well get drunk. Just one thing I want to know? What is the correct answer to why the chicken crossed the road?"

"That's simple. One ditch is birth, the other ditch is death, so the chicken has no choice. Just why is your wife going to kill you anyway?"

"Yesterday was our wedding anniversary and I completely forgot it."

Jimmy looked at him. "Ken, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. We've got a wake down here."

Then Jimmy directed his words to Tom, "Shit, kid, you're right, Jenny is going kill you for sure, but not before she skins you alive. So you might as well go home dead drunk."

Jimmy poured a healthy, or unhealthy, double shot of whiskey in a shot glass and encouraged Tom to chug it. It wasn't very long before Tom was smiling from ear to ear and trying to sing.

"That should just about do," Jimmy told the younger man. "Ken, I need a bottle of cheap wine, if you please."

"For crying out loud, Jimmy, are you trying to give the man the worst possible hangover he can have?"

"Sure am."

Ken snorted. "I shouldn't let you do it, Jimmy. I need the customers, bad!" Ken put a half empty bottle on the bar. "Here, it's on the house. I won't be able to sell it anyway."

At that comment Jimmy raised an eyebrow and Ken walked off. Jimmy got a shoulder under Tom's arm, "Let's see about getting you home before you pass out." He grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork out with his teeth and handed it to Tom. "Here, have a hit of this."

At the Ruffner house Jimmy got Tom settled into the porch swing. Tom started to lie down. Jimmy propped him up. "No, you don't, Tommy. Not until I get you to bed on the couch."

Jimmy knocked on the door. When Jenny answered it, Jimmy said, "Hi, Jenny. Help me get Tom on the couch before he falls asleep."

"Jimmy? He's drunk?"

"Yeah."

"What happened? It's still daylight. When he used to get drunk he didn't stagger home until sometime after midnight."

"That's because he stuck with beer. I got some whiskey and some wine into him on top of the beer and then I brought him home."

Jenny shook her head and frowned, "I ought to leave him on the porch for the night!"

"Haven't you already done enough? He's going to have what he'll be sure is the worst hangover of his life tomorrow morning."

"What do you mean haven't I done enough? I didn't get him drunk!"

"Really? The man didn't stop at the bar on the way home for a beer or two. He stopped to get drunk. He wasn't willing to face you sober. He was afraid to come home. Mostly what he said was, 'Jenny is going to kill me!' So I don't see how you can claim it isn't your fault."

Jenny sucked her breath in between her teeth with a hissing sound and she blushed just a bit. "I guess maybe I was being a little hard on him. Let's get him to bed."

"No, put him on the couch. He needs to wake up with a sore back and a stiff neck along with the pounding head."

"Jimmy, you're mean!"

"Don't waste a good hangover by making it easy on him, and don't wait until he feels better to talk about it either, not if you want this to be his last one."

****

Jimmy was hardly back to the bar before Bubba came in.

"Hey, Jimmy." It was Thursday night. Bubba was broke, as usual and thirsty, as usual. Jimmy Dick was perched on a stool at the middle of Club 250's bar, ready, willing and able to buy a beer for anyone who was desperate enough for a free beer to put up with his acid wit. There were few takers, as usual.

Jimmy waved two fingers at the bartender. Ken was already popping two cork lined bottle tops off newly made bottles. Up-time beer bottles were now collectables and were turning up in curio cabinets all over Europe.

"What's up, Bubba?"

"You heard about the mess Al Green's kid got into?"

Oddly, all Jimmy said was, "Yeah?"

"Well, don't you think a preacher should have done a better job of raising his kids than that?"

"Bubba? Have I ever told you you're about as dumb as a box of rocks?"

"About once a week, Jimmy."

"Didn't you get in trouble when you were his age?"

"Yeah, but then my dad wasn't a preacher."

"And you expect a preacher to do something even God couldn't do."

Bubba picked up his beer bottle when the bartender plopped it down in front of him by sheer reflex unguided by any cognizant thought. His entire intellect was busy trying to get itself around what Jimmy had just said. In half a second he gave up. "Now how do you figure that?"

"Bubba, God raised Adam and Eve didn't he?"

Jimmy was staring at a blonde. The waitress picked up the empties off of the table. When she got to "Big Dog" Carpenter she leaned over and said something quietly in his ear. Bobby looked up and replied but the waitress shook her head emphatically.

Jimmy caught the tail end of the conversation. Or at least he thought he did if he read Bob's lips right: "Let me finish my drink first."

When the waitress got back to the bar, Ken had two beers waiting. He told the waitress, "Go tell Bob, these are on the house, then tell him you're sorry, you misunderstood. He and his lady friend are welcome to stay as long as they like."

The waitress got mad and demanded, "What about the sign on the door?"

"I guess it's time for the sign to come down. I'll take it off in the morning."

"What happened, Jimmy?" Bubba asked. "It sure ain't like Ken to give out free drinks."

"Shit, Bubba, you really are as dumb as a box of rocks. The waitress told Bobby to get his down-timer girl friend out of here."

"Shit, Jimmy. Yeah, the sign is still on the door but Ken quit saying anything about that months ago. The Garbage Guys started bringing that Frenchman in here for a drink after work. Until he left town he was here so often he was practically a regular. So how come she told the blonde to leave and never said boo to the Frenchman?"

"Ken will be taking to sign down in the morning."

"Yeah, but what's the difference? Why did she get on to Big Dog but not the Garbage Guys? I'd much rather look at the blonde than the Frenchman."

"Think about it, Bubba. Why do the girls work here? The money sure ain't all that good."

"Okay, Jimmy. Why?"

"To get looked at, Bubba. When the blonde came in every guy in the place was looking at her and no one was paying attention to the waitress any more. The waitress doesn't mind the Frenchman, she thinks he's cute, he sits at a table, drinks his wine, he's quiet and he tips well. But she wasn't about to put up with having that kind of competition. There's only room for one queen bee in a hive so one of them had to go. She was too much of a distraction."

"Yeah, that's a fact she surely was distracting, all right. A women like that, well, it's kind of hard for a fella to think straight. Shit, it's hard for a fella to think at all when he's lookin' at somethin' like that."

"Said Adam when Eve handed him an apple. Like I said, Bubba, even God can't raise perfect kids. I don't see how you can expect preachers to do any better. Like I told Jenny when I took Tommy home, if you want to keep them, all you can do is love 'em, forgive 'em, and encourage them to do better next time."

****

Late the next morning Ken was at the front door with a screwdriver when Jimmy walked up.

A sour faced Ken Beasley looked at him. "You're early, even by the old standards."

For years Jimmy Dick had often been Ken's first customer of the day and he was usually there at closing. After Jimmy got labeled as Grantville's Greatest Philosopher, about the time his daughter died, Jimmy started changing and spent more time in the library that he did in the bar. That phase seemed to be tapering off and the amount of time he spent in the bar was going back up.

"I wanted to see you take it down," Jimmy said.

Ken snarled. "Might as well. When the wife turns it into a beauty parlor I'll have to anyway. Most of her customers are Krauts."

Jimmy was taken aback. "Beauty parlor? What are you talking about?"

"Shit, Jimmy, her business is booming. Both chairs are booked solid and she could fill a third one, easy, and probably a fourth one if there was room."

"Where would she get another chair?" Jimmy said.

"She can get one made up. Except for the hydraulics it's just a reclining chair and the hydraulics are no big deal. Hell, a car jack will work, and there are plenty of those to be had. It don't even need to be hydraulic. A mechanical jack will do just fine. She's wantin' to expand but you of all people know what rents are like in town right now."

Jimmy nodded. He lost his veteran's disability check because of the Ring of Fire. Fortunately the rents from the once empty buildings he had inherited on Main Street made up for it. Someone had bought them because they could be had on the cheap. After the Ring of Fire an empty building was not to be found in Grantville.

"So she's nagging me to let her open up here. She wants to turn half of it into a salon and the other half into a coffee shop, a café for customers while they're waiting and people waiting for customers. If her numbers are anywhere near right, it's the way to go."

A pale Jimmy Dick quietly asked, "But where would we drink?"

"Jimmy, she don't care. I guess I shouldn't either. The place is never more than half full anymore. People off to the army and moving out of town don't account for all of it by a long shot. With so many new bars in town people just don't come anymore. If they don't care, why should I? I can't afford to turn customers away. I guess I could still sell beer out of the coffee shop side of the business after hours."

"That would take care of the late night regulars, I guess, but what about the lunch crowd? What about the faithful? You'd lose a lot of business anyway. Do you know what a beauty parlor smells like? Yeah, I guess you do. But you're used to it, so you don't even notice. I don't see how any one could stand to hang out and drink there."

"Still, Jimmy, if I pay myself wages, I ain't making enough to break even. Even on New Years' Eve I'm only half full any more. The interest I'm paying on the loans that let me buy McAdam's whiskey and Old Joe's cigarette makings is eating me alive. The wife looks at the income and argues that a parlor is a much better use of the space. I've been arguing that it will turn around but I'm losing ground. It seems like there's fewer of us every month. More and more people are making down-time friends. They can't bring them here so they go across the street. If things don't turn around somehow, I'll have to give in and close up."

"Ken, I just raised the rent on the old shoe store. The tenant says he'll have to move if I don't come back down. That would be a whole lot better location for a beauty parlor than here anyway. And she'd have room to open a café if she wants."

Ken shook his head, "Can't afford it, Jimmy."

"Yes, you can. I'll see to it. We can start with a low rent and raise it as the business grows. If it doesn't grow then she can move it back home."

Ken stopped unscrewing the sign and looked at Jimmy without saying a word for what seemed like forever. When he spoke it was one word. "Why?"

"Ken, this is . . . community, it's family, it's church for those of us who aren't churchmen, it's home." Jimmy's voice kept rising. "I can't let you do it to me or the other regulars. I just can't."

Ken bit his lower lip, something he was wont to do when he needed to think. "Let me run it by the wife. Thanks, Jimmy."

****

The next day when Jimmy came in Ken popped the tops off of two beers and put one in front of him. Jimmy got quiet in his soul. In all the years of drinking in Club 250 he had rarely seen Ken drink and never with a customer.

Ken concentrated on drinking his beer until it was half gone. "Jimmy, thanks for the offer of the old shoe store. But I talked it over with the wife and she flat out said 'No.' I said, 'Why not?' and when she said why I couldn't argue the point."

"Ken, you can't do this. What was her argument? Surely we can come up with an answer that will get her to change her mind."

"I doubt it, Jimmy. She pointed out it was dumb to pay rent, even if it was a better location, when the Club was going out of business anyway. And it is, Jimmy. Even with the best whiskey in town . . ."

Jimmy spoke up, "Shit, it's the best whiskey in Germany."

". . . and even with the only supply of the next thing to up-time cigarettes . . ."

"I don't care if they are hand rolled. They're up-time cigarettes," Jimmy said.

". . . to exist these days, I ain't got enough customers to pay the toll. And it's only going to get worse. So why rent a space downtown? What am I going to do with this place when I close the doors? She's right. We might as well face reality and make the change now."

Jimmy's mouth opened and agony poured out, "Ken, you can't do it! Please? Think about it! Find another way!"

"Sorry, Jimmy. It's a done deal. She's moving the beauty shop here just as soon as we can do the remodeling. You're the last customer. I'm hanging the out of business sign on the door as soon as you leave."

"Then I'm not leaving. Please, Ken, find another answer."

"Well, if you're not leaving then I guess I'll just hang the sign and lock the front door before anyone else comes in while you're waiting." Ken picked up the hammer and the nails and the sign he had ready to hand behind the bar and headed for the door.

When he came back Jimmy had calmed down. "Ken, what are you going to do?"

"Like I said, Jimmy we're turning the place into a beauty parlor."

"No, I mean what are you going to do when you're not running this place any more?"

"I guess I can find a job as a bartender, if I don't like being a house husband and gentleman of leisure. The wife says with what she'll make after she moves, I won't have to work if I don't want to. Shoot Jimmy, I almost hate to admit it, but as I get older the idea of farming is growing more attractive all the time, despite what I swore as a kid.

"When I sell off the stock and the furniture I might try to buy the old home place and raise some cane." Ken said with a smile. "I haven't been able to raise any cain in years. You really need to be on the other side of the bar for that."

"How much?"

"What?"

"For the stock and the furniture? How much?"

"I ain't tallied it yet."

"Give me first dibs. You owe me that much."

"What are you going to do with them? Open your own place in the old shoe store?"

"Maybe. And, maybe all I want is a lifetime supply. It's like the story about the man . . ."

"Jimmy, the bar is closed. I don't have to listen to any more of your dumb ass stories even if all I ever did was overhear them. I never did think any of them were funny. No, I take that back. There was one, the one about the Norse gods complaining to Buddha about Grantville. That one was funny."

****

"Hey, what's going on?" a very puzzled Jim Allen demanded. All the tables and chairs were pushed to one side. Ken and Jimmy Dick were busy taking the bar apart.

"Didn't you read the sign?" Ken asked.

"What sign?" Eric Hudson asked.

"The one on the door," Ken clarified.

"The damned door was open! We didn't see any sign. What hell is going on?" Jim repeated.

"I'm out of business," Ken said.

"Out of business? You can't do that," Jim objected.

"Watch me," Ken replied.

"But, but, but why?" Jim asked almost stuttering in absolute amazement.

"Shit, Jim. I was losing money and it was getting worse seems like every week. I ain't seen you or Eric in over a month. Where were you when I was trying to make ends meet?"

"We've been in Halle," Eric said.

"Yeah, that's the problem. Half of my customers have moved out of town. Half of the ones who didn't got cozy with the Krauts and quit comin' in. I can't make a livin' no more and my wife needs more space for her beauty salon so I'm out of here and she's movin' in."

"A beauty salon? You're turning the best saloon in town into a salon? Ken? You have got to be kidding! You can't do this!" Jim said.

When Jimmy Dick heard the line 'saloon into salon' his sarcastic wit went to work. 'So you lost your "o" did you? Or maybe, if you take the salon out of saloon all you have is "0." Or how about. . . . But he set it aside for later and gave his attention to what was unfolding.

"I can, and I have. Fini, done, finished, complete, it's over. I can't keep a bar open without customers.

"I'm ready to take a break and I've got a few cold ones in back. Care to join me?"

Jimmy looked up. "It's like the story of the fellow who . . ."

Ken snarled, "Shut up, Jimmy. You guys want a cold one on the house or not?"

"Might as well," Eric said. "That's what we came in for. It's just not going to be the same in town without the club."

"I'm sure you'll find somewhere else to drink," Ken said. Looking at Jimmy, "Maybe someone else will open up a redneck bar."

Jimmy didn't say a word.

"Ken, it just won't be the same," Eric said.

"Hey, things change. They grow or they die. It's like a . . ."

"I said shut up, Jimmy, and I meant it."

"Well. Okay, but . . ."

Ken's look said it all. Jimmy shut up.

****

"Hey, Tip. You heard the news?" Audrey Yost, the florist in town, asked as she stopped in for a beer and pretzel lunch.

"Yes, isn't it great. She had a litter of nine and all of them are pointed."

Audrey was purely puzzled, "What are you talking about."

"Hazel's latest litter, we were sure when there wasn't an unneutered male Siamese in town that we'd lost them. But she found a pure white to breed with. Only two of the first litter were fully pointed and they were both females. But she kept crossing back. It's taken years, but it looks like maybe she's bred the alley cat out of them. Now, when my cat dies, I can get another Siamese. Isn't it great?"

"That's news?"

"Sure, it's great news."

"I was talking about something important."

"Well, if you don't think keeping a breed alive is important, I do. What's your important news?" Tip asked.

"Club 250 has shut down and the beauty parlor is moving in. Never thought I'd see the day I'd be going there but it looks like I will now."

"Yeah, I've heard." Tip's voice held no excitement or approval. "I thought you said you knew something important."

Audrey was puzzled and disappointed. "Hey, with Ken shutting down, that leaves you with the only aged whiskey in town. Maybe you'll pick up some of his business."

Tip paled just a bit, "Gawd, I hope not. I don't want those rowdy rednecks in here making a lot of noise, scaring off my other customers, getting in fights and busting up the place."

"Hm. Hadn't thought of that," Audrey said.

****

Lorena Maggard's phone rang, "Hello?"

"Lorena, this is Carolyn, I've got the most wonderful news."

In her early seventies Lorena didn't get out much. On the other hand, you couldn't hardly catch Carolyn at home. A lot of her time was spent visiting down at the nursing homes and fetching groceries and such for various shut-ins . . . in other words, gossiping.

"You'll never believe it. And I wanted you to know right away so I didn't want to wait until I see you tomorrow. After all these years, our prayers have been answered. Ken has finally shut down that awful bar."

"No!"

"Yes."

"Halleluiah! It's about time! I didn't think I'd live to see it. What happened, Lorena? Did the cops finally close him down? The good Lord knows we called and complained about it often enough."

"No, his wife needs more space for the beauty shop so she made him let her take over the building."

"Lordamercy, I do declare. Well! God bless her. I guess I'll just have to go get my hair done. It's been ages."

"Lorena, it's been years and you know it."

"Well, then it's about time, ain't it? I've always wondered what the place looked like inside."

****

A bit later Phyllis Congden-Dobbs' phone rang. She picked it up and, of course, she said, "Hello?"

"Phyllis? This is Carolyn. Have you heard? Ken's closing down that terrible bar of his."

"Well, that's not surprising. I've been waiting for that to happen ever since he told Estil he couldn't be bartender any more, because there wasn't enough business."

Carolyn was disappointed. Phyllis was neither excited nor surprised. After all, what's the point of "sharing the good news" if everybody already knows about it? Still, if you can't pass it along, then it's time to go fishing. Who knows, you might learn something you can share elsewhere.

"Say, I ain't seen Estil in a dog's age. What's he up to these days."

"Haven't you heard? He's got a job in Magdeburg."

"Well, I do declare. Will miracles never cease? Estil has a job?" Then her voice filled out with suspicion. "What kind of job? Is he tending bar?"

"No, he's a consultant."

"You don't say? What's he consulting on?"

"Up-time culture." Phyllis knew he was helping to set up a theme bar, but she wasn't going to tell Carolyn and have it spread all over town. Let her find out on her own. Estil was enough of an embarrassment as it was.

"You've got to be kidding? Estil? Well!" No one could do a righteous,high and mighty or an offended martyr any better than Carolyn Atkins. "I do declare."

***

Carolyn no more than hung up from speaking to Phyllis than she was dialing Lorena's number.

"Hello?" Lorena answered the phone's request for attention.

"Lorena, you won't believe what I just found out."

****

Melodie and Donnie Murray stopped into Marcantonio's Pizza. Every one—except the Marcantonios—agreed it was the place to find the second best pizza in town. Carlina happened to be working the counter. When she put the order slip on the clip ring to the kitchen she called out in a stage whisper, "Leo?"

"Yes?"

"This one's for Donnie and Melodie." They hadn't been there in months, not since before they got married.

"Well, Saint Pepperoni be praised. For the Virgin's sake, woman, don't make any more wisecracks about Donny and Marie. They took offense and I don't blame them. It wasn't funny anyway."

"Leo, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, there isn't any St. Pepperoni."

"Sure there is. I asked Father who the patron saint of pizza was and he told me it was St. Pepperoni."

"Leo, he was pulling your leg, you old fool. There isn't any patron saint for pizza. And there never was a St. Pepperoni. I looked it up."

Leo knew it, of course, but there was no way he was ever going to admit it his wife.

"We have to share St. Carlos Borromeo with the cooks and the bakers, but I've told you that. I thought you would want to know they're back." What she was really saying was, "see, I told you it was no big deal."

"Well, you shouldn't have teased them about being Donnie and Marie. Still, with Club 250 closing, maybe they'll start being regulars again."

"That would be nice." She paused. "As long as they don't bring any of the riffraff with them."

"Damn. I never thought of that," Leo said. "I sure don't want Ape and Monkey hanging out here. It would be bad for business. This is a family-friendly restaurant."

****

Casey was working the window at Casey's Take Out. Dean Blackwood ordered a roast beef and Swiss on rye with mayo, and a small bucket of beer. When he got his sandwich and his drink he lifted the lid on the beer pail and took a heavy hit. "Hey, Casey, I said I wanted a small bucket of beer, not a bucket of small beer." Casey still had it in a keg. Small beer wasn't being bottled much. The people who drank it were used to it being out of a keg.

"Dean, that's the only beer I sell. If you want a stiffer beer go find a bar."

"Shit, Casey, ain't you heard, the only good bar in town just shut down."

"It was a good bar all right. Good for nothin'."

Dean let fly with the bucket of beer, "Keep your damned canoe beer!" Followed by the sandwich. "And your worthless sandwich too."

Casey ducked. Dean started to walk off, "Hey, you haven't paid for that."

"Paid for what?" Dean asked.

"The beer and the sandwich."

"What beer? That damned can wasn't beer, it was canoe."

"It was what?" Casey asked.

"It was damned close to water."

"If you don't pay up I'm calling the cops."

"Go ahead. See if I care!"

****

Arch Pennock bumped into Mark Castalanni coming out of the Flying Pig. Arch was the one coming out, having just been cut off by the bartender. He wasn't at all happy about it. He was sure Ken wouldn't have cut him off for at least two more beers.

"Hey, Mark, have you heard? Ken's closed down."

"Yeah, I heard. That's a shame."

"As if you cared. You ain't been there in years. It's your fault you know. Ken didn't have enough business to stay open."

"Arch, I stopped going when I got married because I was getting harassed about it."

"Well, you didn't have any business marrying a Kraut."

"It's none of your damned business who I married. We're happy. She's a good woman."

"Not the way I hear it. I heard she could be had by anybody with a . . ."

Arch never got to finish his sentence. It's kind of hard to talk while someone is knocking your teeth in.

****

The dispatcher put the phone down, "Lyndon, get over to The Flying Pig. There is a fight on the street. Mark Castalanni is mopping the gutter with Arch Pennock."

Lyndon let out a rattling sigh of disgust. "That's it; there's been one a night. Arch did his drinking at Club 250 and Ken kept a lid on things."

"Yeah," the dispatcher said. "I never thought I'd hear myself say it, but damn, I wish he hadn't closed the place down."

"I know what you mean. Even with the little old ladies calling in a noise complaint every Sunday after church it was a lot quieter in town with it open."

"Well at least we haven't heard from the Hole in the Wall yet tonight. Nor Tip's either."

"I don't think you'll hear from Tip's. The last fight happened when the bartender refused to serve them because they got into a fight the night before and the night before that. He told them to get out so they couldn't get into a fight with the patrons. So they got into a fight with the bartender instead. The chief made it official. If they go back there he'll see to it they end up doing ninety days on a work crew." The police had stopped holding any man in good health in the jail for any sentence of more than a week. Some crews did road work or logging or haying in season. Anyone who looked like they might run off ended up in a secure facility, tanning leather. The owner built a dorm, hired guards and contracted with the police for labor. "I'm on my way." Lyndon said, grabbing his hat and heading for the door.

****

Jimmy Dick stopped into Tip's for lunch. The lass who took his order was cute, if a bit plump for Jimmy's taste. He was disappointed when Tip brought the order out instead of the waitress. He was a bit shocked when Tip pulled out a chair and sat down. "Jimmy, is it true you bought the tables and the bar out of Ken's place?"

"Yeah, want to buy some?"

"No. I hear you also bought up his stock and his kitchen."

"Yeah. I'll sell that, too."

"Please don't. I know a lot of people who figure you're going to open a bar."

"I thought about a philosopher's lounge but there isn't enough call for it. Couldn't make a living."

"No, what you need to open is a redneck bar and grill."

"Shit, Tip, if Ken couldn't make a living at it, how in the hell do you think I could? I don't have money to throw away any more than Ken does."

"But, Jimmy, they've got to have someplace to drink. When they mix with other people they mix it up. They need their own place."

"Look, Tip, I miss Ken's place as much as anybody. For years I spent more time there than I did at home. But the business just isn't there. Ken wouldn't have closed up if it was. I'm talking to the tobacco shop about buying the rest of the cigarette papers and the ongoing supply of mild tobacco. I sort of figured you'd buy the whiskey but if you don't want it I'm sure one of the other places will. If not, I'll find someone somewhere. It's damn fine liquor. I've got a line on a tavern in Magdeburg that is maybe interested in the furnishings. But I can probably make a whole lot more selling it off piecemeal as up-time artifacts. That leaves the grill and the refrigerator. But I don't think I'll have any trouble getting rid of them."

"I sure wish you'd reconsider."

"Tip, I can't make any money at it."

"But there are some things more important than making money."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Like peace and quiet. Those boys are going to drink somewhere and when they do they're going to get loud and rowdy, and then they're going to get into a fight. They need to be quarantined."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right but I don't see why I should pay for it."

"Surely we can find a way."

"Are you willing to pay for it?" Jimmy asked.

"Well . . ."

"See?"

Tip got quiet for a bit. "Jimmy, if I'm guessing right Ken was still turning a profit. He was at least coming close to breaking even if I know anything about it. Shit, if his wife hadn't wanted the building he could have gone right on breaking even for years. Now if I can come up a company to pay for it and eat the loss if we have to, will you put up the furnishing and the stock? If there is actually a loss, it really shouldn't be that bad. I mean there are things Ken should have been doing that he wasn't."

"Look, Tip, if Ken had thought he could make that work I'd have rented him the old shoe store. I offered, and at a damned good rent too. But he was sure he couldn't pay the rent and his time and still make it pay for itself. Where are you going to get people interested in taking a loss?"

"Myself and other bars who want the damned rednecks to go some place else. I can at least try."

"Do you really think you can make it work?"

Tip thought about it. "No. But I can try."

"This whole thing is like the story about the man who went hunting. He wandered off into the restricted game area where he found the bear, he took aim and the bear asked him, 'Hey, what are you doing? This is a closed area. You ain't supposed to be here.' Well the hunter said to the bear, 'I'm cold. So I need a bear skin coat to keep warm.' 'You don't say,' said the bear. 'So happens I'm hungry so I'm out here looking for a meal. Why don't the two of us talk about this?' So the man agreed to talk about it and in the end they both ended up getting what they wanted."

Tip snorted. "So the moral of the story is to be careful of what you ask for because it could end up eating you alive."

"Yeah, something like that." Jimmy said.

"Next time, Jimmy. I've got to get back to work."

****

Two drunks, singing a song that was just plain disgusting, and, truth be told, their singing was worse, walked into the police station. The dispatcher looked at them, crinkled up her nose more in distain than at the smell, and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"We're lookin' for the retired president."

"Well, Mike Stearns sure isn't here."

"Naw, not him, the other one."

"The second drunk spoke up. "Yeah, we want to see Lyndon Johnson."

"He isn't here either."

"Well, get him here. We know he's on duty. We saw him earlier tonight."

"He's busy."

"Hey, do we have to start a fight to get him here? We can do that if we have to."

"Okay, have a seat and I'll call him."

The drunks set down and went back to singing.

She got on the radio and called the patrol car, "Lyndon, you won't believe it. Arch and Dean just walked in looking for you. They said they'd wait."

"I can hear 'em. What do they want?"

"All I know is: they're here, they're plastered, and they insist on seeing you."

"Okay, I'll be there shortly."

Lyndon walked in and shook his head. The drunks spied him and one of them called out, "Lyndon, ol' buddy, good to see ya."

"Okay, guys, what do you want?"

"We're drunk."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Well my friend here pointed out that if we got any drunker we'd end up in a fight and you'd have to come and get us and we figured that we'd save you the trouble of comin' and getting' us— I said that already, didn't I? Anyway, we figured we'd save you the trouble of comin' and gettin' us and we figured we'd just come on down and meet you here."

Lyndon put a hand over his mouth to hide his face while he snorted from swallowing his laughter.

"You mean, you want me to charge you with being drunk in public?"

"Well, yeah, or you can let us go and then later tonight you can charge us with drunk and disorderly."

The dispatcher let out a deep sigh, "That bar is more trouble closed than it ever was when it was open."

"How about I just give you a ride home instead?"

"Yeah, that might work."

When the report came across the chief of police's desk, he read it twice and said out loud, even though he was the only one in the room, "We have got to do something. This can't go on."

****

Friday night rolled around and for a wonder the town was quiet.

"What's going on out there?" The dispatcher asked.

"Nothink," one of the new officers said.

"I know that much from just sitting here. The question is why? Where are the rednecks from Club 250? We scheduled a double patrol just to handle them."

"Did, you not hear? There is a bik party?"

"Oh. Ken threw a party? Good."

"No. Mr. Beasley is not throw party. He is not invited. It is a wake and they did not invite the man who murdered the deceased."

"You mean the man who killed the club."

"Yes, I said that, did I not?"

"No, you did not. You said murder and you can't murder anything but a person."

"Oh, well, that is what is said. They are havink a wake and the murderer is not invited."

****

The elders of the Grantville Anabaptist Church met in solemn assembly. All the elders of both congregations were present. Every one of them knew what Brother Treiber wished to propose. The kindest thing anyone had to say about the idea was, "Preposterous!"

Pastor Greiner, as the chairman for the evening, opened in prayer. It was his turn. When both pastors were present they alternated as chairman. It worked because Pastor Fiedler and Pastor Greiner made it work. The two congregations agreed to alternate for the early church service and the later time slot year by year, that also worked for the same reason. There were many people who predicted the building would be for sale within months of being finished, because it would not work with two congregations sharing a building, especially when they had such loud and public arguments. The Gardens finally told them to keep it down or to do their drinking elsewhere. One group was strict pacifists. The other group wasn't. When they went in together to buy land and build a meeting house to be shared, a pool was opened and bets were laid. So far, at least, the pool was still open even though it was far past the time anyone of the first subscribers chose for the date the for sale sign would first appear.

When the amen was said on a rather short prayer by the usual standards, Pastor Greiner said, "This is a called meeting of the joint elders as our by-laws require since we are discussing Brother Treiber's proposal which involves a change in the use of the building.

"Brother Treiber, would you be so kind at this time to share your proposal?"

Treiber stood up. "As you know, Club 250 has closed down. I propose that we allow them to use the lower level of the church as a meeting place."

When they built the meeting house the only land they could afford was a steep hillside. They scraped off the dirt and quarried into the hill using the stone to raise the walls. When they were done there were two levels both with a ground floor entrance. The upper level had stained glass windows. Some members of the congregations had taken an evening art class in stained glass at the high school, so they made the windows instead of buying them. That way they could be sure they did not offend. The lower level was darker, and not suited to a joyous celebration of the glory of God.

"You mean as a drinking place," Brother Bollert, a rather recent addition to the membership interrupted.

"Well, yes, that is the primary point of a club such as the one that closed," Treiber said.

"It is not a club! It is a tavern! We do not need a business selling in our meetinghouse. Christ cleansed the temple. What could you possibly be thinking?" Bollert asked rising out of his chair in protest.

"Brother Bollert, sit down. It won't be in the sanctuary. It won't interfere with worship. So it won't be a problem."

"But it is just—"

"Brother Bollert, please. Brother Treiber has the floor, you will be heard in the due course of time."

"What I am thinking," Treiber said, "is that when we were thrown out of the Southern Baptist Church in the cold and snow and had no where else to go, Club 250 took us in, asking only a modest rent and that we be gone by noon. Now they need a place to meet and we can return the kindness."

Heydenbluth rose to his feet. The chairman looked to Treiber who had the floor and Treiber nodded.

"Brother Treiber," Heydenbluth objected, "that is not quite correct. We were not thrown out of the Southern Baptist Church. We were asked to leave and we did not have nowhere to go. One of them offered us his garage to meet in."

"Whether we were thrown out or we were asked to leave, or we were thrown out by being asked to leave, is a rather finer hair than I am used to splitting. And yes we were offered the use of a garage, but the owner asked at least every other week when would we be finding somewhere else so he could move his equipment back inside out of the weather. That is when Club 250 opened its door to us."

Heydenbluth nodded and sat down.

Bollert stood and was recognized. "But it is still a tavern selling beer. That should not be. It has nothing to do with us. Besides we use the lower level evenings to teach catechism classes."

Treiber also nodded. "True, but we can move the classes upstairs. Otherwise the lower level is only used for communal meals and occasionally as shelter. We can open our homes as needed for that. It is not a good place to live even briefly. Meals usually happen on Sundays and we would reserve Sundays for our use. As for your objection to commerce, I agree with Pastor Fiedler. It won't be a problem. Is this a concern to anybody else? "

No one spoke up.

"Brother Bollert, you are outvoted."

"What about funerals?" Brother Senewald asked without standing.

Treiber answered anyway. "Those are usually in the morning and they do not open the club until lunch. We can work around it and ask them to let us reserve the space as needed, which should not be that often."

Pastor Greiner rose. "Brother Treiber, I know many of us would like to hear your reasoning. After all, these people you wish to befriend do not like us. There was a sign on the door that read, 'no dogs and no Germans.' These people are not friendly."

"Yes, Pastor. I was there as were many of you. I saw the sign every Sunday morning as I went to help clean and set up before worship. We laughed about it often, saying 'on Sundays it did not count,' or 'do you suppose we are not Germans on Sundays?' and Brother Jenkins, who is now gone, once asked, 'does than mean that dogs are not dogs on Sunday?' But every Sunday we thanked the good Lord that we had found a landlord. That was before you came to Grantville. But some of us remember."

Several heads nodding in agreement and some smiled at the memories.

"But the landlord threw us out," a voice called out. "Why should we do him a favor?"

"Yes, Ken Beasley did. But Brother Jenkins found us a very large tent for the summer, and he found us a loan to buy the land and the materials we could not harvest onsite or off of his land.

"Now Ken Beasley has thrown his patrons out to make room for his wife's business."

"There are plenty of bars in town. We do not need another one. Let them go there," the voice answered to a general murmur of approval.

"Just like us?" Treiber asked. "Was it not said, 'there are plenty of churches in town, let them go there'? But where did we fit? There is trouble in every bar in town. These people do not fit. Like us, no one wants them. Besides, we are not doing a favor for Ken Beasley. They call him a murderer and will have nothing to do with him. We will surely deal with Jimmy Dick." Treiber looked to Brother Menges. "You remember him. When we opened a church just outside of the Ring of Fire, even though we had the count's permission and blessing, there was still trouble. Rocks were thrown and threats were made. Was it not Jimmy Dick who organized an armed guard for several months until the last of the troubles were over?

"We owe these people. We need to pay this debt."

Ritzman rose to his feet. "Brother Treiber, I know people who have worked in the mercury fulminate shop making primers. The owners of the shop are amongst these people. They have spitefully used and abused our people. Do we really owe them anything?"

Again there was a general murmur of consent.

"Brother Ritzman, that is a very interesting word, spitefully. Can you quote Matthew 5:44 and 45?"

Ritzman turned red and sat down with out answering.

"Let me quote it for you.

"But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you.

"Do good to them that hate you, pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

"That you may be children of your Father who is in heaven.

"These are the words of Christ. Are we followers of Christ or are we like the Catholics and the Lutheran and the Calvinists who have turned us out onto the road even in winter with nothing but the clothes on our backs, who have imprisoned us, and beaten us and even executed us? Was there not a time when we could tell who ruled where by whether we were burned or hung or drowned?

"Have we also found peace here in Grantville and become so busy being a church and prospering that we have forgotten who we are and where we came from? Have we no compassion for others who are turned out and roaming the streets, just because they are not like us? Did not Peter write . . ."

Again a voice called out, "Surely you exaggerate. They can drink in any bar in town."

"Can they? I work for a real estate office." He did repairs, cleaned up, cleaned out, put up signs and took signs down. "If they can drink in any bar in town why did the chief of police ask the Lions, and the Moose and the Knights of Columbus and others—" The others included the Masons but Treiber did not want to mention them. They were not well thought of by some. "—to pay the rent on a place for a redneck bar? The office has been looking for someplace affordable and isn't having any luck. Nobody wants these people. Does this not sound familiar?"

The silence lingered.

****

"I was told that the chief wants to see me." Jimmy Dick told the dispatcher.

She picked up the phone, spoke quietly, looked up and said, "Go on in."

The chief said, "Have a seat, Jimmy. I don't have time to beat around the bush. I need you to open a redneck bar. I've got to get these boys off the streets. They're causing trouble."

"Chief, I'd like to help. Really I would. I miss having a place to drink. But it won't pay and even if it would, I'm not the man for the job. I had to buy to get anyone to drink with me."

"If I got you free rent?"

"I heard. What's up with that anyway?"

"The lodges in town are chipping in as a public service."

"Why?"

"Because I asked them to."

"Oh. But you can't find a spot? I know because they asked about the old shoe store and I won't rent you the old shoe store for what you can pay. And I won't let you have the furniture. I had that out with Tip. I've got an out-of-town buyer and he's paying me ten times what it's worth. You can buy the stock, but I'm not discounting it. Chief, it isn't going to work."

"We've got a spot. But they've specified that you have to run it. You don't have to work it. Hire the help. You just have to be the manager. If you don't, the deal is off."

"You've got a spot? Sure you do! Like huh. I ain't interested. Even if it could work, it's too much work."

"Free rent, and it's a good spot."

"Yeah? Where? I know this town. There isn't a good spot anywhere that you can get with the rent you're prepared to pay."

The chief smiled. It was nice being able to tell a know-it-all like Jimmy Dick Shaver that he is wrong. Unlike so many know-it-alls, Jimmy usually did know what he was talking about.

"Okay, Chief. I know that smile. Where? I just want to know, mind you. I still ain't interested."

"That's a shame, Jimmy, because if you aren't in, the deal is off."

"Where?

"The lower level of the Anabaptist Church."

Jimmy's mouth fell open and then closed with a click. "Damn! Damn? That quarry hole in the ground. You're not kidding are you!?"

"Nope. It's on the level."

"Can I name it?"

"Jimmy, you can call it anything you want."

Jimmy got a twinkle in his eye, "I was thinking maybe we could call it 'The Baptist Basement Bar and Grill.'"

The chief blinked and then broke out in roaring laugh. Jimmy Dick just smiled.

****

Second Chance Bird, Episode One

Written by Garrett W. Vance

Chapter One: Dodo Story

Cair Paravel, Grantville, Early Spring 1635

They were on holiday enjoying the warmest day of the year yet on the broad back porch of the rambling old house named after a castle in Narnia. Princess Kristina's Swedish guards were invited to have a glass or two of lemonade for which they thanked her profusely before becoming part of the backyard scenery again. It was story time; the young girl sat in rapt attention as her friend and sometimes supervisor Caroline Platzer read aloud in the comfortable twang of up-time English. The book was Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, and the princess, at a most precocious nine years old, could certainly have read it for herself, but it was much more fun to listen to Caroline, especially since she used funny voices for many of the characters.

They had just reached the point where everyone had run a "caucus race" (in which everyone runs but no one wins) and Alice had finished awarding prizes to all the participants when the Mouse pointed out that Alice herself had not received one.

"'Of course,' the Dodo',"whom Caroline chose to characterize with a Foghorn Leghorn old time southern drawl, "replied very gravely. 'What else have you got in your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice.

"'Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly.'" Caroline wondered if Kristina was aware that she always tried to read the part of Alice in her best imitation of the princess herself.

"'Hand it over here,' said the Dodo.

"'Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly presented the thimble, saying 'We beg your acceptance of this elegant thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered.'"

Kristina laughed. "But her prize was something that already belonged to her, Caroline!"

"I think it was the spirit of the thing that mattered; finishing the ceremony correctly whether it made any sense or not."

Kristina nodded, being well aware of the importance of ceremonies, as well as their tendency to be illogical. She was required to attend many such in her capacity as princess and usually found them to be a dreadful bore. Kristina was also aware that although Alice's adventures were written as a children's story they often contained satires of adult activities, even if she wasn't always quite sure which they referred to. Getting a prize that already belonged to you seemed quite in keeping with the silliness she had witnessed in royal doings. Before Caroline could begin reading again, Kristina asked, "Caroline, just what is a dodo?"

"It was a kind of bird. Here, in the illustration." Caroline turned the book around, a hardcover that had come through the Ring of Fire, to show Kristina the original John Tenniel illustration from the now never-to-be Victorian Age.

"What a strange looking bird! Are dodos a real animal or a make believe one?"

"Actually, dodos were real, although they did look pretty weird." Caroline saw something flash in Kristina's large and liquid brown eyes.

"What do you mean 'were'?"Kristina handed the book back to Caroline with a tremendously serious look on her young face.

The princess could be extremely sensitive and Caroline knew the sad story of the dodo's demise would not go over well. She also knew it was much better to just level with Kristina, or face the consequences of a lie, even a white one, later. The girl was truly a prodigy, scary smart just like her father.

"Well, there aren't any more dodos, Kristina. They're all extinct."

"Like the dinosaurs?"

"Yes, well, kind of. No one is completely sure how the dinosaurs died out but we do know what happened to the dodos . . ." Caroline saw a shadow cross those great, dark eyes, so much more aware than other children her age.

Kristina pursed her lips and blew out a thin puff of disgust. "I suppose it was people then."

Caroline nodded solemnly. "I'm afraid so. From what I recall they lived on a small island with no dangerous animals to eat them. They had never seen humans before and didn't know that they should run away. I think sailors ate them all. By my time the dodo had become a symbol for endangered species, a reminder of our responsibility to protect animals."

"That's just not fair, they didn't even know they were in danger! Why didn't anyone try to stop those sailors from killing them all?"

"I don't know, Kristina, it was a very long time ago."

Kristina's eyebrow's arched. "How long ago did the last dodos die, Caroline?"

Caroline felt a brief shiver; the small town normalness of quiet backyards and shady porches during this springtime visit to Grantville tended to make her almost forget. How long ago indeed? She sat frozen there, with her mouth partially open while the princess's eyes narrowed, lightning quick thought taking place behind them.

"The library," Kristina announced, jumping up and ran into the house so fast she left behind a breezy wake to gently riffle the pages of Wonderland.

Caroline closed the book. She looked up unto the crystal clear blue of the seventeenth-century sky.

"How long ago?" Caroline whispered, caught up in the princess' excitement herself now, goose bumps forming on her arms. "Or, when?"

She followed Kristina into the converted sitting room that served as Cair Paravel's library, where Kristina stood on a step stool with her nose deep in an up-time encyclopedia, eyes focused in careful study. At last she looked up at Caroline, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her voice tense.

"We still have time."

Pam Miller's House, Grantville

Thorsten Engler surveyed the wide, sloping front yard from the street, wondering if there was indeed a house up there somewhere behind all the gigantic flowers; these were either some strange early blooming up-time variety or the product of magic. He found the narrow concrete walk, almost a tunnel, and started up it. A breeze rustled the bright green stalks that stood nearly as tall himself, the large flower heads with their still unripe seed pod faces and bright yellow petals seemed to nod at him in greeting. He had never seen anything like them before, and wondered if perhaps he had wandered into one of the princess's fairy tales.

At last he reached a funny-looking little pink house, really just a rectangular box with a door, a curtained picture window and a concrete front porch. The sight of a porcelain garden gnome lurking under a bush below the window actually made him jump; he wouldn't have been surprised if it had doffed his hat to him in such odd surrounds. He pushed the tiny doorbell button and heard electric bells chime within.

Shortly, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged woman wearing a green sweatshirt covered in a rainbow splatter of paint, faded blue jeans and muddy boots. Her age might have been anywhere between late thirties to late forties, it was always so hard to tell with up-timer women. In any case, she appeared to be very physically fit. She wasn't exactly pretty but she wasn't unattractive, either; she had a broad, serious face colored in the ruddy tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors all year long. Her dishwater blonde hair was pulled back in a business-like ponytail, the hairstyle showing off her best feature; steel grey eyes with flecks of a winter sky's blue. They were the eyes of a keen observer, like a soldier's eyes, and as a soldier himself Thorsten recognized their power.

"Yes?" she asked. Her alto voice was polite but by no means filled with patience.

"Pardon me for bothering you, ma'am," Thorsten replied in the West Virginia style English he had been practicing. "Are you Miss Pam Miller?"

"That's Ms.Miller, and, if you're here because your church, school, barn or castle has a bat infestation you are out of luck. I am not in the bat removal business, never was!"

"No, I am not here about bats, ma'am, er, Ms. Miller. I am Thorsten Engler, the, uh, Count of Narnia." How he had gone from being a simple soldier to a count was a chain of events that still amazed Thorsten, and he wasn't sure he would ever be comfortable with the title. This was made worse by the quizzical look Pam Miller regarded him with.

"The count of what?" Those eyes could freeze a pond in summer, if they chose to.

"The Count of Narnia, ma'am. The district used to be called Nutschall but Princess Kristina had it renamed to honor her favorite children's stories. Actually, I'm here as her representative and at her request." Thorsten found himself feeling flustered, there was something formidable about this woman.

"Here at the princess' request, huh? Well, these days who knows what the hell might happen next? Come on in then, Count of Narnia, but if you brought any satyrs or talking hedgehogs with you they are going to have to wait outside." With that she motioned for him to follow her into the house.

Thorsten entered a space that might have once been a twentieth-century living room. All that could be seen of that former role was a lumpy old sofa along one wall. The rest of the room was filled with art supplies and various canvases featuring works in various stages of completion. The floor was completely covered in paint stained drop cloths. Apparently the artist was going through a "birds" period. Thorsten thought the drawings and paintings of avian life were quite realistic. He noticed a large hand-painted poster of a black and orange bird he had never seen before. Its uneven lettering proclaimed "Don't Shoot, I'm an American!" Obviously the work of a child rather than the house's artist, but still quite well done. On an incredibly cluttered desk he saw a hand-printed manuscript titled Birds of the USE.

"So, it appears I have come to the right place. You must indeed be the celebrated 'Bird Lady' of Grantville!'

At this Pam Miller gave him a perfectly murderous look.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, but you are the Pam Miller who is working with the school system to promote the protection of wildlife, particularly birds . . . are you not?"

The fierce looking woman softened her gaze somewhat. "Yeah, that's me. Is the princess interested in joining our summer birdwatching and nature program?"

"Well, perhaps she would be, the princess is interested in just about everything; she is an exceptionally clever young person. Actually, she has sent me here to invite you to visit her at her Grantville residence. She has a project related to the protection of a certain bird species that she wishes to consult with you on."

"What species?"

"I am sorry, but the princess prefers to tell you herself and has instructed me rather strongly not to 'spill the beans.'"

Pam Miller's eyebrows rose. "Well, I do love a mystery. All right then, I'm game. Never thought I'd be consulted by a princess." A hint of a smile had come to her rather stony face.

"I know the feeling," Thorsten confided with a cautious grin.

"Well," Pam declared, "no time like the present."

Pam asked Thorsten to wait on the porch for a moment as she gathered her bag and walking stick. She mumbled to herself as she ran a hand through escaped strands of her unruly hair.

"Meet the princess, huh?" Pam muttered to herself as she changed her top. "Sometimes down-time is like living in a magical kingdom that reeks of manure." She emerged a few minutes later with the same well worn jeans and mud-caked boots on but she had changed into a clean sweatshirt and denim jacket; Grantvillers being just as casual about a royal audience as they were everything else.

Thorsten, as a professional soldier, was impressed with the woman's pace as they walked quickly across town. He was pretty sure she could last all day in a forced march. Soon they arrived at an ornately decorated old mansion, one of the town's "painted ladies," occupying a spacious, fenced garden that took up at least half a block. It had been repainted in bright blue with yellow trim, the Swedish colors, and the front gate boasted an arch with a sign proclaiming Cair Paravel in a fanciful gold inlaid script.

Pam rolled her eyes at this bit of princessy excess but secretly thought it was kind of charming, too. Gawd, I'm going to meet a princess in Narnia, wonder if they have a talking lion? Pam made her face straight as they neared the gate.

There were several USE soldiers bearing shotguns standing guard, they nodded politely at her and one of them, a high school friend of her son Walt, greeted her with a hearty "Howdy, Ms. Miller! Welcome to the castle." She couldn't recall his name right then so she just said "Hi!" and gave him a friendly smile in lieu of any small talk as he unlocked the gate for her.

At the top of the stairs a woman dressed in casual up-time clothes met them. Thorsten introduced her as his fiancée, Caroline Platzer.

Caroline shook Pam's hand. "Thank you for coming, Ms. Miller. Princess Kristina is very excited about meeting you. She's recently developed a keen interest in birds."

"Well, that's good to hear. I've been promoting youth birding with the school district, perhaps she would like to join us sometime?" THAT would be some good PR for the summer nature program . . . Pam knew from the news that the princess had achieved great popularity in Grantville as well as throughout the odd, patchwork version of Germany they had become a part of, an impressive feat.

"I'll bet she would!" Caroline kept Pam's hand a moment longer to catch Pam's eye. "Ms. Miller, I should say that the princess has a very keen interest, intense actually. Kristina is an extremely intelligent and kindhearted girl. She is also a princess and so can be a bit demanding at times, although we are working on that. But I assure you, she means well! I do hope that you will be understanding."

"I'll keep that in mind. I've worked with kids quite a bit lately and raised one, too. Ms Platzer, are you the princess' teacher?"

"Do call me Caroline. Well, I'm kind of her cultural advisor, but mainly I'm her friend, and temporary governess on this visit. Her regular governess, Lady Ulrike, is on vacation." Pam could infer from the weight placed on that last word that said vacation might have been well earned and much needed. Pam blew back a wisp of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. She followed Caroline through the house to its library, thinking Good lord, I hope this kid isn't a royal monster. What am I doing here? She had met some royal types over the last couple of years and generally couldn't stand them.

"Princess Kristina, Pam Miller is here." Caroline announced as they entered a large, book cluttered room that also featured an impressive variety of Brillo the Ram memorabilia. Pam was something of a Brillo fan herself. At least she has some good taste.

Pam had expected to be confronted by a pretty little spoiled brat dressed in fluffy pink princess gowns and diamond-studded tiara. Instead, she found herself looking at . . . a kid. A rather gawky one, at that.

The princess wore white jeans, a Power Puff Girls T-shirt and a West Virginia Mountaineers baseball cap that strained to hold back a cascade of flyaway brown hair. She looked more like a playground tomboy than a prissy princess, and her hawkish nose and huge brown eyes were several sizes too large for a thin face that hadn't yet grown into them.

"You're here! Thanks for coming! I'm Kristina!" The princess marched enthusiastically over to Pam and stuck out her hand to shake. Pam took it a bit hesitantly. The princess had a strong grip for such a frail looking kid and there were even some calluses on that palm.

"Pam Miller."

"May I call you Pam?" There was a slight accent but the princess was obviously comfortable with English.

"Uh, sure. So, I hear you are interested in birds, Princess."

"I am! I have heard about you from some of the kids at the school I know. I also quite supported your motion to move the American redbird as the USE's symbolic bird from unofficial status to official. I am quite tired of eagles. I think the new American birds are wonderful!"

"Apparently you do your homework, Princess."

"Pam, you can call me Kristina."

"I think Princess will do, for now." Pam's expression was politely impassive.

The princess looked a little taken aback by that, which was a good thing as far as Pam was concerned. She had been working with school children in the nature education program she had started and although she was more comfortable than she used to be, she felt a need to keep them at a certain distance; especially those who obviously wanted to be treated as adults. That, you have to earn, kid. Pam's sixth sense told her she was going to be pressed into service somehow so she was wary. Pam could be more than a little shy and she guarded her privacy fiercely.

The princess smiled a bit thinly and started again. "Please forgive me. I sometimes get a little carried away, or so I am told." That was said with a glance at Caroline, who responded by taking a close interest in the bookshelves. "Let's sit down and have a cup of tea and I will explain why I've asked you here."

Pam nodded in what she really hoped was a gracious sort of way and followed the princess to a tea table in the center of the room. A servant appeared from nowhere with tea. Pam noted that Kristina thanked the servant, which spoke well of the child. Thorsten excused himself from the proceedings and she saw Caroline roll her eyes as he made a hasty exit.

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," she said shaking her head with a mix of exasperation and affection. "My darling Thorsten is not much for tea time. He's going to go chew the fat with the guards."

"The men do love to shoot the shit," Kristina commented, eyeing Caroline to see her reaction. Pam couldn't help but let out a small laugh.

"Just because Lady Ulrike isn't here don't think you can get away with murder my dear." Caroline responded, favoring the princess with a crocodile smile. The princess flushed slightly, but still grinned at Pam, whom she had seen laugh at her little flirtation with adult language. Darn it all, Pam thought, maybe I'm going to like this oddball princess. She sure isn't acting much like Snow White so far.

Having had a sip of tea, Kristina focused on Pam with her enormous, soulful eyes. "Please allow me to cut to the chase, Pam. I want to consult with you on a very important matter concerning an endangered species."

Pam's eyebrows rose again, she had thought she might be here to supervise the building of a bird feeder or to tend an injured chick fallen from a nest. She was also impressed with the kid's vocabulary, the sign of an avid reader. "What species might that be?"

The princess produced her copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, opening it to the page of the caucus race.

"The dodo," she said with the breathy drama of a nine-year-old revealing a newly discovered wonder to her friends.

Pam studied the line drawing; the odd beak that stretched all the way to the back of the head in a long, skeptical scowl above which saucer-like eyes were mounted in bony turrets, looking more like some helmeted dinosaur than a bird. She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Princess, but the dodo is extinct. There aren't any left."

Caroline looked as if she was about to speak but the princess gave her a quick look that said please, let me. Caroline got the message, contenting herself with smiling encouragingly. Kristina went on. "So I have heard. And just when did that happen?"

Pam thought of her copy of Birds of the World and the sad little chapter in the back that detailed the loss of the passenger pigeon and the Carolina parakeet. The dodo was there, too, of course, a creature of remote islands, one that didn't have the sense to avoid hungry sailors. Pam had hated reading about such extinctions since she was a kid, the subject was sure to make her feel depressed. She started to answer, "Why, that was sometime in the seven . . . " and stopped. A bewildered expression came to her face. She looked at Caroline who was nodding knowingly, and the princess whose eyes were bright with excitement. Pam continued in a very small voice "The seventeenth century. No, you have got to be kidding me. The dodo? The dodo is still . . ." Her words trailed away into air as she stared at the picture.

"Alive." the princess finished for her. "At least we think so. There is not a great deal of information available in either the up-time or down-time books I've been able to find so far, but the last sighting was reported in the 1660's. That's some thirty years from now."

Pam felt the world spinning under her chair, her hands gripped the side of the table. The dodo! The charmingly strange bird she would never get to see because people had killed them all in her former timeline. Here she was thirty years ahead of that tragedy.

"It took me a while to get used to it, too," Caroline remarked. "The world's most famous extinct animal next to the dinosaurs is still alive right now."

"And we must keep it that way!" Kristina announced fervently. "The dodo must be saved!"

Pam blew out a long sigh of air. "You know, the worst thing is, why the hell didn't I think of it myself? I've been so busy trying to protect the wildlife around here that I haven't even taken one minute to think globally. Or, for that matter, temporally." She looked a bit dazed by the news.

Caroline said, "Everyone who came through the Ring of Fire is still to some extent in a state of shock. We may never be able to adjust one hundred percent. There are so many possibilities, chances to change history, but we are just a bunch of normal people dropped into extraordinary circumstances. Don't be too hard on yourself."

Caroline was right, there were times Pam felt as if she would never really be completely comfortable here in the past. She looked at the princess, whose face was a study of earnest determination.

"Okay, Princess, how do you intend to save the dodo?"

"I want to send a rescue mission. Bring enough for a breeding population back to Europe where we can keep them in a sanctuary. I've been studying up-time zoos and I am sure it can be done."

"Wow, that sounds really great but it's a massive undertaking. How do you intend to finance it?"

The princess smiled cheerfully. "Well, I am a princess. I have access to certain funds even at my current age and I know a lot of people. And, of course, I intend to ask my papa for his support."

Pam looked at Caroline.

"You would be surprised," the woman answered.

Pam studied the princess from across the table for a moment. This was the daughter of the man who ruled a huge swath of Europe, including their little circle of America, and who seemed bent on increasing that real estate. From what she had seen of Gustav he was probably a pretty good guy, the "Captain-General," a real hero type, but it seemed unlikely that he would put much backing into something as outlandish as what the princess proposed, especially with the situation on the continent still so volatile. On the other hand, grown men often went to amazing lengths to please their darling daughters. So far the princess had demonstrated that while she might not be a spoiled brat, she was adept at getting her way.

"Say you can get your father, the emperor, to agree to this. What do you want from me?"

"Why, to lead the expedition of course!" Those giant brown eyes were not blinking.

"What? Me? Why me?"

"Because you are a bird expert. As far as I know you are the only bird expert Grantville has."

"I'm no expert. I'm just a birdwatcher."

"You have identified, studied and cataloged every species of bird that survived the trip through the Ring of Fire that has established breeding populations here. You have done the same for every native bird species in a fifty-mile radius. You have led a very successful nature education program with an emphasis on conservation. You are writing a book called Birds of the USE that you intend as both a field guide and behavioral study of every species in the country. In addition, you are a scientist at the Grantville Research Institute and have extensive up-time training in the scientific method. I have no doubt there is no one more qualified than you."

It was obvious the princess had been practicing that little speech. The kid was one smart cookie and scarily organized. Pam rubbed her temples, her mind racing. Lead an expedition? Impossible! She had too much work to do, she couldn't possibly! She looked down at the open book on the table to see the dodo handing Alice a thimble. For most of her life she had felt sad when looking at any painting of the dodo, a pathetic creature that was obliterated by human carelessness. It had made her sad, and angry. But now . . .

"Damn it all," she muttered beneath her breath. The princess and Caroline waited expectantly. "Damn it all! She said louder, frustration in her voice. "Just what island does the dodo live on? Is it near Europe?"

Caroline fielded this one. "No, I'm afraid not, Pam. It's Mauritius, the largest in a group of islands called the Mascarenes, lying some distance off the coast of eastern Africa, in the Indian Ocean. It also seems that there is another dodo species on Rodriguez, but this is a bit unclear."

"Africa!" Pam's voice held a note of laughing hysteria. "All the way around the horn of Africa? Of course. It couldn't be the Canary Islands, or in the Mediterranean, could it?" The dodo is still alive, I could see one, I could save them . . . Pam's mind whirled, trying to grasp this new reality.

Kristina and Caroline were beginning to look worried. Pam's hands had developed a slight quiver. The tremble entered her voice when she spoke again. "Look, this is all just too much to swallow in one gulp. I've got to be honest with you two, I am still getting used to the idea that Germany is just a few hills over from my American house, and not the nice, clean modern Germany that produces fine machinery and has an autobahn, either. I feel like I'm in some old movie half the time! Asking me to leave Grantville to sail around Africa in a ship of the day, which has got to be damn dangerous, is an awful lot."

The princess looked down at her tea, crestfallen. "I'm sorry Pam, it's just that you are the only person we thought of who might . . . care about this."

Pam touched a hand to her forehead, her fingers kneading out the stress building there. "Well, you were right. I do care. And now I have to figure out if I can even say no to this crazy plan of yours. Saving the dodo, yeah, that's something important. I have to think about it, give me a little time, okay?" This made the princess look hopeful again.

Pam stood up. "Thanks for the tea, Princess. I'll give you a call when I've made my decision, maybe in a couple of days." Caroline and Kristina both stood up as well.

Kristina went around the table to look up at Pam's rather pale face. "You're right Pam, it will be dangerous, although I promise we'll do whatever we can to make it safe for you. I will send my best men with you, they will protect you through any danger. I assure you, I am very serious about this and can make it happen. I am confident in this."

Pam managed a small smile. "I believe that you are, Princess. I just don't know if I'm up to it. Talk to you soon. Caroline. Princess." She made a small bow to both of them, then hurried out of the room.

****

That night Pam sat in her favorite spot at her writing desk looking out the window at the backyard's big birdfeeder. It was evening and there wasn't much action, just a couple of blue jays having an argument while gobbling sunflower seeds. This was one of the species that had come through the Ring of Fire with Grantville that was proving highly successful. The grey and orange Eurasian jays were still around but the blue jays were more aggressive and tended to bully them at the feeder. Pam was barely paying attention to their squawking antics.

There was only one bird on her mind tonight and it was thousands of miles away on an obscure island in the Indian Ocean. It was a bird she never thought she would see in her lifetime, unless some genius managed to clone it back from the dead. But, that was a different lifetime. In this time the dodo was still alive and she could prevent the catastrophe that had made it the symbol of modern extinction. Pam poured a healthy splash of kirschwasser into a shot glass; the cherry-flavored liquor would help calm her nerves.

Up-time, the farthest she had ever been from home was Vancouver, Canada out on the west coast. That was also the only foreign country she'd ever visited, and hardly exotic. Now she was contemplating a long and dangerous sea voyage to the far side of Africa. A voyage that would give her the chance to do something wonderful, something she dreamed of in her youth: The chance to save the dodo. If she survived it.

A small voice in her head chided her; what makes you think you can pull it off? You're just a frumpy small town divorcée. You're no Charles Darwin! Pam scowled into her glass, sloshing the red liquid around. That was the old Pam Miller talking. The Pam Miller of that other life where she had been pretty much a nobody. Her marriage had failed and her adult son was only now just beginning to talk to her again, the result of his new bride's insistence more than any desire on his part.

Still, that was something. Things really were better now. The one thing she had been good at in that other life was her job. She was a damn good researcher and was highly regarded for her skills, although never really popular socially. That was better now, too. Here her abilities mattered a lot more. The projects she worked on at the Research Institute were helping keep Grantville alive in this new time. She was well respected by her peers now, and had even tentatively made a few friends there. At least they didn't forget to invite her to the office Christmas parties any more.

Pam looked up to see herself reflected in the window as darkness fell. She was older, thinner, and most definitely tougher. God, how had she been such a marshmallow? Was this woman in the glass really her? Pam smiled as she brought the shot glass to her lips. This was a new life. There were new chances available. She had changed going through that Ring of Fire, it had tempered her into something harder. She had crushed a man's jaw with her grandmother's walking stick to save a friend's life, a fighting man, a dangerous man. She had found the courage. The old Pam of the year 2000 would have melted into a blubbering mass of goo in the face of such danger. Not this Pam, not anymore.

She got up from her chair to stalk around the living room, no, her art studio and office, looking at the evidence of her accomplishments. Thanks in part to her efforts blue jays, Baltimore orioles and many other North American birds were establishing themselves in Europe. Her favorite of them all, the bright red eastern cardinal, now went by the colloquial moniker "redbird" that her grandmother had used when Pam was a little girl. Redbird translated well into German as rottvogel and didn't have any religious connotations. It had been the official bird of the state of West Virginia back up-time and was now in use again as such in West Virginia County here in the great state of Thuringia-Franconia, United States of Europe. Its survival here had helped Pam adjust to her new life in this century more than anything else, except perhaps the close friends she had made among the Germans.

Seeing the up-time birds that had come through the event with them thrive had inspired Pam to go to work raising public awareness about protecting native European species along with the up-time immigrants. Through her school programs she was fostering a love of nature in the youth of Grantville that she hoped would spread throughout this new country as time went on.

But, would it spread fast enough? The fires of industry were burning bright and she feared they would scorch this new version of planet earth into an ugly cinder just as they had the forests and plains of the up-time world. And, that process was starting earlier. If nothing were done about that, saving the dodo would be meaningless. She sat back down.

You need to be smart. Think this through. This morning when she woke up she was a woman who had become well known and fairly well regarded in the local community: "The Bird Lady of Grantville." At one time that nickname would have flooded her with embarrassment, but now she had come to realize she liked it. People actually liked her and her Save the Birds campaign was succeeding in about a hundred-mile radius. So, she knew people around here and they listened to her, but when she wrote letters to the national government regarding conservation initiatives all she got in return were official form letters thanking her for her input.

She had even considered taking the train up to Magdeburg and giving that cock of the rock Mike Stearns a good old-fashioned talking to in person regarding his new country's complete lack of an environmental protection policy. He might even listen to her . . . Pam gripped the arms of her chair. The thought that had been forming in the back of her mind ever since her visit to Cair Paravel this morning pushed its way to the front and took shape.

Who does Mike Stearns listen to? That would be King Gustavus II Adolphus, the high king of the Union of Kalmar, the emperor of the United States of Europe, the Captain-General who earned his place as a folk hero in their little circle of West Virginia. Mister fast-talking union man listened to that guy, their lives depended on it. And, who did Gustavus Adolphus listen to? Who had the emperor's ear? A small smile came to Pam's face. She knew one person who would have that ear and that person wanted something from Pam Miller, wanted it badly. Pam tossed down the rest of the kirschwasser and decided it was best just to sleep on it.

****

Pam knew it was a dream because she was wearing a child's dress she wouldn't have been caught dead in even at age seven, a frilly blue and white thing of a century that both had and had not happened. She stood in Wonderland with the Dodo beside the shore, the other participants of the caucus race having all wandered away. The Dodo regarded her with sad, heavy lidded eyes.

"Are you quite sure you've nothing else in your pocket?" it asked in a wistful voice.

Pam found her pocket and reached in. With some surprise her hand closed on something round and heavy. She pulled out what could only be the White Rabbit's pocket watch and held it up to the Dodo.

"Ah, there's something I don't have," said the Dodo. Nodding sadly it turned away and walked into the lake until its odd shaped head passed beneath the still, black waters. Pam cried out and started to wade in after it but instead woke up thrashing in the sheets like a feverish child.

After regaining her senses she laid her head back on the pillow, sighed at the morning light and mumbled, "I'm so screwed." It was eight o'clock in the morning, she was on flextime at work so she hadn't set the alarm. Sighing resignedly at her fate, she reached over to the nightstand to pick up the phone.

****

"Cair Paravel."

"This is Pam Miller. I'd like to speak to Caroline Platzer."

"A moment, please."

"This is Caroline. Pam?"

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, I want to ask you something. In your opinion, is this save the dodo expedition something the princess could really pull off? Would these people she knows, and her father, really listen to her and help make it happen?"

There was a brief pause.

"Well, I can't make any promises but I believe it's very possible. Gustav is at heart a pretty nice guy who loves his daughter very much. He dotes on her, as do her many admirers and friends. And, as I think you saw today, the princess is one smart kid, and stubborn, too—just like her father. He knows that, and is definitely grooming her to one day take his place. In any event, he will at least listen to her ideas and give them serious thought."

"Okay, that's good enough for now. Can I talk to the princess, please?"

"Why, sure. Just a sec." Her voice could be heard turned away from the receiver. "Kristina, Pam Miller is on the phone! She wants to talk to you!" Next came the sound of swiftly running feet on hardwood floors. "Here she is." Pam could hear the smile coming through the phone. Caroline liked her, that was good. A young voice, out of breath came across the line.

"This is Kristina! Hi, Pam, thanks for calling!"

"You're welcome. Listen, I've spent all day thinking about your project, and I'm interested. If you can really make it happen, I'll lead the expedition." Pam heard a shrill shriek of excitement blast from the receiver and held the phone away from her ear until the princess' cheering subsided.

"That's wonderful, Pam, that's really wonderful! I'm so glad you will do it, you are the best person in the world for it!"

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence. That said, we need to be clear that most of the work needed for this project is going to fall on your young shoulders. I have a pretty important job at the research institute, some serious responsibilities, and it's going to take a lot of work on my part to get to a place where I can even think of asking for time off . . . sheesh, it's probably going to take a whole year just to make this trip, isn't it? Anyway, it's going to be you and your people are who are going to have to do all the expedition organizing, okay?"

"Okay! I'll take care of all that. I've also talked about it with others and they will help, too!"

Pam crossed her eyes a bit at the mention of the princess's youthful betrothal, that was an issue she decided it was best not to think on too much.

"That's great, whatever it takes. Now for my part, I'm going to do all the necessary research. I need to know everything I possibly can about those islands and I'm not too confident that Grantville's libraries will have much so I'll probably have to use down-time sources as well. I'm also going to have to study up on how to transport live animals on a long ship journey, hopefully that's something up-time science can help improve the odds on. I'm going to be honest with you, Princess, getting from here to there and back again is going to be very complicated, a lot could go wrong and there is a chance we will fail. Can you handle that?"

"I can handle it. All we can do is our best. I have great confidence that we can save the dodo, Pam, but I do understand the difficulties. I can only promise that I and my people will do our utmost to make it successful." The princess' nine-year-old excitement had been replaced with the calm voice of a girl much older. That made Pam feel a bit better. There were some shrill inner voices in the back of her head telling her she was crazy, but she would have to deal with them later. For now, she focused on the princess.

"That reassures me greatly. Now listen, saving the dodo is very important but it's just one corner of a very big picture. I want you to understand how and why tragedies like the dodo extinction happen in the first place. Are you willing to do some reading?"

"Of course. I enjoy reading anyway. I'll do as you ask." Negotiations had been breakfast conversation all her young life and she already knew how to play the game.

"That's good to hear. Have you got a pen handy? Yes? Okay, write down these keywords: Extinction, pollution, deforestation, and habitat destruction. Go to the library and see what you can find. You don't have to read everything in detail, just try to get the main ideas. When you have, call me back and we'll go from there. All right?"

"Gotcha. Will do, Pam," Kristina answered readily.

Pam mused that she was on the phone with a new kind of person, a person born of the most powerful royalty in the current century and influenced and educated by Americans from the future. What might this eager young person accomplish? For just a moment Pam felt a little guilty at the rather unpleasant educational course she was sending the child on, but it was for the best. Pam had never believed in hiding the truth from children, better they find distressing things out in their youth so they can be better prepared to face them as adults. Kristina would have to see that big picture, the sooner she did the sooner she could use her influence to prevent the worst from happening in this time. If they were going to save the dodo they had to get started on their own backyard in the process.

"Okay, Princess, do your homework and I'll look forward to hearing what you have to say about it. Good night."

"Goodnight, Pam. And thanks, I really appreciate your getting involved! Thank you!" The line clicked off.

Pam put the phone down. "I hope you still feel that way tomorrow," she whispered.

****

The princess looked awful. The more she read the worse she looked. Her assortment of ladies-in-waiting clucked their concern and disapproval in the quiet of the town library but stayed in their seats, cowed by Caroline's cool gaze. Caroline was concerned, too, but she knew the princess had to see this course of study that Pam Miller had laid out for her through. She herself was somewhat irritated at the woman for opening Kristina's eyes to the darker side of the up-time industrial revolution so soon, but it would have happened eventually. At last the princess closed the final book of the sizable stack. She looked like she might cry.

"Pretty sad stuff, huh?" Caroline asked, taking Kristina's slender hand.

"It was so terrible! I didn't know how bad it was! I knew that life up-time wasn't perfect, and that there were horrible wars, but the things they did to the land, to the animals! It was cruel . . ." She sniffed and wiped at her prominent nose with the sleeve of her cotton sweatshirt, causing another round of clucking disapproval from the ladies in waiting which she ignored, as usual.

Caroline nodded sympathetically. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I think I understand what Pam Miller wants from me now. I've seen her 'big picture' and I don't like it either. Something needs to be done soon, or all that awful stuff will happen in this time, too. This isn't just about saving the dodo, it's about saving everything."

"Well, no one can do that, Kristina, but there are things we could do to help. I'm quite sure Pam hopes that you will use the advantages of your position to do so. But, these are adult problems and adults are responsible for them. You're still only nine years old so let's take it slowly.

"Yes, adults are responsible all right, look what a mess they make everywhere! I'm only nine years old now but I'm also the king's daughter and what has he, and you, been trying to teach me if not responsibility?" Her large brown eyes were sad, but there was also a certain hardness there, a determination. She's so like her father, Caroline thought, not for the first time.

Kristina took a deep breath and let it out. She spoke again, the quaver of near tears gone now. "The Lord tests us, Caroline, my father says. I believe this is my first test, at least the first adult kind of one. Let's find a phone. I'm going to call Pam right now and tell her thank you for educating me. Then we'll discuss our next steps." She stood and walked confidently out of the room and down the hall to the library offices with her bevy of ladies following, looking every bit the royal princess of all the land.

****

Pam cradled the phone on her shoulder while she started a new pot of coffee.

"Yeah, it sucks, doesn't it? Look, Princess, I really am sorry I didn't warn you first, but nobody understands things like that unless they see it for themselves. Now that I have your attention I have some more subjects for you to study up on: National parks and environmental protection. A smart kid like you is going to be able to see where I'm headed with that. There were a lot of good people up-time, too, people who worked hard to protect nature. I think there may be people who will do that here and now, don't you?" Over the line the princess assured Pam that there were such people here and that she was one of them. Pam smiled as she hung up the phone; her seed was taking root nicely.

Later, Pam walked among her rows of sunflowers in the sweet light of the afternoon, thinking about cabbages and kings. She had finally admitted to herself that it had been wrong of her to want the up-time animals to survive here, she had always known that deep down. Transplanted species were so often destructive. She had already begun her own research and had learned that transplanted pigs, rats and other foreign animals had also played a part in the dodo's demise, invaders that nature had not intended to have on those islands, brought there by humans.

Was the Ring of Fire something nature had intended? Pam's guess was that it wasn't, that it had been some kind of strange cosmic accident. That debate would likely go on until they reached this universe's twentieth century. Whatever the cause, she and a six-mile circle of West Virginia domestic and wildlife had ended up here, and their numbers were growing. The bird species she was so fond of didn't seem to be doing any harm to Europe's ecology, just a little extra competition for similar birds in the available niches. The seventeenth century ecology of Europe seemed capable of absorbing them all, apparently there was room.

On the other hand, raccoons were spreading rapidly, earning notoriety as a real pest. The down-timers called them maskierte Teufelchen, the masked little devils. The coons could be amazingly destructive with their hand-like paws and the down-timers had never seen anything like them. No garbage was safe! Yet another destructive invader.

So, there were definitely negative effects on nature thanks to their arrival here. Pam tried not to think too much about the early industrial revolution they had ignited and the environmental disasters it was sure to cause. She hoped the up-timers involved would at least consider what a mess they had left of their former world, but it was a faint hope. Money ruled the day and there was a lot to be made, ecologies would once more be sacrificed for dollars unless measures were taken, and soon.

Pam had long wanted to do something positive, something big that would wake more people up to what they could lose. Saving the dodo, despite all the difficulties involved, still seemed like the best bet. It was such a perfect poster child; cutely ugly, pathetically incapable of defending itself, already gone extinct once in human knowledge, but still here now, at least for a little longer. They would all die in this world, too, if something weren't done.

Another thought kept niggling at her and she finally had to face it: Bringing dodos back to Europe was great but it might not be enough to guarantee their survival.

Even if they were able to transport a breeding population of dodos to the USE, there were still too many things that could go wrong. Diseases, diet—Pam knew very little about the bird she wanted to save. Of course she would take the time to study them in their natural habitat, if she could get there, but the dodos she brought back to Europe would be the equivalent of a few eggs in a very small and fragile basket. The real way to be sure would be to protect the dodos in their own natural habitat. But how? She couldn't very well erect impenetrable glass domes over the islands.

Pam managed a cynical laugh at the thought of a couple of lonely guardsmen patrolling miles of empty beaches on the remote isle in order to ward off potential threats to the dodos. If nothing were done the humans would eventually settle there according to the up-time history books, along with the pigs and cats and rats they would bring with them, destructive creatures against which the dodo had no defense. This was destined to happen again unless there were controls in place. So, who was going to do the controlling?

Pam didn't like to think it but there would have to be people there, and they would need to be her people, people she had influence over who would agree that the dodo and the natural environment of the island would be protected. That meant colonists. Pam shuddered a little. Colonists had historically never been good for any environment. But she couldn't erect a magical force field to keep people off the island, either. If dodos were going to be protected in their native Mauritius there would have to be a reason for people to be there to enforce it.

She laughed bitterly again to herself. It was pretty risky. Save the dodo by colonizing their island with people who might, with a lot of education and coaxing, agree that protecting the dodo was their civic duty. Pam visualized herself wearing a coonskin cap and a sawed off shotgun holding off an angry mob of settlers who wanted to cut down the dodo's forest to make log cabins.

Still, she had found an angle that she would have to think about. Pam Miller, leading the Mayflower to the Mascarenes. There were going to have to be some really good reasons to found a colony that far way. What would make such a venture profitable? An undertaking of that scope would also need money up front, and she suspected that the amount the princess could offer without her father's support wouldn't be enough. What could she do to sell a colony on Mauritius to Gustav? What was of value down there? A strategic port militarily as well as a good trading post. The Dutch had thought that, and later the French. There wasn't going to be a Suez Canal any time soon, Pam mused.

The Mascarenes were three paradisiacal islands smack dab on the way from Europe to India and the Orient, currently with no indigenous peoples, no permanent residents, and no firm claims by foreign powers. The Dutch had a tentative one but Pam read the papers and knew that they were a bit too preoccupied now to be focused on things like future colonies. Besides, possession was nine-tenths of the law.

The region was a fruit ripe for the picking, the Swedish had a chance to get there first, but would Gustav see that? In her research Pam had learned the Swedes had completely missed the Asian money boat in the other timeline, forming a Swedish East India Company far too late to be a competitive player in the region. Maybe they would have, if Gustav had lived in that reality? Colonizing the Mascarenes would pave the way for the Swede's empire to become an Asian power; another of many second chances for a man spared an untimely death.

It was time to continue her research so Pam decided to head to the library for a few hours. She would read Alice in Wonderland while she was at it, too, somehow she had missed it in childhood and the whimsical old classic would make a nice break from her studies, a nice distraction from the lunacy she was embarking on.

As she walked down the slowly disintegrating pavement of Grantville it occurred to her that she hadn't bothered to tell anyone else she knew about her planned adventure yet. It was something she wasn't quite ready to deal with; she needed more time to let the reality of her choice sink in. She decided she would start with her best friends, Dore and Gerbald at dinner tonight, they were sure to be understanding. Pam tried not to think about what her son and daughter in law would say.

****

That evening when she got home from her studies Pam found Dore finishing up the weekly house cleaning and Gerbald lounging on the sofa watching Gilligan's Island. There was so much wonderful entertainment that sadly had not come through the Ring of Fire with them, it was painful to think of it, but someone in town had owned the complete series on DVD, insuring the castaway's goofy antics would continue to rerun in perpetuity across all space-time. After the round of greetings Pam flopped on the sofa next to Gerbald. The show was almost over, she knew how much he enjoyed it so she kept quiet until the credits rolled.

"Pam, today I learned that there was a special episode of Gilligan's Island that didn't come through the Ring of Fire in which the castaways were rescued! Have you ever seen it? Oh, how I wish I could!" Gerbald's voice was full of excitement, he had become a diehard fan of TV and movies, they brought out the overgrown kid in him.

"Yeah, I saw it, Gerbald. The truth is you didn't miss anything. It pretty much sucked and then in the end Gilligan screwed up and they all ended up back on the island again." Pam kept her tone detached, she didn't want to admit to Gerbald that she had watched the show growing up and was rather fond of it herself.

"Ah, such a shame. Still, I wish I could see it, perhaps one day when Grantville starts making new TV shows here we could do a remake. I think I would make an excellent Skipper, although I would have to put on some weight." Pam looked at her enthusiastic friend and found it hard to believe that he had once been a very dangerous professional soldier. She decided to decline on commenting that there were a multitude of up-time shows that deserved a remake and Rescue from Gilligan's Island was not on that list. Dore came in and shook her head at her husband, a look of disgust on her wide, red-cheeked face.

"Buffoon. Imbecile. Wasting your time staring at that picture box, it's almost as bad as the drink." Pam also decided to decline to comment that having the TV on in the background had been an important factor in improving Dore's once broken English and it had certainly added to her impressive list of put downs. Pam jumped in before the usual banter could get started.

"Hey, you two, I have something I need to talk to you about. Maybe you better sit down, Dore." Dore eyed her curiously as she took the desk chair, the only other piece of furniture in the room that was not covered with Pam's work. Gerbald, also curious, straightened his lanky frame up a bit and turned to Pam. It was unusual for their friend to look this serious during their weekly get together.

"Why, what's on your mind, Pam?" he asked in his much practiced West Virginia drawl.

"Well, it's kind of a long story. A few days ago I got a call from Princess Kristina."

That made Dore's eyes widen, the woman was quietly a fan of the Vasa royalty and doted on news of their young princess. "The princess?" Dore asked, trying not to sound excited.

"Yes, the princess. She's really a nice kid, very, very smart. Anyway, she has asked me to help her save a bird."

"Then she has asked the right person!" Gerbald said smiling, proud of his American friend.

"Well, yeah, I guess I'm the 'Bird Lady' after all. The thing is, it's not a bird from around here . . ." Pam paused to engage in a careful study her of her shoes; suddenly not sure she wanted to be having this discussion right now after all.

After a while Dore grew impatient and asked "Well, tell us, dear, where is this bird from?"

"Um. From an island." Another pause.

"An island. In the Chiemsee? Or perhaps one of those in Switzerland?"

"No, it's one near Africa," Pam answered in a rather small voice.

"Africa. That's a long way to bring a bird. It must be such a special one. When it gets here you will help save it, yes? Another protected species?"

"Yes, that's part of the idea. The thing is getting it here." Pam still wasn't able to meet her friend's eyes.

Gerbald's eyebrows had begun to rise. "Pam, who will bring the bird from Africa?"

"I will." Pam looked up at them and managed a bit of a silly smile. Gerbald returned it but Dore was definitely not smiling.

"Africa! You plan to go to Africa? Africa!" Dore's voice was rising to the incredulous pitch she sometimes used when grilling Gerbald about his adventures at the tavern.

Pam gave her a helpless look. "Yeah, that's it. Actually all the way around Africa and over to some islands called the Mascarenes. That's where the dodo lives and if I don't go get some now they will all be killed over the next few years. The princess has asked me to do this." Even that last bit didn't budge the incredulous expression on Dore's face, an expression that was quickly turning to a righteous disgust.

"Madness!" Her voice sounded half strangled. "You can't go all the way to Africa, even to save a bird, it's madness!" Dore's arms, powerful from years of difficult labors, were crossed now in front of her impressive chest, the picture of a woman who had long suffered foolishness and would brook no more. "You cannot go, it is far too dangerous. There are savages and pirates there, and wild beasts that can chew you up, I have seen it on the TV. You simply must not!"

"Now, Dore. " Gerbald switched into German. "Pam is a grown woman and must make her own decisions, you cannot mother her so! You know how strongly she cares for the birds and other living things, and besides, one cannot take a request from the royal princess of the land lightly! Please see reason." Dore answered only with a dismissive caw, unable to find her voice she was so appalled at the events turning before her. Pam spoke up again, also in German; she had become nearly fluent having decided it was necessary to her life down-time.

"Dore, please my dear friend, I don't really want to go, really I don't but I feel I must. Doing this will get the princess on my side when it comes to stopping an environmental disaster here. If I help her she will help me, I have her word on this and believe it. I must go."

Dore shook her head, her initial outrage changing to sincere concern for her dearest friend. "Oh my, Pam, I can't bear to think of you making such an awful journey. When is this to happen?"

Her face was now so mournful that Pam walked across the room and gave her a hug. "I don't know yet, we've just started. It will probably be a few months, things don't usually happen very fast in this era. I need to go talk to the princess again tomorrow before she leaves town, from there most of it will depend on her. Whatever happens, I assure you I will be very careful, I intend to come back to you alive!"

"Well, of course you will! And that is why we are going with you!" Dore announced, standing up.

"You are?" It wasn't really a question; deep down Pam had known this was the likely outcome of the conversation.

"We are?" Gerbald also stood, his face alive with anticipation.

"Of course we are. We can't let Pam go off around the world alone! She will need our help on such a long journey! We must go!"

Gerbald studied his wife as if she had suddenly changed into something miraculous like a talking horse. This was too good to be true! "Why, of course we must!" he bellowed heartily. "I've always wanted to experience a sea voyage! Africa, the Dark Continent, land of adventure! How wonderful!"

"Actually we are just sailing around Africa as far as I know, but maybe we could stop and take a look around a bit . . ." Pam was starting to feel a bit giddy now; her hesitation at breaking the bizarre news to her best friends was over. They are going with me. Now I know I can do this. She grabbed Dore in a bear hug. "You two are the best, thank you!"

Dore patted her friend gently on her back, her upset finished, her eyes smiling now. "You can't be rid of us, dear Pam. We will follow you everywhere. In any case, it can't be any worse than following that lout Gerbald through all those wars."

Later, Dore was cooking the evening meal they often shared as Gerbald napped on the sofa. Pam sat at her desk, staring out her garden window, tired from too much reading and way too much thinking. God, how I miss the Internet.

"I need to come up with a plan," she mumbled into the fist that supported her chin. "I need a reason for people to want to go live on those islands. Something that will sweeten the idea up for that fat king to insure his support."

"Dinner is almost ready!" Dore called from the kitchen, giving Gerbald a chance to wake up and Pam a chance to reach a good stopping place in her work.

"Dinner . . . fat . . . sweeten . . ." Pam's eyes widened. Quickly, she pushed her chair back, startling Gerbald out of his nap, and rushed into the kitchen.

"Dore! Do you know much about the emperor? About King Gustav?"

"Well, certainly I know some things, who doesn't? I read the newspapers and listen to the talk down at the shops."

"What does he like to eat?"

"I believe he is very fond of meat, as most men are, and also of cheese."

"What about desserts?"

"Why yes, I have heard he loves chocolate and sweets. One must be a king to be able to afford such. Why are you smiling in this funny way, Pam?"

"How much does chocolate go for these days at Johnson's?"

"Oh, it is much too dear, even if it is available at all. I do not understand what the fuss is about, it's so bitter tasting unless you mix it with cream and sugar."

"Sugar! How much is that?"

"Well, it has gone down somewhat thanks to sorghum, but it is still quite expensive. We are lucky none of us here have that 'sweet tooth' so many Americans suffer from."

"Yes, that wonderful sweet tooth that King Gustav has acquired. Do you know where all those things grow? In places like Mauritius." Pam sat back and smiled.

****

Pam called the princess the next day. "I've been doing a lot of research on all this and I need to get you caught up. I'm afraid it's going to take more than one ship to really save the dodo and here's why."

The princess listened quietly as Pam explained. The problem was the dodos might not survive outside of their native habitat. If they brought a whole bunch of them to Europe the dodos might die anyway and if they did live they might not breed. Instead of the other Europeans and Africans who would eventually come and cause the dodo to die out, they needed people who would listen living there, Swedish people, whose duty would be to conserve the dodo's island, farming sensibly alongside the nature preserves.

Pam gave the princess a moment to absorb the knowledge dump before continuing.

"So, you see, I'm not sure you can afford all that on your resources alone."

"No, I probably can't do all that on my own, but with father's blessing and some of his money to help, I could pull it off. But how can we convince him it is worthwhile? I already know what he will say if I just tell him it's all to save a bird. I would be scolded for such foolishness. He's spending a lot of money on his wars right now, we have to come up with other really good reasons for him to support this."

Dang this kid is smart. "Right. Okay, here's a good reason. There's not as much info in Grantville's library on those islands as I'd like, but I have learned that they have a pretty mild climate. Up-time they raised warm weather plants like vanilla and sugar cane. If they could grow those then why not chocolate, or coffee, or cinnamon? If Sweden had a colony down there producing all that good stuff it would be a lot cheaper than we can get it trading with foreigners. Even with the long distance involved I think it would be profitable, ships are just going to get faster, and then someday airplanes! TEA Airways already flies to Venice regularly, Looking at the maps it's really not that much farther if we could get some other stops laid out on the way. I know for sure the people of the USE are going to want to buy those goods and we might eventually be able to produce extra to sell to other countries, it could be a real moneymaker for the empire. We could make the Mascarenes into the country's very own spice basket."

"Pam, that sounds perfect! I know my father loves his sweets, he and other sponsors will surely see the wisdom in this. We will get to work right away; hopefully it will just be a few months until you can go. Meanwhile, is there anything else you need from me?"

Pam cocked her head for a moment, gears turned inside there. "Actually, yes. Please get a piece of paper and a pen, preferably royal stationary if you have it. I'd like a little something from you, just in case I should ever need it . . ."

Chapter Two: Personal Affairs

Over the next few weeks the reality of Pam's looming journey began to sink in. Favorable reports were coming from the princess and her staff, it sounded like the mission was going to be a go and they would be able to leave a lot sooner than expected, maybe even the end of May. The initial giddiness of such a grand adventure was harder to feel now, more and more she found herself fretting over it. This was big, this was scary. She had plenty of vacation days coming to her at work and had decided to burn a few to have some time to think. Feeling hemmed in by her garden's cool confines she decided to take a long walk to help clear her head. It was a bright morning and that would be just the thing to help keep her worries at bay.

Soon she was climbing up a familiar West Virginia hillside, feeling the sun burning warmly on her back. She came to the hill's abrupt edge, as always marveling at the glass-sheened cliff left by whatever event had caused their journey through space-time, presumably slicing the strata on a molecular level. A Thuringian stream blocked by the new heights placed in its path had created a sizable lake below, cool waters lapping against the smooth walls of the transplanted hills.

Pam sat down near the edge with her back against a sycamore tree. She forced herself to relax, to go into what she thought of as "birdwatcher mode," a state of calm awareness, quietly paying attention only to the world around her, ignoring the incessant whispers of the inner. This odd place was where she felt most at home anymore, along this edge where two realities fused to make something new. She gazed contentedly at the lake and the comings and goings of its small inhabitants; birds, fish, frogs, insects. In a comfortable space, Pam allowed herself to drift inward, looking at herself dispassionately, as if examining some new species of life, not judging, just observing.

She had been changed by the Ring of Fire as much as sleepy old Grantville had, the totally unexpected revitalization of a declining town. The experience of time travel had wakened something in her as well, she had seen it in other up-timers, too. Second chances. The old Pam who lived in a gray zone of self pity in that other life and time had metamorphosed into something different, something better, a being of energy and convictions. A small smile came to her lips as she realized, not for the first time but a reaffirmation, that she liked herself better now, at least most of the time. Maybe this new Pam really was a person who could take on something as big as the wide world, do something as Quixotic as save a doomed species halfway across the globe.

She thought of the time she had passed this place on her way to save Gerbald, knowing she was heading into danger but ignoring the fear, conquering it, finding the strength to fight and win against the evil men who threatened her friend. She clutched the solid weight of her grandmother's walking stick, her body remembering how she had used it to devastating effect on their attacker, used it to survive, to win, the seasoned oak wood channeling an inner strength she hadn't known she had. Despite her increasing unease at what lay before her, that power was still within her, the power to fight for what she held dear.

The mission to Mauritius would surely be dangerous. It would be frightening. It would also be uncomfortable. But most of all she knew it would be worthwhile. In Pam's mind's eye she saw herself, saw the sensitive girl she had been as a child, who had wept when reading the story of the dodo in those dreary back pages of the bird guides, that terrible roll-call of the victims of extinction. She felt that little girl somehow looking at her future self with their steel gray eyes; she said "Change this."

Pam stood up, shaking her head to clear her reverie; she had seen enough. She took a big, deep breath of the fresh, cool breeze coming across the lake and smiled.

"All right, you dodos, hang in there, I'm a comin'!" she shouted merrily across the lake.

A noisy thought suddenly crashed into her mind: She had yet to tell her employers at the Research Institute of her plans, not to mention her family, starting with her father. The world spun a little too fast beneath her feet for a moment. Deep breaths, deep breaths!

****

Surprisingly, her father took it well. He had aged a bit since the Ring of Fire, but there was a sparkle in Walter Miller's eyes, becoming the high school chemistry teacher had revitalized him. Being around kids could do that, on those occasions when it doesn't age one faster. In Pam's experience, things always went better with other people's kids. Not to say her father hadn't done a good job in her eyes, she had never wanted for anything and if he was not one for a lot of overt affection she always knew she was loved and he had always been the encouraging type when it came to Pam's choices growing up.

This time, considering the dangers involved, Pam had expected, and maybe deep down, wanted him to be upset by the news but he took it all in stride. He looked at her with eyes that closely resembled her own and told her "Pammie, I'm real proud of you. Always have been, but now more than ever. I like what you are doing with the school kids, I see it making a difference with them, and I like that you are taking a leadership role in environmental protection. I dabbled in it myself in my youth and I'm glad to see I raised a daughter who is going to really do something to help this old new world. I know you can do it. When Pam Miller puts her mind to it, she can do anything!"

This unexpectedly stirring praise managed to make Pam cry, so her father held her and gently patted her on her head for a long, quiet time.

Unfortunately it did not go so well with Crystal, who was bound to be this meeting's designated crier. Pam was by no means surprised and felt awful as a just-got-pregnant Crystal cried and cried in her mother-in-law's nervous but sincere embrace.

"Oh, Momma Pam, you just can't be gone for a whole year! What about the ba-ba-baby-y-y-y!" Her voice broke up into incoherent sobbing.

Pam grimaced, she had known Crystal was going to take it hard, but yeesh. So, she overrode her embarrassment at the outburst and hugged Crystal even tighter. Crystal Blocker had come through the Ring of Fire with only a single aunt for family and was whole-heartedly invested in changing that. Now that she had married Pam's son Walt and become Crystal Dormann, she had a mom again and Pam had encouraged the relationship, having often wondered what it would have been like to have had a daughter to balance her often stubborn and difficult only child. She buried a rueful grin that her grown boy Walt was Crystals' problem now instead of hers and patted Crystal firmly on the back.

"Hey, hey, honey, listen. It's not as awful as you're making it out to be. It's just for a year and that's a blink of the eye, trust me. Come on, what's a regular old year to a bunch of time travelers like us, huh? I'll be back before you know it."

"But you're going all the way to Africa, it's so far, it will be so dangerous!" Tears streaked from Crystal's bright green eyes, down her pretty-as-a-penny freckled face.

"It won't be that bad. Besides, Gerbald and Dore will be along and you know they won't let anything bad happen to me, right?" Crystal regarded her new German uncle and auntie very highly. This served to calm her down a bit. "And, when we get back we'll all have a big birthday party for my new grandchild, I promise! I'm so proud of you, honey. I just need you to be strong for me, this is something I just gotta do!" They hugged again and Crystal allowed as how she understood. Eventually Pam got her settled down enough where she could leave her, still sniffly but accepting of her mother-in-law's decision. As she left the house Pam found Walt standing in the driveway, with a very dark look on his still young face.

Uh-oh, Pam thought, this isn't going to go well. Walt had listened silently to his mother explain about her dodo rescue mission. He had walked out without saying a word when Crystal's tears came. Pam's stomach clinched, no doubt her son was ready to have his say now. Here it comes..

"Way to go, Mom. Nice," he told her in well-practiced sarcastic tones. Pam was sure that he had been drinking some moonshine out in the garage.

"She'll be fine, Walt. I've got her calmed down. She's a strong girl." Pam stood up straight, meeting her son's eyes, so like her own.

"Yeah, right. Crystal lost everything coming through that fucking ring and now she's losing you, too, Momma Pam. Obviously, you don't give a shit." Walt glared at her, his flushed face full of disgust.

Pam took a deep breath. "I'm sorry you think that, Walt. You are wrong, of course. I care about Crystal and you, and your baby to be, very much. Even so, I am an adult and there are things I have to do— This is one of them. I'm sorry it doesn't fit into your plans for me."

"Oh yeah, sail halfway around the world to save some freaky looking bird that's too stupid to run away from hunters. And that is going to what? Somehow save the world from a new industrial revolution? Good fucking luck! What the hell does it matter anyway? This world is going to end up just as screwed up as the last one and there's nothing you can do about it."

"I'm very disappointed to hear you talk that way. I didn't think I'd raised such a negative person. I thought I'd taught you better than that."

"Yeah, like you were a ray of sunshine while I was growing up. What I remember is you were usually depressed and only took a break from that to bitch at me about doing my homework. Now, there was a great waste of time, all that 'getting ready for college' is doing me a lot of good now, isn't it? They don't even have colleges back here in the dark ages. You made my life miserable for nothing!"

"Well, I am so sorry I wasn't some perfect Leave it to Beaver mom for you, Walt. God knows, your father wasn't exactly helping me any. And actually they do have colleges here, not that you would know since you decided to make the 250 Club the extent of your down-time travels. Yeah, I wonder if Crystal knows about that? 'You're going to be home late from work again, Honey? Okay!'"That got under his skin, he had been starting to say something and stopped. Apparently what she had heard was true.

Pam continued."Ya know, sometimes I don't love our new reality much either, but I've come to accept it, it's whatever you decide to make of it and it most certainly is not the Dark Ages, which you would know if you had ever actually bothered to give one tiny shit about your education. As for wasting time, I can see now that is exactly what I was doing when I made you do your homework, nothing in my power could possibly stop you from your chosen course of becoming an ignorant grass-chewing redneck, destined to work the mines and die of black lung at age forty. Well, don't let me stop you now, you're a real hillbilly I can see that. Go kick some cow pies for me, I've got better things to do."

"You self-righteous bitch. You've never loved anybody but yourself. It was always all about you."

Pam took a long look at her son and then in a lightning quick motion stepped up close to him while landing a swift, hard slap across his face. It was the first time she had ever applied a hand to him in his life.

"That's for thinking I don't love you, son." While Walt was stunned from that blow she slapped him again even harder. "And that's for not living up to your potential, for not even trying to. Crystal deserves better than what you have become. God, I hope you see it in time and get yourself right before it's too late." Pam fixed him with a long piercing stare until he looked down at his shoes, his face red, hot with shame and pain, the fight all knocked out of him. Then she turned and walked away.

Well, that could have gone better. God's own truth is I should have done that a long time ago. She ignored the tears that streamed down her face as she marched back to her little pink house in the sunflowers. She was ready to go now.

****

To be continued . . .

Treasures of the Earth: Geophysical and Geochemical Prospecting

Written by Iver P. Cooper

Conventional prospecting depended on learning to "read the earth": spotting pegmatites in granite; recognizing sulfide stains in outcrops, or a limonite mass (gossan, "iron hat") covering an ore body; examining talus slopes for desirable minerals and then working uphill to find their source; understanding where gold and other heavy metal particles might accumulate in a stream; searching the Gulf Coast for low mounds associated with a sulfurous smell—like the famous Spindletop dome.

Geophysical prospecting takes advantage of the local differences in the earth's physical properties (magnetism, gravity, seismic response, resistivity, etc.) created by geologic structures and changes in rock types, to find anomalies that are suggestive of gas, oil or mineral deposits.

Geochemical prospecting looks for chemical gradients, tracing these trails back to their source.

Well logging is not conventionally considered a form of prospecting, but the examination of drilling records can be quite revealing of what lies below the earth's surface.

The Lure of the Lodestone: Magnetometry

In what strange regions 'neath the polar star

May the great hills of massy lodestone rise,

Virtue imparting to the ambient air

To draw the stubborn iron. . . .

—Guido Guinicelli (d. 1276) (Bauer 16).

Magnetic Anomalies

The basis for magnetic prospecting is that the earth's powerful magnetic field magnetizes certain crustal materials, causing them to generate their own magnetic fields. These fields constitute a local magnetic anomaly that is superimposed on the general magnetic field created by the Earth's core.

The amenability of a mineral to magnetization is called its susceptibility; the most magnetizable ones are magnetite ("lodestone," iron oxide), ilmenite (titanium-iron oxide), and pyrrhotite (iron sulfide). The susceptibilities of rocks are in turn dependent on that of their component minerals. Igneous rocks can have relatively high susceptibilities whereas that of sedimentary rocks is low.

Magnetic prospecting is typically used to (1) find magnetic minerals, (2) find non-magnetic minerals that are associated with magnetic minerals (e.g., pentlandite, an iron-nickel or iron-nickel-cobalt sulfide, is associated with pyrrhotite, and copper, nickel, lead and zinc sulfides are associated with magnetite), or (3) determine the depth to basement (igneous) rocks and thus the depth of a sedimentary basin (which could in turn contain oilfields).

The earth's average total magnetic field is 0.5 Oersteds (50,000 gammas or nanoteslas). There are large-scale geographic variations in magnetic field strength; in 1965, it varied from about 68,000 gammas on the Antarctic coast, to about 24,000 gammas in southern Brazil (Dobrin 486). (At one time, it was thought that these variations might be regular enough so that navigators could use them to determine longitude.) Of course, over a sufficiently limited area, the variation is smaller; within Sweden, for example, it was about 1500 gammas. Grantville literature includes maps showing worldwide variation in magnetic declination, dip (inclination), horizontal force, and vertical force for 1907. ( EB11/Magnetism, Terrestrial, Figs. 1-4 ).

If a magnetic ore body (30% magnetite) were a sphere of 100 foot radius, with its center at a depth of 200 feet, then it would create a magnetic anomaly with a vertical component of 9,450 gammas (Dobrin 502). The anomaly is proportional to the average susceptibility and to the cube of the radius, and inversely proportional to the cube of the depth, so the ability to find an ore body falls off drastically as the body is buried deeper underground, and large bodies are much easier to find than small ones. But a small body near the surface may direct attention away from a large, deep one.

As an example of a real-life magnetic anomaly, take Pea Ridge, Missouri. Airborne magnetometers (altitude, 1800 feet) detected an anomaly of 3200 gamma. The ore body (good for two million tons annually) was at a depth of 1250 feet, and about 3000 feet in diameter. (557).

There are pitfalls for the unwary in magnetic surveying. Magnetite has a much higher susceptibility than other minerals. Hence, in Wisconsin, Michigan and Minnesota, many anomalies were found that were associated with commercially worthless deposits in which small amounts of magnetite were mixed with nonferrous minerals. It therefore helps to confirm a magnetic anomaly with the gravimeter (557). On the other hand, the survey would probably overlook a rich deposit of hematite, because hematite is non-magnetic. (555)

Magnetic surveys for ore bodies are made on a fine grid, with stations separated by as little as 25 feet. In the twentieth century, the main problem in magnetic surveying was making sure that the stations were sufficiently far away from iron objects. That will be less of a problem in the 1632verse, where there's a paucity of railroad tracks, power lines, wire fencing, and automobiles. However, there will be more difficulty in transporting the equipment from station to station.

Generally speaking, the magnetic anomalies associated with the ore bodies that are shallow and rich enough to be of interest are also likely to be so big that they will stand out against the regional variation within a given magnetic survey area. (Dobrin 553). Hence, regional correction isn't necessary.

The basement structures of interest to petroleum geologists are much deeper and their rocks are less magnetic. Hence, they are likely to generate anomalies measured in tens or at most hundreds of gammas. (Dobrin 503). Hence, to "see" these anomalies, we would need to correct for more regional features. This is feasible in the early seventeenth century; the first major magnetic survey (of the Atlantic) was conducted by Halley in 1701. (These surveys gradually become outdated, as the intensities change, by as much as 120 gammas/year, in an irregular way.) Regional magnetic trends can be mapped at a grid spacing of say ten miles (521).

Since the features are at a larger scale, sedimentary basin-oriented magnetic surveys are usually conducted by air or ship, and if land instruments are used, the stations are typically a mile apart.

A magnetic survey can take days or weeks, so one also has to worry about more rapid changes in magnetism with time. Magnetic storms occur intermittently, as a result of solar activity, and can change the field strength by 1000 gammas (more in polar regions). Hence, surveys must shut down during magnetic storms. There is also a predictable daily variation with an amplitude of about 25 gammas.

Magnetometers

Now let's talk about how geomagnetism is measured. I will use the term "magnetometer" to refer to any device, however primitive, that can be used to quantify the magnetic field. Other than at the magnetic poles and equator, the magnetic field has both a vertical and a horizontal component. Some magnetometers only measure one component, whereas others measure the total field.

According to Dobrin (19), "The magnetic compass was first used in prospecting for iron ore as early as 1640." Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if this use predated the Ring of Fire (RoF). The ability of iron objects to deflect the needle (“deviation”) was known in the sixteenth century.

A traditional compass has a magnetic needle, but it's constrained to move only horizontally. That limits its utility in detecting large masses of magnetic minerals; if you were standing over the orebody, the needle might stay still, or it might spin around, but it certainly isn't going to point straight down.

If the compass were free to pivot vertically, it would dip, thereby orienting the needle with the local magnetic field. The needle would be vertical at the earth's magnetic poles and horizontal on the magnetic equator. The magnetic "dip" (inclination) was discovered by Georg Hartmann in 1544 and further studied by Robert Norman later in the sixteenth century. William Gilbert suggested that the dip could be used to determine latitude when the sky was obscured; Henry Hudson refuted this (and in the process sailed rather close to the north magnetic pole). (Ricker)

While dip-compasses were invented in the sixteenth century, mining historians suggest that they were not used for prospecting until the eighteenth or even the nineteenth century (Brough 309). I suspect that this is too pessimistic. That said, the "Swedish Mining Compass" and innumerable variants certainly became popular in the nineteenth century.

There are, of course, many possible variations in how the needle is suspended, and how its position is gauged. One form was the inclinometer, which only pivoted vertically. A regular compass would be used to find the magnetic meridian (magnetic north-south line) and then the inclinometer needle would be aligned with it.

Modern dip needle magnetometers have a practical sensitivity of 10 gamma and a maximum sensitivity, in temperature-controlled environments, of 1 gamma. (Morrison 3.5).

EBCD15 says that the simplest absolute magnetometer (Gauss 1832) was a permanent bar magnet suspended by a gold [silk?] fiber; you had to measure the period of oscillation of the magnet. The problems of timing oscillations are discussed below in the context of pendulum-type gravimeters.

In the Schmidt vertical balance, the magnet was balanced on a knife edge, near but not at the center of mass, in such a manner that it would be turned clockwise (say) by gravity and counterclockwise by geomagnetism. The magnet was oriented perpendicular to the local "magnetic meridian" so the horizontal component of the magnetic field would not affect it. A mirror was attached to the top of the magnet, and a light beam reflected off the mirror to illuminate a graduated scale. It had a sensitivity of ten gamma. (Dobrin 505ff). All that Grantville literature says about this device is that it’s a relative magnetometer that “uses a horizontally balanced bar magnet equipped with mirror and knife edges.” (EBCD15).

The earth inductor, invented by Charles Delzenne in 1847, works on a completely different principle. A circular coil is mounted so that it can be rapidly rotated around an axis lying along a diameter of the coil. This axis in turn is mounted in a frame, which is itself mounted on pivots. If the axis isn't parallel to the local magnetic field, the field produces an alternating current in the coil, which in turn can be detected by a galvanometer. The frame would first be positioned horizontally (to measure the vertical component of the magnetic field with the galvanometer) and then vertically (to measure the horizontal component). (Kenyon) I do not believe that there is any description of the earth inductor in Grantville literature, but it’s conceivable that one of the resident electrical engineers is familiar with it. And it could certainly be re-invented.

Like the earth inductor, the aviator’s magnetic inductor compass senses the earth’s magnetic field by induction. The movement of an airplane causes the turning of a paddlewheel or windmill, which rotates the armature of a generator. The geomagnetic field induces a current in the armature coil, which can be sensed with a galvanometer. There was a controller (roughly equivalent to Delzenne’s frame) that could be rotated to indicate the desired heading, so that there would be no current if the plane were on course. The inductor compass was popular in the Twenties and Thirties but has long been obsolete. Still, Jesse Wood may know something about it.

The flux gate magnetometer was developed in World War II (for detecting submarines), the nuclear magnetic resonance (proton precession) magnetometer in 1954, and the optically-pumped magnetometer in the Sixties. The first two instruments have sensitivities of about one gamma (Morrison 3.5). They are briefly described by EB15 and McGHEST/Magnetometer.

While the encyclopedias don't provide much information about magnetometers that would be practical in the early post-RoF period, they aren't the only relevant Grantville literature.

The Scientific American Amateur Scientist column covered "how to make a sensitive magnetometer" in February 1968. Imagine my surprise when this turned about to be a differential (gradient measuring) proton procession magnetometer. "The magnetometer featured sensor coils wound on small bottles of distilled water and an audio amplifier employing germanium transistors and a hand-wound tuned transformer filter." (Fountain). We certainly aren't going to be mass producing these 'Wadsworth" magnetometers, but we probably have enough up-time transistors around to build a few of them. Or perhaps their integrated circuit equivalents.

Shipborne and Airborne Magnetometry

Magnetic surveys can be conducted from ships or aircraft, if the magetometer is towed so as to distance it from the metal of the vehicle, and you can calculate the position at which each reading was taken (Dobrin 523ff).

Putting a magnetometer in the air makes it possible to survey a large area quickly. However, you need a more sensitive instrument, because the intensity falls off with the cube of the effective depth (altitude plus depth from surface). Over the Dayton ore body in Nevada, the vertical anomaly was over 30,000 gamma and at an altitude of 500 feet, the total anomaly was about 3,000. (560).

Magnetometry in the 1632verse

I expect that dip-compasses will be used for iron ore prospecting in the USE and Sweden by 1633-1635. Don’t sneer at these simple devices; they were used in iron ore exploration until about 1950 (Kennedy, Surface Mining 57). And airships will come in very handy for magnetic surveys of the wilds of Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia—if the magnetometer is sensitive enough for aerial use.

Newton's Apple: Gravimetry

Gravitational Anomalies

Now let's talk about gravity. If the earth were isolated in space, perfectly spherical, and of uniform density—that is, chunks of equal volume had the same mass—then the force of gravity you felt would be constant wherever you walked.

In fact, and fortunately, none of those conditions apply. We feel the gravitational force of the sun and moon as well as the earth—that's why tides exist. Also, the earth isn't perfectly spherical, and it isn't uniform. So even the earth's gravitational force isn't constant.

The earth's force of gravity is the aggregate result of the individual pulls of every drop of water, every grain of sand, and every chip of rock on the planet. Each individual pull is proportional to the density of the "bit" (assuming all bits are equal in volume) and the distance between the observer and that bit, and inversely proportional to the cube of the distance between the observer's center of gravity and that of the planet. (For a sphere of uniform density, these "pulls" add up so that the aggregate effect is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the centers.)

So if the Assiti were suddenly to replace a sphere of rock, some distance beneath your feet, with a sphere of water, there would be a reduction in the local force of gravity, because water isn't as dense as rock (usually) and the "pull" from that sphere would be reduced. This is a negative gravitational anomaly. And if the Assiti instead replaced the sphere of rock with a sphere of solid lead, the density and thus the "pull" would be increased, and we would have a positive gravitational anomaly. The difference in density that creates the anomaly is called the density contrast.

As we walk away from the point that lies directly above this Assiti sphere, the anomaly becomes smaller (less positive or less negative) and eventually becomes undetectable.

Now, here are the two key points that make this of interest to people who want to find oil. First, oil is often trapped above or alongside a geological structure called a salt dome, essentially a big vertical mass of salt extruded upward like geological toothpaste. Secondly, salt is usually less dense than the surrounding rock.

If we can detect these small changes in local gravity that are the result of density contrast, then we can find salt domes.

So, we have two questions to answer before we can design an appropriate instrument. First, how small are the anomalies associated with salt domes (or other geologic structures that we want to find)? Second, how do they compare in magnitude to the average force of gravity and to the other conditions that can affect local gravity?

In the geophysical prospecting business, gravitational force is measured in galileos (Gals). On this scale, the average gravitational force at the earth's surface is 980 Gals. A milliGal is one-thousandth of a Gal; a microGal, one-millionth.

The average density of rock salt is 2.22; sedimentary rock, 2.50; igneous (2.7); and metamorphic rock, 2.74. So, on average, there is a density contrast of 0.28 between salt and sedimentary rock, creating a negative gravitational anomaly.

For a sphere in a homogeneous country rock, the peak gravitational anomaly (milligals) is 8.53 * density contrast * radius (kilofeet)3 /depth (kilofeet)2. The shape of the gravitational anomaly profile (the falloff as you move away from directly above the center of the sphere) indicates the depth of the sphere.

A vertical cylinder is a better model of a salt dome (or a volcanic plug), but the formula is more complex; 12.77 * density contrast * (length of the cylinder + diagonal distance from surface point above axis of cylinder to perimeter of top face - diagonal distance to perimeter of bottom face). Thus, a cylinder of salt with a constant density contrast of 0.2, running from 2,000 feet to 14,000 feet, with a radius of 4,000 feet, would create an anomaly of 4.88 milligals. If the contrast were 0.3, it would be 7.32 milligals, and if the cylinder also ran from 1,000 to 13,000 feet, it would be 9.66. On the other hand, if the contrast were 0.2 and the cylinder ran from 8,000 to 14,000 feet, it would be 0.98.

Given knowledge of Newton’s law, potential theory, and calculus, all of which are in Grantville literature, the mathematicians of NTL Europe should be able to calculate the anomaly profiles that would be created by various density contrast geometries.

The peak negative anomaly associated with the deep seated Lovell Lake salt dome (Jefferson County, Texas) was about one milliGal (Dobrin2d, 400). The one over Minden Dome, Louisiana was about 5.5 milligals. (Dobrin 470).

You can have a salt dome present and not detect it by gravity methods because of lack of density contrast. The density range of salt (2.1-2.6) overlaps with that of sandstone, 1.61-2.76; shale, 1.77-3.20; limestone, 1.93-2.90 (Seigel). Or the dome could be obscured because the reduced gravitational force from the salt is compensated for by increased gravitational force from the cap rock (cap rocks are usually anhydrite, 2.93; calcite, 2.65; or gypsum, 2.35).Or you could see a density contrast, but find that salt isn't involved. Hence, a favorable gravity survey was usually followed by (more expensive but more informative) seismic studies.

We can also detect the positive gravitational anomaly associated with a large ore body. The metallic minerals include manganite (4.32), chromite (4.36), ilmenite (4.67), magnetite (5.12), malachite (4.0) , pyrite (4.6), pyrrhotite (4.65), cassiterite (6.92) and wolframite (7.32). For example, the Mobrun copper-zinc-silver-gold ore body was essentially pyrite in igneous rock. Its peak anomaly was about 1.6 milligals. The Pyramid lead-zinc ore body in Canada peaked at 0.8 milligals, and a Russian chromite deposit at 1.2. (Seigel).

Grantville literature (EB15CD) warns that different structures can produce the same anomalies. For example, a large sphere with a small density and a small sphere with a big density contrast, centered at the same depth, could have the same anomaly profiles.

From the foregoing, it seems that we want to be able to detect anomalies in the 1-10 milliGal range. Moreover, if we want to map the structure, not merely detect the peak, we would probably want sensitivity on the order of 0.1 milligals. So that means that we need to be able to subtract out, not only the average force of gravity, but also any large-scale variations with a magnitude larger than perhaps 0.01 milligals.

EB15CD may scare some would-be prospectors away from gravimetry; it says that for petroleum and mineral prospecting, the necessary accuracy is approaching the microGal (0.001 milligal) level. (Modern petroleum surveys use gravimeters with an accuracy of about 0.005 milligals (Seidel).)

Because the earth bulges at the equator, putting the surface further away, the force is less there (978 Gals) than at the poles (983 Gals). (This includes a slight correction for the centrifugal force caused by the Earth's rotation, which the gravimeters can't distinguish from the gravitational force.) The variation is highly nonlinear, but at 45 degrees, it’s 980.6, and within a few degrees of that value, the change in gravity with latitude is about 90 milligals per degree (Author’s calculation).

The terrain effect is more complicated. If you are on the summit of a mountain, you are moved further from the center of the earth, reducing gravity by about 0.3 milliGals per meter elevation above "sea level" (the "free air" effect), but the additional mass of the mountain is pulling on you, increasing gravity by about 0.1 milliGal per meter if the mountain had average crustal density (2.67)(Bouguer effect), for a net elevation effect of 0.2 milligals/meter.

The accuracy of the elevation data for the "station" limits the achievable accuracy in measuring local gravity. The surveyors in Grantville will be familiar with methods of determining elevation. An elevation difference may be measured trigonometrically, or estimated from the air pressure difference sensed by a barometer. With the anomalies of interest being on the order 1-10 milligals at peak, we clearly must be able to measure elevation with an accuracy of a meter or two. That’s not too difficult on the Hanoverian plain but more problematic in the Carpathians.

The formulae for the latitude, free air and Bouguer effects are in Grantville literature (EB15CD).

You are affected, of course, not only by the land beneath your feet but also, to a lesser extent, by hills and valleys nearby. Even a two foot “bump” would, if less than 55 feet away, require a correction of 2 microgals; which would have to be taken into account in a high-precision (using gravimeters of ~ 1-10 microGal sensitivity) survey. The total effect, outside mountain regions, is not likely to exceed 1 milliGal (Wu), but that's still a lot if you are trying to detect a peak anomaly of 1-10 milligals. Hence, it’s a good idea to locate the stations as much as possible on flat terrain, even if that means departing from a mathematically perfect grid arrangement.

In 1939, Hammer developed complex terrain correction zone charts and tables that provided accuracy to 0.1 milligals; for example, a 30' hill at 50 feet from the station, or a 4300' peak that was 12 miles away, each would warrant an adjustment of 0.1 milligals. (Dobrin 420ff). These tables didn’t pass through RoF but can certainly be prepared by an appropriately programmed computer; based on knowledge of physics and calculus that Grantville can pass on. The real problem is that to apply these corrections, you need a detailed, accurate topographic survey.

If you are trying to detect a small-scale feature like a salt dome, then you need to subtract out regional trends caused by deep-seated structural features. For example, as you approach the Gulf of Mexico from inland, there is a decrease in regional gravity of about 1 milligal/mile. (Dobrin 437). Accounting for this requires collecting gravimetric data over a sufficiently wide area in order to quantify the regional trend.

There are still other perturbations that affect high-precision surveys. The sun and moon cause tidal variation in local gravity with time, typically on the order of 0.1 milliGals. Changes in atmospheric pressure change the mass of the air column over your head, and these changes are on the order of 0.36 microGals/millibar. Rainfall can raise the water level, increasing gravity by about 0.04 milliGals per meter of retained water.

Gravimeters

Would-be geophysical prospectors may be unduly discouraged by the statement, in Grantville literature, that “gravimeters used in geophysical surveys have an accuracy of about 0.01 milligal” (EB15CD). As shown by the preceding analysis, one that can detect even a 1–20 milliGal anomaly may at least reveal the existence of a salt dome, and one with an accuracy of 0.1 milligals should be able to able to give some idea of its possible shape.

When you are measuring a tiny effect, you have to worry about instrument errors caused by its own physical limitations or its surroundings. There are essentially three approaches. First, you can attempt to isolate the instrument from the confounding factor. Second, you can construct the apparatus or conduct the experiment in such a way that the factor acts twice, in opposing sense, and thus cancels itself out. (This could be simply averaging out a random variation.) Finally, you can measure or predict the magnitude of the error, and adjust the raw data accordingly.

An absolute gravimeter measures gravity directly. A relative gravimeter—the more common kind—tells us how the gravity at position A compares with that at position B, but must be calibrated by using it alongside an absolute gravimeter.

Gravimeters use one of three principles: timing the oscillation of a swinging or twisting pendulum; measuring the elongation of a spring; or timing the free fall of an object.

Grantville literature reveals that until the 1950s, all absolute measurements were made with pendulum gravimeters; spring gravimeters can’t provide an absolute value, and it wasn’t possible until then to time a falling body with sufficient accuracy. Likewise, it teaches that until 1930, all relative measurements were made with pendulums, but these were superseded by spring-based instruments. (EB15CD).

Torsion balance. This was the first device used for gravity prospecting. (Pendulums, discussed below, were used previously to measure local gravity, but only for determining the shape of the earth). The balance had a horizontal bar suspended with a silk fiber. If a force was applied to one end of the bar, the bar would rotate, twisting the fiber. The fiber would of course try to untwist, thus supplying an opposing torque. The greater the applied force, the greater the twist angle attained. In 1777, Coulomb used this principle to measure electrostatic forces.

The torsion balance was used to determine the gravitational constant by measuring its deflection (Cavendish, 1798) or change in period of oscillation (Braun 1897) when a neighboring weight was moved from one side to another. (EB15CD/gravitation).

The Coulomb and Cavendish experiments were classic science experiments, and there may be useful descriptions of their apparatus in general science or physics textbooks that passed through the RoF. The physics majors in Grantville may also have duplicated one or both experiments in their college days.

In order to measure local gravity, Coulomb's device was modified by Eotvos (1901) so that the gravitational force on one end was greater than the force on the other. In essence, that meant placing weights on the ends in such a way that there was a vertical as well as a horizontal separation between them. If there was a localized gravitational anomaly, the "pull" on one weight could be at a slightly different angle and intensity than that on the other, and the component of the net force that acted horizontally and at right angles to the bar would cause the bar to rotate. (Dobrin2d, 201ff). Strictly speaking, the Eotvos torsion balance measured the gradient (the rate of change over distance) of the earth's gravitational field, not its value at a particular point. (SEG/Timelines).

The torsion balance is briefly described by Grantville literature (EB15CD/torsion balance). The device was light and compact, and accurate to perhaps 2 microgals (SEG). It helped prospectors discover 79 oil fields in the Gulf Coast in the Twenties and Thirties. However, measurements were extremely time-consuming, as, for each gravity determination, readings had to be taken in three different orientations, 120 degrees apart, and then one orientation repeated. Since the device took an hour to stabilize for each reading, that meant that a single gravity determination took four hours (and someone eventually had to solve a system of simultaneous equations to obtain the local gravity from the readings). The typical spacing between "stations" was a quarter or half mile.

The other problem with the torsion balance was that it was so sensitive to surface topography, that it had good sensitivity only in flat terrain (Louisiana being ideal in this regard.)

Spring Gravimeters. If we suspend a weight on a spring, gravity will pull down the weight, fighting against the elastic restoring force of the spring. If the stretch is small, the elongation is proportional to the gravitational force. The spring may be linear or helical. To make the elongation observable, it's amplified by mechanical (levers) or optical means.

Despite its clear preference for spring gravimeters, Grantville literature (EB15CD) doesn’t say much about them. Herschel proposed a spring gravimeter in 1849, but it wasn’t sensitive enough. “The difficulties Herschel had encountered were overcome by choosing suitably stable material for the springs, by employing mechanical, electrical or optical devices to amplify the small displacements of the system, and by providing temperature control of compensation.”

That’s helpful, but doesn’t address several fundamental issues. First, to sense a 1 part in X change in gravity, you need to be able to detect a 1 part in X change in the elongation of the spring. So, for a sensitivity of 0.1 milligals (100 ppm) , you would need to be able to detect a change of 100 microns in a spring that initially is one meter long. And that also explains why temperature control is so important; a 1oC change in temperature would change the length of even a quartz spring by 5.5 microns.

Secondly, there’s the problem of oscillation. Imagine a mass suspended by a spring. Press down on the mass, and release, it will oscillate up and down until friction and air resistance bring it to a halt. The sensitivity of a simple spring gravimeter is proportional to the square of the period of the oscillation. That of course means that it takes a lot more time to get a reading with a more sensitive unit. But that’s not all; for the system to have a period of 20 seconds, the spring length would have to be 100 meters! Plainly, we have to cheat.

The “Gulf gravimeter” used a spring wound into a helix; the force of gravity on the weight at the end caused the spring to both elongate and rotate, and the rotation caused the deflection of a light beam.

In the LaCoste-Romberg gravimeter (1934), a cantilevered spring, anchored above the hinge of a hinged beam with a weight at the far end, acts at an angle on a point near the far end; the component of the spring force perpendicular to the beam balances the weight at "normal" gravity so the beam is nearly horizontal. If the local gravity is different from normal, the weight will pivot up or down, changing both the elongation and the angle of action of the spring.

The unstretched length of the spring is as close to zero as possible. A mirror on the beam reflects a light beam, that illuminates a scale; this provides a further optical magnification. The mechanism is inside an insulated housing that communicates with a thermostat-controlled, battery-powered electric oven. (Dobrin 388). There may be a schematic diagram of this gravimeter in the 1977McGHEST at the Grantville high school library (cp. 2002McGHEST).

As an example of a modern instrument, EB15CD cites the “Worden gravimeter” (1948), but without providing any construction details; just performance characteristics (it can measure gravity of 0.01 milligals in a few minutes, and weighs just a few pounds).A "zero-length" fused quartz spring acts in opposition to a weighted arm about a torsion fiber. The spring mechanism is inside an evacuated thermos flask, and the spring is connected to differential expansion arms, all to minimize the effect of changes in temperature and pressure. (Dobrin 391).

Fused quartz is used because it has a very low coefficient of thermal expansion; Grantville engineers will know of this property. It is made by subjecting very pure silica to fusing temperatures (3200° F). Fused quartz was originally made by fusing natural Brazilian crystals.

Another low-coefficient material that the engineers will be yearning for is Invar, a nickel-steel alloy invented in 1896. Grantville literature almost certainly contains a reference book that reveals its composition (64% iron, 36% nickel) but if there are any alloying "tricks" they will need to be rediscovered. Local German supplies of nickel are probably adequate to meet the demand for making Invar for precision instruments.

In the seventeenth century, wood was used in low-coefficient applications (like the pendulums of a pendulum clock). Once borosilicate glass is available, it too will be an option.

Pendulum Gravimeters. If the bob of a pendulum is drawn away from under its pivot point, and released, the force of gravity will cause it to swing back and forth. Friction and aerodynamic drag gradually reduce the amplitude (size) of the swings and bring it to rest.

If we imagine an ideal simple pendulum (no forces other than gravity, the bob is a point mass, the cord is massless), then for small amplitudes (angles of swing) the period approximates 2*pi*square root (length/local gravitational acceleration). A real pendulum's behavior is close enough to the ideal so that this relationship was discovered experimentally by Galileo.

The relationship meant that if gravity and length were constant, the period would also be constant, and you would have a means of measuring time. Pendulum clocks were conceived of by Galileo in 1637, and independently invented (and actually built) by Christian Huygens in 1656. In 1673 he published a treatise on the pendulum that established that the period was affected by amplitude and, for timekeeping accuracy, the amplitude had to be kept small. He also calculated the behavior of a ideal compound pendulum (we still ignore friction and air resistance, but the pendulum is a swinging rigid body), which is a better model of a real pendulum.

In 1666, Robert Hooke suggested that a pendulum clock could be used to measure the force of gravity. An ideal compound pendulum has a period which is the same as that of a simple pendulum with a length equal to the distance from the pivot point to the "center of oscillation." The center of oscillation is not readily determinable by calculation or observation, because its location is dependent on how the mass is distributed along the arm of the pendulum. Hence, in ordinary use, a pendulum is a relative gravimeter. The ratio of its periods at two different locations is the reciprocal of the ratio of the square roots of the local gravities. Initially, the standard surveying pendulum was the meter-long "seconds pendulum," one taking a second per swing (so period of two seconds) at "standard gravity." It was replaced around 1880 by the "half-second pendulum," only one-quarter the length.

Grantville literature ( CRC) has a table of "acceleration due to gravity and length of the seconds pendulum," including the "free air correction for altitude."

In 1672, Jean Richer discovered that a pendulum clock was 2.5 minutes/day slower in Cayenne, French Guiana than it was in Paris. He thus had detected the difference in gravitational force between the latitudes of Cayenne (4° 55' N) and Paris (48° 50' N); about 2.9 Gals.

It's amazing to me that so many books refer to this discovery without asking the following question: how did Richer tell that there a difference in the speed of the pendulum speed? After all, if the best clocks were pendulum clocks, any such clock brought to Cayenne would suffer the same slowdown. It's necessary to have a clock that tells time (at least over the short term) at least as accurately as a pendulum clock, but which works on a different principle so that it's unaffected by gravity.

We know that Richer made telescopic observations, and most likely his reference "clock" was an astronomical one; he counted the number of pendulum swings in a solar day (noon to noon), or in a sidereal day (star returns to same position in sky), or perhaps between two particular orientations of the moons of Jupiter. (Matthews 145).

To measure time by an “astronomical clock,” you need to at least account for the effect of the tilt of the earth’s axis and the ellipticity of its orbit around the sun (UT0, mean solar time). Desirably, you also correct for the wobble of the earth’s axis (UT1) and its annual and semi-annual variations (UT2). There are unpredictable irregularities in the spin rate that give rise to a time prediction error of about 60 milliseconds/year. (Allan). The preferred astronomical clock, by the way, is a photographic zenith tube, a telescope that photographs stars that pass directly overhead and records the time of transit. (Popular Mechanics, January 1948 p. 138).

For accuracy in measuring gravity (or time), there are a few confounding factors one must worry about: Is the rod stretched by the weight of the bob? Does it expand or contract with changes in temperature? Does it absorb moisture? Is it slowed down by friction at the pivot point or by air resistance? Is the density of air it's passing through changed by changes in atmospheric temperature or pressure?

In 1818, Kater invented the first reversible pendulum. This took advantage of Huygen's theorem that a pendulum has the same period when hung from its center of oscillation as from its pivot. EB11/Henry Kater refers to this "property of reciprocity," but doesn't provide any construction details. Neither does EB15CD.

Kater's pendulum was a brass bar that could be pivoted around either of two knife blades. These were a fixed distance apart, measured initially with a microscope. There was a screw-driven moveable weight on the bar, and its position was adjusted until the periods of oscillation from the two pivot points was equal. He measured the period with the same precision clock used in the adjustment phase, calculated the local gravity, and applied various corrections.

By Kater’s day, of course, high precision mechanical clocks were available; several decades earlier, Harrison had built a marine chronometer accurate to one second per day. That’s good enough, by my calculations, for measuring gravity with a seconds pendulum to within about 20 milligals. Good enough for studying the shape of the Earth; not good enough for finding salt domes.

In general, with a pendulum, to achieve a sensitivity for measuring gravity of 1 part in X, we need to time the period to 0.5 parts in X. (Morrison 2.5). Thus, for 1 milliGal accuracy (1 ppm), we need to time the seconds pendulum to 0.5 ppm, or 0.04 seconds/day. And pendulums have been made with an absolute accuracy of 0.1 milligals.

The Kater pendulum could also be used to make relative gravity measurements, by just taking into account the change in the period when it was moved to a new location (since the length was constant).

In 1835, the mathematician Friedrich Bessel showed that as long as the two periods were close enough, the moveable weight wasn't needed, and that if the pendulum was symmetrical but weighted at one end, air drag errors would cancel out. The Repsold pendulum (1864) was based on these discoveries.

Von Sterneck (1887) solved the drag problem in another way, by placing the pendulum in a temperature-controlled vacuum. He also improved the readout. A similar device was constructed by Mendenhall (1890); it was, even in the 1920s, the world's best clock. (Wikipedia/Pendulum).

Unfortunately, neither EB11 nor EB15CD provide useful information about these pendulum designs. EB15CD/Clock does however briefly discuss the Shortt pendulum clock, which it calls the "most accurate mechanical timekeeper."

Another source of error was the effect of the swing on the pendulum stand. When the problem was recognized, it was first addressed by simply measuring the sway and mathematically correcting for it. Later, devices were built in which two pendulums swung out of phase to cancel out the effect.

Wikipedia says that Kater's accuracy was about 7 milliGals. However, EB15CD says that the reversible pendulum-based absolute gravity measurement made in Potsdam, 1906, which was the reference point for all local gravity data up until 1968, was in error by at least 15 milligals. Dobrin says that the later reversible pendulums measured gravity to 1 ppm, which is about 1 milliGal (Dobrin2d 204).

In the 1632verse, we can temporarily sidestep many of the historical problems with the use of pendulum gravimeters because we have access to twentieth century timekeeping technology. First, we have a limited number of highly accurate timepieces that are based on quartz crystals. The surveyor can borrow one, or perhaps can listen to time signals provided by a radio station equipped with such a clock.

Quartz crystal clocks use a quartz crystal as the oscillator. If the oscillation frequency isn’t quite right (the standard one is 32,768 Hertz), then this will create a systematic error. If you have a more accurate clock to compare it with, you can measure the frequency error and therefore the appropriate daily correction. For example, a comparison of three cheap ($6 apiece in 1997) LCD stopwatches with the Atomic Clock in Boulder, Colorado found frequency inaccuracies of 0.48 to 1.17 seconds/day—about 10 ppm. If you subtract out this constant rate error, what you are left with are the errors attributable to frequency instabilities; the most importance source of instability is temperature variation (but pressure, humidity, shock and vibration may also play a role). Over a period of 145 days, the residual time error varied slowly between -0.7 and 0.4 seconds, but the average day-to-day change was perhaps 50 milliseconds. (Allan) It is possible to devise methods of calibrating a clock to take into account the more common frequency instabilities, and reduce the (adjusted) daily clock error from one to one-tenth seconds or even less. And of course, we can start with one of the better up-time clocks to begin with. (An observatory grade quartz crystal clock has a frequency stability such that the maximum error is 0.1 ppb—about one second every 10 years. Anderson Institute. The best clock in Grantville is probably somewhere in between cheap department store and observatory grade.)

We will need to worry about temperature variation more than surveyors in the late twentieth century, because temperature-controlled buildings will be quite rare outside Grantville. The effect of temperature variation is about 0.1 seconds/day per degree Celsius.

Eventually, of course, all the wristwatch batteries will die, and some surveyors will need to travel beyond radio range. At that point, we will need to be able to make new watches on either spring or quartz crystal principles.

Ballistic Gravimeter. Galileo was able to deduce that the distance fallen is proportional to the square of the time of fall by having the "falling" object cross frets as it rolled down a ramp; Galileo was an accomplished amateur musician and he repositioned the frets until he could hear that the interval between the audible "bumps" was "on beat." Galileo's measurement accuracy has been estimated as 1/64th second. (Coelho 12).

Since the time and distance of fall are both observable, a ballistic gravimeter provides absolute measurements. (The object may be just dropped, or it can be tossed up and both its up and down movement observed.)

The principle underlying the ballistic gravimeter is simple, but the time must be measured and the distance known with great accuracy. The time of free fall is proportional to the square root of the drop distance, so if you make the device more compact, you need to measure time more precisely. Non-gravitational forces must be rigorously excluded or corrected. Air resistance can be reduced by evacuating the "drop tube," but at low pressure, electric charges build up on the object that result in electrostatic forces affecting its motion.

Grantville literature (EB15CD) briefly describes three ballistic gravimeter designs. Volet (1952) dropped a graduated rule in an evacuated chamber and photographed its movement. Cook (1967) replaced the rule with a sphere; EB15CD didn't say so, but this was the first gravimeter with a toss-up mechanism, eliminating some systematic errors. (Dehlinger 13)

The first portable (but not field!) system was that of Hammond and Faller (1967); the falling object was a corner cube reflector, laser light was split so that part was reflected by the falling reflector and the rest by an identical fixed cube. The two reflections created an interference pattern that could be measured by a photomultiplier tube and recorded. Accuracy was about 20 microgals.

Shipborne and Airborne Gravimetry

The gravimeter cannot tell the difference between the vertical acceleration caused by the earth’s gravity and that caused by the heave of a ship or by the diving or climbing of an aircraft.

For surveys of shallow water, a gravimeter and its operator can be lowered to the bottom in a diving bell. If waters are deeper, the meter is lowered to the bottom from a boom hanging over the side of the ship. In either of these cases, the measurement is taken while the gravimeter is stationary, so the main problem is the motion of the sea floor as a result of water waves.

Gravity can be monitored continuously from a shipborne meter, but then one needs to correct for the Eotvos effect—when the ship is traveling east or west, it works with or against the centrifugal acceleration felt by the meter as a result of the rotation of the earth. To do so, you must know the ship’s latitude and speed; at the equator, a one knot error in speed results in a 7.5 milliGal error in gravity. (Dobrin 412). EB15CD doesn't provide the formula, but it notes that in middle latitudes, the effect is 5 milligals for an east-west speed of just 1.6 km/hour.

Airborne gravimetric surveys are problematic because the non-gravitational accelerations are likely to be 100-1000 times the strength of the gravitational anomalies we are trying to detect. An airship is probably a better platform for gravimetry than an airplane. That said, we would probably need to have a very accurate altimeter (radar or laser-based), so we could separate the effect of the airplane’s vertical motion from that of gravity. (Hannah).

Grantville literature says that even on a ship, the vertical acceleration can be thousands of milligals, but that it's possible to average out the effect of wave action. The average vertical acceleration over a time interval is the change in vertical velocity from beginning to end, divided by the time interval. If you make the time interval long enough (typically several minutes), the average swell-driven acceleration becomes negligible. (EB15CD/Earth). In theory, that works with an aircraft, too, but the plane will move quite a distance over that time interval so you aren't really sensing local gravity over a single point. Which brings us back to my airship proposal, since an airship can hover by opposing the wind with its engines.

Gravimetry in the 1632verse

Because the gravitational anomalies are so small relative to normal gravity, much more sophisticated instrumentation and methodology are needed to detect them than was the case for detection of magnetic anomalies. Hence, gravimetry is likely to lag behind magnetometry in the 1632verse.

I think that both pendulum and spring based gravimeters will be developed (and I think the LaCoste-Romberg design has the edge). However, the first survey use is likely to come in the 1635-39 period. I would imagine that they would first confirm that the instruments are at least sensitive enough to detect the salt dome at Wietze. If so, then they will probably be used for exploration of the half-dozen areas in Germany that, according to up-time atlases, contain oil fields. Eventually, the methods will be used further afield. The ideal place to use them, of course, is the American Gulf Coast.

Gradiometry

Gradiometry measures the rate of change (slope) of the gravitational or magnetic field over a short vertical or horizontal distance, rather than the value (absolute, or relative to a distant reference point) at a single location.

Gradiometry eliminates the effect of variations over the course of the day, and also favors anomalies with steep gradients over those with shallow ones. To obtain a gradiometric measurement, you need a pair of meters (gravitic or magnetic) that are a known and fixed distance apart. (Dobrin 516).

Surveying

Surveying may be done one-dimensionally (along a profile) or two-dimensionally, along a grid.

Both magnetic and gravimetric surveys provide, at each station, a single value that represents the aggregate magnetic or gravitational contribution of all sensible features, shallow or deep, small or large. Because a small, shallow feature can create an anomaly bigger than a large, deep one, the sampling interval (distance between stations) is very important. If it is too wide, “aliasing” occurs, the deep, big feature is masked. And decreasing the sampling interval of course increases the cost of the survey. (Morrison 3.6).

Aliasing is greatly reduced if the survey is conducted at a height off the ground. There is a greater proportionate increase in the distance to the shallow features than to the deep ones, and this improves the signal-noise ratio.

A large survey takes longer than a small one, and it becomes more important to account for temporal variations. This is usually done by periodically looping back to the base station to take a repeat measurement there, or simply by keeping one sensor at the base station and recording the variation over time.

For aerial magnetic surveys, EB15CD recommends that the main grid lines be 2-4 kilometers apart, at an altitude of 400 meters, when searching for petroleum, and 0.5-2 kilometers apart, and 200 meters high, when seeking a mineral deposit. It adds that ground stations may be as little as 50 meters apart.

For land-based gravimetric surveys, EB15CD suggests taking readings every kilometer.

That’s probably good enough to detect the existence of a salt dome, but won’t provide a lot of information about it. The dimensions of a salt dome are such that a mapping survey would have stations 100-500 meters apart. Ore bodies are smaller, so spacing would be more like 25-100 meters.

Artificial Earthquakes: Seismometry

Seismometry potentially provides more information about subsurface structure than any other geophysical technique. The information it provides also requires the most work to interpret.

In essence, you give the earth a big whack ("shot"). This sets it vibrating at various frequencies. The generated seismic "body" (underground) waves are of two kinds, P (primary, compressional, thus akin to sound waves) and S (secondary, shear). Up through the Fifties, at least, only the P waves were used for prospecting. (Dobrin2d, 21). The shot will also create surface waves but those count as "noise."

The seismic waves radiate outward underground. They travel at a speed that is defined by the nature (density, rigidity, incompressibility) of the rock they are traveling through. When they strike a boundary—strictly speaking, a place where the "acoustic impedance" (product of density and wave velocity) of that frequency changes—the wave is partially reflected and partially transmitted. If it strikes the boundary obliquely, then the transmitted wave is refracted (bent). Of course, as the wave moves, its energy is gradually absorbed (and turned into heat), which is why you don't feel an earthquake on the other side of the world. And the intensity of the wave (energy per unit surface) decreases as the result of the spreading out of the wave.

Seismometers and Geophones

For this to be useful, we need to be able to detect the seismic wave when it is returned to the surface. Both seismometers and geophones detect seismic waves. However, seismometers are usually larger and more expensive. A modern geophone might cost $50 and a modern seismometer $10,000–20,000. The seismometer is designed to detect minute earth movements caused by earthquakes hundreds of miles away. That means that it needs to be able to pick up very low frequency waves, because those are the ones that travel the furthest. Geophones typically have poor low frequency response. (Barzilai)

A seismometer may measure the earth's displacement, velocity or acceleration as a result of seismic wave, and it may measure them on the vertical axis, or either horizontal axis.

All seismometers (and geophones) have two basic elements, one which moves with the earth, and the other of which is inertial (tends to remain in place).

The first seismometer of practical importance was Milne's pendulum seismograph (1880), see EB11/Seismometer and EB15CD. The pendulum is the inertial element, and it will remain in place (the ground shaking beside it) if its natural period is substantially shorter or longer than the period of the seismic waves it is sensing.

If the pendulum does receive a vibration of a frequency close to its natural one, it will dance about madly. To avoid this, a damper (air, liquid or electromagnetic) is used.

In a horizontal pendulum seismograph, the pendulum is a weighted arm that can swing back-and-forth around a vertical axis. It will sense horizontal earth movements perpendicular to the neutral position of the arm. A "normal" pendulum, swinging in a vertical plane, can sense vertical earth movements.

To convert a seismometer into a seismograph, you need a way of permanently recording the wiggles. In Milne's device, a mirror was attached to the pendulum arm, and it reflected light ("optical lever") through a double slit (one fixed, one moving with the arm) onto light-sensitive "bromide" paper. It's of course possible to instead have the arm connected (probably by levers that magnify the movement) to a stylus, but then there's friction between the pen and the paper and the instrument has to be heavier to compensate.

There are advantages to connecting an electric coil to the pendulum. If the pendulum is exposed to a magnetic field, then when it moves, an electric current is induced in the coil and can be sensed by a galvanometer. The current can be amplified by standard electronic circuitry and this allows construction of a seismograph that can detect micro-earthquakes.

A strain seismograph (1935) has two piers, with a horizontal rod attached to one pier and pointing at the other. It measures the change in the separation of the free end of the rod from the other pier. Since the two piers are typically 20 meters apart, this is clearly not a field instrument.

The Amateur Scientist column of Scientific American covered seismographs in June 1953, July 1957, August 1970, November 1973, September 1975, July and November 1979.

Okay, now that we have talked about seismographs (which could be used for seismic surveying if we could make them cheaply enough) we turn to geophones. The land geophone is an electromagnet, i.e., a combination of a wire coil and a magnet. One is fixed to the housing, and thereby to the earth's surface, so it moves when the earth shakes. The other is connected to the housing by a suspension spring. The relative motion produces an electrical signal; the motion is damped so that the response is "flat" over the frequencies of interest . Pressure phones (hydrophones) are used for seaborne prospecting.

There's a bit of description of geophones in Grantville literature. EB15CD provides the key point that it "generates a voltage when a seismic wave produces relative motion of a wire coil in the field of a magnet," and 2002McGHEST has a schematic drawing.

Seismic Imaging

Anyway, we position "geophones" on the surface, and they listen for the reflected (or refracted) waves. As the seismic wave travels downward from the source of the shot, some of the energy will be reflected at the first boundary and return to the surface, and some will be transmitted into the layer below. This first transmitted wave will continue on to the next boundary, where some will be reflected and some transmitted. And so on. Hence, the geophones will hear, successively, the "echo" from the first boundary, then the second, then the third, and so on, until the wave is so attenuated that it can't be heard. Thus, seismology can potentially differentiate multiple geological structures, while magnetometry and gravimetry simply reveal the net anomaly created by all the structures in the vicinity. A modern reflection survey can obtain reflections from depths as great as 20,000 feet, and determine structure with a precision of 10-20 feet. (Dobrin 4)

The reflected waves follow the law that the angle of incidence equals the angle of refraction. Hence, singly reflected waves will reach the surface. A refracted wave can reach the surface under special circumstances. If a wave strikes a boundary between an upper, low speed layer and a lower high speed layer at the "critical" angle, the angle of refraction is such that the refracted wave travels along the boundary. If that happens, then as it moves along, it sets up secondary waves which are emitted into the upper layer and, if they reach the surface, can be heard.

Refraction seismology is used mostly to "image" shallow structures. That's because the geometry requires that the distance between the "shot" and the geophones be four or five times the depth to the boundary where the critical refraction occurred. And of course the further away the geophones are, the more powerful the shot (or the more sensitive the geophone) must be to he heard. However, refraction shooting is cheaper and faster than reflection methods. (5)

Refraction shooting was first used in 1923 (in Mexico), and was locating salt domes in the American Gulf Coast by 1924. Reflection shooting began in Oklahoma in 1921, and the technique was successfully used to find the Maud Field in 1927. (11ff).

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In the old timeline, seismic prospecting went through three phases. First, the prospectors had geophones that recorded their traces on paper. Usually, there was one shothole and one geophone per trace. By the later Thirties, the single geophone was replaced by a geophone group.

Next, from the early Fifties, they used analog recording onto magnetic tape. Either the signal was amplified (and perhaps filtered) and recorded directly, or the geophone signal was used to modulate a carrier signal (similar to the operation of an FM radio station) and so recorded. The tape was on a drum and would be drawn past a panel of heads, one for each trace. Analog recording made possible compositing (combination of signals)(149).

Finally, beginning in 1963, the amplified analog signals were digitized and recorded on magnetic tape, and the digital signals in turn were processed by digital computers and then converted back to analog for display.

By the time of RoF, analog recording on magnetic tape was in decline, but there are certainly some consumer grade tape recorders in up-timer attics and basements. There are of course a large number of digital computers in Grantville, but there are an even larger number of demands for those computers. It remains to be seen how well seismic prospecting can compete for computer time. And it's beyond the scope of this article (or this author's expertise) to venture a guess as to how soon we could build new analog recorders or digital computers (electronic or fluidic).

Even if we had ready access to the computers, physicists need to figure out the relevant formulae and programmers need to write the programs to implement them so that we can process, interpret and display the seismic information. It will take years, and I am not sure that much real progress can be made until we have had some practical experience with "old school" seismic surveying so we know what's important and what isn't.

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Originally, the source of the seismic wave was a dynamite explosion in a borehole from thirty to several hundred feet deep, and as late as 1976, explosives were used in over 60% of all land-based seismic work. Explosions provide strong signals, and the explosives are easy to transport across rough terrain. However, there is some hazard in working with dynamite, the noise of the explosion is a nuisance in populated areas, and it is costly to drill boreholes.

An alternative method—but one not likely to be thought of early on in the 1632verse—is to horizontally bury a detonating cord, perhaps several hundred feet long, a few feet below the surface. This has the advantage of directing the explosive energy downward rather than horizontally.

Non-explosive sources simply do not provide enough energy to yield a detectable reflection unless you have some means, whether it be analog magnetic tape recording, or digital recording, to synchronize and combine signals from multiple geophones. (Dobrin 90). The first (1953) non-explosive source used in oil exploration was a special truck with a crane hoist; it held a three ton iron weight nine feet above the ground, and dropped it repeatedly. (93)

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There are several different shot-detector geometries that were developed over the years. The only one mentioned in Grantville literature is “fan-shooting,” described somewhat cryptically as measuring travel times “along different azimuths from a source.” (EB15CD).

Fan-shooting was a refraction technique. Essentially, the seismic waves fan out from a single source, and are detected by geophones arranged along a circular arc about five to ten miles away. What you are looking for is a “lead,” abnormally early arrival times at some of the detectors, implying the presence of a high-speed material such as salt. If you find a “lead,” you would then shoot a second fan, at roughly right angles to the first one.

A more popular refraction method was profile shooting. The first shot is in line with detectors, all of which lie down-line of it. You move the detectors further down the line, then take a new shot, down-line from the first. There were other arrangements, too. (Dobrin2d, 88ff). In reflection work, the most common layout was the “split-spread,” with the detectors in line with the shot, and an equal number on either side. (115ff).

Seismic Signal Processing and Interpretation

One of the problems with seismic work is "noise": high amplitude, low velocity, low frequency surface waves ("ground roll"); scattering from near-surface irregularities; multiple reflections; etc.

Ground roll can be suppressed by replacing individual geophones with geophone groups (3-6 phones/group as used initially, 100 or more under extreme "ground roll" conditions) having a geometry that cancelled out the surface waves, or by use of low-cut filters. (86, 100). It can also be advantageous to have multiple shotholes per trace, again in a special pattern.

Scattering can be suppressed by adding together signals from multiple shots and receivers for a single trace (88). (Use of multiple shots per station is more economical with a drop truck than with dynamite.) Multiple reflection can be addressed by special shooting patterns or by frequency filtering. The noise reduction methods will need to be relearned the hard way in the new universe.

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It's important to appreciate exactly what information is produced by a seismic survey. The geophones pick up the time of arrival of the reflected or refracted seismic waves. Each strong reflection or refraction corresponds to some subsurface boundary. However, you don't know, initially, the depth of that boundary.

To convert times to depths, you need to know the velocity of the seismic waves in each of the layers through which they traveled, coming and going. This is not something that the prospectors can just look up! Grantville literature (CRC) provides the average velocity of seismic waves as a function of depth, but without differentiating by the nature of the rock. Even if our characters had access to specialist books on geophysical prospecting, the range in velocity for a single rock type is enormous. Limestone can be 5,600-20,000 feet/second, and sandstone 4,600-14,200 (Dobrin 50, Dobrin2d 42).

So, there are two basic methods. One is that you hang a geophone at different depths inside a deep borehole and record the times it takes for a seismic wave to reach it from a nearby explosion. This is called a "velocity log." (You say, "but I thought the whole point of doing seismic prospecting was so I didn't have to drill a hole until I knew that there was a possible oil trap underneath my feet." Sorry.)

The other approach requires that you have multiple geophones (or geophone groups) per shot and plot the square of the travel time against the square of the shot-receiver distance; the slope should be inversely proportional to the square of the velocity. (229). It is also possible to use computers to analyze this data.

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The wave arrival times also need to be corrected before performing this conversion; the two standard corrections are for elevation of the "shot," and for the thickness of the (low seismic velocity) "weathered" layer at the surface.

The apparent horizontal positions of the reflections also need to be "migrated" to their true positions, and to do that we need to compare multiple traces so we have several different reflection paths corresponding to the same "reflector."

While the people in Grantville will certainly be aware that they are obtaining "arrival time" data, the appropriate corrections and conversion methods will have to be worked out the hard way.

The fact that we are measuring times also means that we have to worry about the accuracy with which we can tell time. If you are studying what's 1000' deep, and you have a timing accuracy of 0.001 second, you have a depth accuracy of perhaps 3-5 feet. But if the timing accuracy is just 0.1 seconds, the depth accuracy is 300-500 feet which is completely worthless.

When you consider that the "cutting edge" clocks of even the late seventeenth century tended to lose or gain one to ten minutes a day, it's clear that we will need to improve timepiece design considerably in order to conduct a useable seismic survey. Of course, that was true for gravity surveys using pendulum gravimeters, too.

Seismometry in the 1632verse

Grantville is able to make dynamite (Evans, "Thunder in the Mountains," Grantville Gazette 12), so we don't have any problem with creating seismic waves. And the geophones seem to be less complicated than, say, an electric motor. The real problem is going to be learning to process and interpret the results. And we have to start somewhere.

The obvious first target is the RoF itself. Ferrara hypothesized that the RoF event moved an entire sphere, half air, half rock, three miles in radius. "I'll be surprised if we don't discover that we have the same radius beneath our feet. Three miles down at the center—maybe more. Way deeper than any gas or oil beds we'll be tapping into. Or coal seams." Flint, 1632, Chapter 8.

So, a seismic survey of the RoF area should reveal a hemispherical discontinuity between the West Virginia intrusion and the surrounding Thuringian rock. If the West Virginian hemisphere were homogeneous, the raw seismic record from a line of detectors would reveal spikes in a circular arrangement. However, it's certainly not homogeneous, so the circle will be distorted (more so directly beneath the center of the RoF than near the periphery, because more layers will be traversed). Our first exercise in seismic interpretation will be making a travel time-depth calculation. However, I figure that we will have a lot of information to help us. Even if the coal mine office doesn't have books on prospecting, it's likely to have a geological column and perhaps even seismic survey data for the coal mine and its vicinity. We can also put detectors in the coal mines (and in boreholes of abandoned gas and water wells) to make velocity measurements. And that will give us our first correlations of seismic velocity with rock depth and type.

The seismic survey of the RoF isn't just a training exercise, it has a practical value. Coal has a much lower density and seismic velocity than other sedimentary rocks, leading to an acoustic impedance change of 35-50%. So coal beds give a strong reflection. Perhaps we'll find some more formerly West Virginia coal.

Of course, we have to get density and velocity data for the rocks of Germany. Logically, we should take advantage of every location where we can cheaply put a sensor underground: in mines, or in the dry holes drilled at Wietze. For the latter, we have the advantage that we can compare the data with the coring of the rocks encountered as they drilled down.

Eventually, we'll have enough data that we can make a reasonable interpretation of a raw seismogram, and we will want to conduct a survey with more immediate benefits. It will be tempting to conduct a seismic survey of Wietze, but I fear that the result will be dismaying; Wietze features a heavily fractured salt dome and will produce a very complex seismogram.

However, there are other salt domes in Germany, and for that matter on the American Gulf Coast. One of these will be the first commercial success for seismic surveying in the new universe.

Time-wise, I think the seismic study of the RoF area will occur in 1633-35. However, we know so little about European geology that the extension of the work outside the RoF will probably progress very slowly. It might not be until the 1640s that we could usefully interpret a seismic survey of a German site.

Caged Lightning: Electrical and Electromagnetic Methods

EB15 warns that "Electrical methods generally do not penetrate far into the Earth, and so do not yield much information about its deeper parts. They do, however, provide a valuable tool of exploring for many metal ores."

Electrical prospecting methods sense the electrical properties of rocks. First, there is resistivity; the ability of a unit thickness of rock to impede the passage of an electric current. Resistivity is a function of the mineral content of the rock; galena, pyrite, magnetite and graphite are among the minerals with unusually low resistivity. As noted by EB15, rocks with high clay content tend to have low resistivity. Also, the more porous the rock, the more water it can hold, and that water (if not fresh) in turn decreases its electrical resistivity. If, instead, it holds petroleum, resistivity will not be lowered. This is the basis of the resistivity logging method used in oil well drilling; a large change in resistivity is indicative of the location of the oil water content.

The detected current may be a natural telluric ("earth") current, or artificially induced. The natural currents are produced by atmospheric disturbances, notably lightning strikes and solar wind bombardment. These currents are of a variety of frequencies, and therefore have different penetration depths (low frequency probes deeper). The telluric currents are detected by planting a pair of electrodes in the ground, connecting them with an insulated wire, and measuring the voltage difference between. You can then calculate the electric field component (in millivolts/kilometer) along the line connecting the two electrodes.

The alternating currents in turn create electric and magnetic fields that may also be sensed. For example, an alternating magnetic field will induce an eddy current in a conductor (such as a low resistivity ore body), and this in turn will create its own magnetic field. This can be measured with a magnetometer.

You may also stick a pair of electrodes into the ground and apply an external voltage to them. A current will flow between them, on diverse "equipotential" paths. The flow paths are distorted by the presence of bodies of unusually low or high resistivity. In the equipotential methods, the flow paths are detected by moving a second pair of electrodes to various points on a grid pattern and measuring the potential difference between them. The method is usually used just for reconnaissance. In the "mise-a-la-masse" variant, a known conductive mineral body serves as one of the current electrodes and the other is placed far away. The potential electrodes are then used to plot the extent of the ore body.

In profiling methods, the electrode spacing is kept constant and the electrode array is moved along a line. This is used to locate an ore body. In sounding methods, the center of the electrode array remains in one place, but the spacing is varied. This allows estimation of the depth of the ore body.

A time-varying current also induces a magnetic field that can be measured by hand-held metal detectors or by airborne electromagnetic sensors. In Grantville, there are no doubt some people with metal detectors of the kind used for treasure hunting; these have electrically balanced coils that become unbalanced if metal is brought nearby. Different metals have different phase responses to alternating currents, and this can be used to discriminate metals (at the cost of reduced sensitivity). Bear in mind that these metal detectors are designed to detect coins some inches below the ground, not ore deposits hundreds of feet deep.

Electrical techniques were first used in prospecting for sulfide ore bodies. What was actually measured was the voltage resulting from the induced currents, and to avoid misleading results attributable to the polarization of the electrode, it was necessary to develop a non-polarizing electrode. Barus achieved this in 1880 by filling a polarized wood or unglazed clay cup with a metal sulfate solution, and he used his electrodes to trace an extension of the Comstock Lode. Schlumberger used resistivity methods to map the salt domes of Pechelronn in 1921-26.

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Rocks may also have electrochemical activity, that is, the ability to act as a natural (but very weak) battery. The top of a metallic sulfide ore body may be heavily oxidized, while the bottom is oxygen-deficient. If groundwater circulates between the two, it acts as an electrolyte, and ions are exchanged between the top and the bottom. EB15 says that "Graphite, magnetite, anthracite, some pyritized rocks, and other phenomena also can generate self-potentials."

Exposing rocks to an electric field induces polarization, that is, a separation of charges, as in a capacitor. The magnitude of the response is related to the rock's dielectric constant.

There isn't much information in Grantville literature about detection of self-potentials or induced polarization.

A Trail of Chemical Crumbs: Geochemical Prospecting

There is very little information about geochemical prospecting in Grantville literature; the only significant source is the McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Science and Technology at the high school.

An ore deposit exists because geological processes concentrated desirable minerals in a particular place. The deposit doesn't usually have a "hard" boundary, rather, there is a core in which the mineral is found in economically useful concentrations, surrounded by a "primary halo" in which the concentration declines to parts per million and then to parts per billion. Depending on the nature of the deposit, the halo can vary in width from a few centimeters to hundreds of meters.

In addition, as a result of weathering and erosion, there is a further dispersion of the minerals, resulting in a "secondary halo." Rivers and glaciers can extend this secondary halo over a very long distance.

Geochemical prospecting essentially involves detecting an abnormally high (but still economically useless) concentration of a chemical and then following the gradient "upstream" to the source deposit.

The chemical (usually a chemical element, but it could be natural gas or petroleum) may be the economic chemical, or it may be a "pathfinder" chemical that is closely associated with the valuable one. For example, arsenic is a pathfinder for gold.

Samples may be taken from soil, surface or ground water, stream or lake sediment, glacial debris, rock chip samples, drill cores, or plants. Besides analyzing the chemical constitution of plants growing in the area, a botanist can examine them for plant diseases characteristic of metal poisoning.

We must, of course, have the ability to quantify the chemical of interest even at low concentrations, such as parts per million. (An evaluation of the up-timers' ability to quantify various elements is outside the scope of this article.)

A useful step beyond simply measuring the quantity of an element is to determine its isotopic distribution, as that provides additional information about, e.g., the formation of the deposit. Unfortunately, it also requires even more sophisticated analytic methods than those necessitated by conventional geochemical prospecting.

Down the Rabbit Hole: Well Logging

Well logs are an important source of geophysical information in regions which have experience exploration or development by the petroleum industry. The log is essentially a depth-linked record of the geological formations that were drilled through.

Logs can be run in an open hole, or after the hole is lined with casing to prevent water infiltration. Logs can be based on material brought up to the surface (geological), or data collected from a sensor (sonde) lowered into the well (geophysical). The sonde may be lowered at intervals (interrupting the drilling process), or most recently, integrated into the drill string so that data is collected continuously during drilling.

The collection of rock samples dates back to the early days of cable tool drilling. Rotary drilling chops up the rock more finely than cable tool methods, but the cuttings can be separated from the drilling mud.

The collected rocks can be analyzed qualitatively (looks like sandstone) or quantitatively (porosity, permeability, water content, grain size). It is also fairly straightforward to log penetration rates, which is a crude measure of the hardness of the rock penetrated and can detect a change in formation.

Electric logging was introduced by the Schlumberger brothers in 1927; Schlumberger's first experiments were conducted in a bathtub filled with various rocks. (Pike). Resistivity logs measure the current flow between two or more electrodes in the borehole. Spontaneous potential logging determines the naturally occurring potential difference between a fixed electrode at the surface and a moveable electrode in the borehole. For both, you must be drilling with a conductive (saltwater-based) drilling mud.

An induction log is compatible with an oil-based drilling mud; you lower both a generating coil and a detector coil into an uncased hole; the former induces eddy currents in the rock that are sensed by the latter.

In general, electric logging distinguishes water-bearing rock from rock that bears hydrocarbons or is impermeable.

A more recent development is logging of gamma radiation, which is emitted by potassium, thorium and uranium isotopes found in rocks, each isotope emitting at a different wavelength. The log can be of total radiation, or wavelength-specific. Shales are typically more radioactive than sandstones or limestones. The differences in natural radioactivity among different sediments was first recognized in 1909, but gamma ray logging was not commercialized until 1939. (Brannon).

Neutron logging is more sophisticated; a neutron source is lowered into the hole together with a system for detecting the radioactivity induced by neutron bombardment.

Geological logging will probably be practiced right from the beginning of the 1632verse oil industry. Electric logging will come later, perhaps by the late 1630s, but it depends on our developing both rotary drilling equipment, and either a practical saltwater-based drilling mud or induction logging system. Radioactive logging is likely to be a much later development.

Conclusion

George Bernard Shaw quipped that the lack of money is the root of all evil. Over the centuries, prospectors of every land have sought to remedy that problem, at least at a personal level, by finding gold, silver or other precious things buried in the earth.

The methods in use in the seventeenth century are best described as hit-and-miss, and those of even the nineteenth century weren't much better.

The scientific "sorcery" of Grantville won't find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, but geophysical and geochemical prospecting, supplemented by well logging, do promise to make it easier to locate the treasures of the earth.

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Appendix: Grantville Literature Relevant to Prospecting

Grantville is based on the town of Mannington, West Virginia. We can look at the online catalogues of the Mannington Public Library and the North Marion High School library to see what pre-Rof books they presently have (and presumably had before RoF) and we can make educated guesses as to what is reasonably likely to be in the up-timers' personal libraries, given their Grid hobbies and educational backgrounds.

We can safely assume the presence of

—Encyclopedia Britannica 11th ed (EB11)

—pre-RoF versions of the modern Encyclopedia Britannica (EB15), Encyclopedia Americana, Collier's Encyclopedia and other general encyclopedias

—the 1977 edition of the McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of Science and Technology (McGHEST)(at NMHS!)

—pre-RoF world atlases

—"CRC" Handbook

—McGraw-Hill Dictionary of Earth Science

—various field guides to rocks and minerals (Eyewitness Handbook, Simon and Schuster, Zim, Pough, Loomis, Fay, Bauer, Lye, Michele)

—"geology 101" college textbooks

—books on earthquakes, notably Hodgson, Earthquakes and Earth Structure, Grady, Plate Tectonics

—books on the American, especially West Virginian, oil industry, notably Mallison, The Great Wildcatter, Toenen, History of the Oil and Gas Industry in West Virginia; Fanning, Men, Money and Oil; Whiteshot, The Oil-Well Driller

—books on the West Virginia coal industry, including Cohen, King Coal: A Pictorial History of West Virginia Coal Mining; Stevenson, Coal Towns of West Virginia; Conley, History of the West Virginia Coal Industry

—mining stories by Bret Harte and Jack London

The high school or the public library might have a geological map of the United States and a "geological column" for "Grantville.'

I would not expect to find any books specifically devoted to geophysical prospecting.

It's becoming more and more difficult to have easy access to pre-RoF editions of reference works.

As a surrogate for the pre-RoF EB15, I have used the 2002 CD edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica (EB15CD). Most of its content is pre-RoF; if I cite anything from it that isn't in a pre-RoF print edition, please advise me!

As a surrogate for the 1977McGHEST, I use the 2002 edition that is in my law firm library. Same request applies!

Bibliography

Geophysical Prospecting, Generally

Dobrin, Introduction to Geophysical Prospecting (3d ed. 1976).

Dobrin, Introduction to Geophysical Prospecting (2d ed. 1960).

Exploration Geophysics—Petroleum Industry Timeline

ftp://ftp.cwp.mines.edu/pub/Timelines/timelineB25Jul2006.pdf

[SEG] Society of Exploration Geophysicists Virtual Geoscience Center, "Historical Collection:

http://www.mssu.edu/seg-vm/museum_items_main.html

US Army Corps of Engineers, Engineering and Design—Geophysical Exploration for Engineering and Environmental Investigations , Publ No. EM 1110-1-1802 (1995),

http://140.194.76.129/publications/eng-manuals/em1110-1-1802

Hartman, SME Mining Engineering Handbook, Vol. 1 (1992).

Magnetometry

[Kenyon]http://physics.kenyon.edu/EarlyApparatus/Electricity/Earth_Inductor_or_Delzennes_Circle/Earth_Inductor_or_Delzennes_Circle.html

[EOST] "Schmidt's field balance (vertical Z)"

http://eost.u-strasbg.fr/musee/En/magn/balance_schmidt_Z_sch.html

Brough, A treatise on mine surveying.

Ricker III, "The Discovery of the Magnetic Compass and Its Use in Navigation,"

http://www.wbabin.net/science/ricker4.pdf

Morrison, “3.5 Magnetometers” in The Berkeley Course in Applied Geophysics (2004)

http://appliedgeophysics.lbl.gov/magnetic/mag35.pdf

Fountain, "Dan's Homegrown Proton Precession Magnetometer Page"

http://gerf.org/~jasegler/proton_mag/proton.htm

Gravimetry

Coelho, Music and Science in the Age of Galileo (1992).

Seigel, "A Guide to High Precision Land Gravimeter Surveys" (August 1995).

http://www.scintrexltd.com/downloads/GRAVGUID.pdf

Wu, "Gravity Measurements", Geophysics 547—Gravity and Magnetics (Winter 2007)

http://www.geo.ucalgary.ca/~wu/Goph547/Gravimeters.pdf

Smith, Introduction to Geodesy (1997).

[SEG] Society of Exploration Geophysicists, Virtual Geoscience Center, 'Torsion Balance"

http://www.mssu.edu/seg-vm/pict0349.html

Hannah, “Airborne Gravimetry: A Status Report” (Jan. 2001)

http://www.linz.govt.nz/docs/miscellaneous/airborne-gravimetry.pdf

[OU] Geophysics 5864–Gravimetric and Magnetic Exploration (Ohio University Fall 2007):

—References

http://gravmag.ou.edu/references.html

—Absolute Gravity measurement

http://gravmag.ou.edu/measure/absolute.html

—Relative gravity measurement

http://gravmag.ou.edu/measure/relative.html

—History

http://gravmag.ou.edu/history/history.html

Dehlinger, Marine Gravity

Seismometry

Enviroscan, "Seismic Refraction versus Reflection" (2010)

http://www.enviroscan.com/html/seismic_refraction_versus_refl.html

Barzilai, "Improving a geophone to produce an affordable, broadband seismometer," (Ph.D Defense., Mechanical Engineering, Stanford U., Jan. 25, 2000).

http://micromachine.stanford.edu/smssl/projects/Geophones/DefenseBarzilaiFinalCopyWeb/DefenseBarzilaiFinalCopy.pdf

Zimmerman, Depth Conversion

http://www.searchanddiscovery.net/documents/geophysical/zimmerman/index.htm

Timekeeping

[Anderson Institute] “History of the Clock”

http://www.andersoninstitute.com/history-of-the-clock.html

Newton, Galileo's Pendulum 55-6 (2004).

Matthews, Time for Science Education (2000).

Olmsted, The Scientific Expedition of Jean Richer to Cayenne (1672-1673)

ISIS 34: 117-128 (1942)

Allan, The Science of Timekeeping, Hewlett Packard Application Note 1289 (1997)

http://www.allanstime.com/Publications/DWA/Science_Timekeeping/TheScienceOfTimekeeping.pdf

Well Logging

Brannon and Osoba, Spectral Gamma Ray Logging (abstract)

http://www.onepetro.org/mslib/app/Preview.do?paperNumber=SPE-000523-G&societyCode=SPE

Pike, Logging history rich with innovation (2002)

http://www.epmag.com/archives/features/3162.htm

Clark, The Chronological History of the Petroleum and Natural Gas Industries

Electrical Methods

Zonge, Chapter 10, "A Short History of Electrical Techniques in Petroleum Exploration"

http://www.zonge.com/PDF_Papers/IP-Petro_9.pdf

Point Source

Written by Gorg Huff

When dealing with the 1632 universe we are dealing with a point source in advancing technology. It is not, when it comes right down to it, analogous to much of anything in our history. When the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk they arguably beat all the other guys to the punch. (I say arguably because just about every country in the developed world claims that they have somebody who did it first. Not to mention a bunch in the less developed world.) But even if Orville and Wilber got there first, it was not by much. When the first steam engines were built in our timeline there were hundreds, even thousands, of places where they could be built at a similar rate. While there have been times in our history that had point sources for specific technology and areas that excelled in technology in general, there has never in our history been anything really analogous to the Ring of Fire.

What is the effect that this point source going to have? The most common assumption is that it's going to slow things down. There are only so many machine shops and only so many up-timers. Most of the up-timers have no particular skill training or talent. The few, the select few, who can actually do anything useful are going to be snowed under doing the essential things. They are not going to have time to mess around with reinventing steam engines, stamp presses, transistors, amplifiers, and all the rest of that stuff. In my view the problem with that assumption is that it carries with it a couple of hidden assumptions. The first of those hidden assumptions is the Atlas Shrugged view of the world. The notion, to put it bluntly, that most people are drones incapable of truly useful or original work and only the few—the elite, the superior—are qualified to create and, naturally, to run things. The second mostly unstated assumption is you have to have an up-timer running things. This is a slightly less offensive version of the same deal because while it still relegates most of the world to the servants quarters, it does so on the basis of environment rather than innate nature. "After they've been sufficiently acculturated, we'll let the down-timers play too."

Okay, I'm overstating the case and rather a lot. Even if you count every drunken bum and two year old in the Ring of Fire as the next Lincoln, Carnegie, or Edison there still ain't enough of them to go around. And it's true that someone who can read and comprehend modern English is pretty necessary to the process. And physically there are only five machine shops: three job shops, the one at the high school, and the one at the power plant. And while there were more computers, books, heavy machinery and infrastructure in Mannington than we estimated, it's still not enough to go around.

So what?

That's a serious question, by the way, not a denial of the issue. How will those issues affect productivity and for how long?

When the hardware store runs out of six-penny nails, it runs out of six-penny nails and that's it? Well, no. There's that guy who has turned his car dealership into a nail-making shop. The thing is, when you go into a hardware shop in the early twenty first-century—or the middle twentieth for that matter—there are more than a few kinds of nails. Not just millions of nails, hundreds of kinds of nails from little bitty staples and tacks to great big heavy spikes.

When the hardware store runs out of up-time made nails it will restock with down-time made nails and while there will likely be just as many nails, there will be two things different. One, there won't be as many kinds of nails, four or five sizes maybe. Two, they will be more expensive. The machines that they can get at the transformed car dealership simply won't, can't be, as efficient as the up-time factories that had machines that turned out hundreds of nails a minute. And the iron or steel wire they use will be more expensive to get. And to get a six-penny nail and a twelve-penny nail takes two nail making lines. So if you can make three lines and cover most of your market by running them harder or make six lines and a few more kinds of nails, you want to make three lines. Those early days are not going to be the time for niche marketing. The nail factory, the nut factory, the hammer factory, these all have ready-made investors in the people whose businesses need nails, hammers, nuts and bolts. At the same time, they are going to have to work things out so that they can get by with only a few sizes of nails, nuts, bolts, hammers, tongs, and so on.

Fredric is starting a distillery. He knows what sizes of nuts and bolts are available in Grantville from the new nut and bolt factory that is just starting up. He knows because the newspapers and radio, even the TV, have carried the news, complete with specifications. So he makes the holes to fit the sort of nuts and bolts that are available. He does it that way because his distillery won't support a special size of nut and bolt. And he doesn't want to pay blacksmith prices for handmade nuts and bolts. Gustav, who is making wagon wheels with up-time style bearings, does the same thing. He attaches his bearings to his wheels with standard nuts and bolts. Kelly Construction had input into the sizes that the nail factory produces; they had to figure in advance what basic sizes they could get by with and lobby for those sizes.

The machine shops are busy turning out computer-free machine tools so that the good stuff can be saved for important jobs, while they are also turning out the specialized machines that are needed for industries. The steel wire puller that will turn a bar of heated steel into steel wire so that it can be run through a nail maker which will snip off lengths of steel wire, sharpen one end and blunt the other into a nail head to make nails. In the middle of which, they are being interrupted with orders for cannons for Gustav Adolph and plate armor for the APCs and other emergencies.

It's not like our world where there are a dozen manufacturers competing for every niche market in tiny tacks. Instead, it's an extreme case of the old Ford motto of "They come in any color you want as long as it's black." You can have cheap nails—very cheap nails by down-time standards—if you're willing to have the standard sizes that they make. If not, go see a blacksmith and spend twenty or more times as much per nail.

There is a natural corollary to that. When the nail guy is deciding what size nails he's going to make, he spends some time looking for the size that can be used by the largest market. And that is going to be the guiding principle of the early industry in and around Grantville and in and around Magdeburg: "What's the most useful design/size for the largest market?"

Not everyone is going to follow that philosophy. There's the guy who built a hovercraft and he did pretty well with it. Not real well, because it was a niche market and a niche that was going to shrink as the railroads and the steamboats came more and more on line. But the niche was never going to go away entirely, so he could have made a go of it if he wasn't a horse's hind end. But he never would have become a really rich guy, not like the Stone family—or the guy who did the nails, for that matter. Nor like the Schmidt family or the Higgins family. They make three models of sewing machine because when you're dealing with leather, sail cloth and stuff people wear, three is about the minimum number you can get away with. Plenty will begin pouring out of the golden horn of Grantville almost immediately. Variety will take a little longer. A lot longer. A whole lot longer.

Of course, pouring in this case is a relative term. In terms of the size of the USE, its closest relative is dribbling. Take, for example, the steam engines that Adolph Schmidt starts producing in late 1633. Assume that his production rate gets up to ten cylinders of steam engine per day, 365 days a year. That means that by late fall 1634 there will be a grand total of . . . wait for it . . . 3650 cylinders of engines. They will be put together into engines of various sizes, one-cylinder engines all the way up to a few forty-cylinder engines. (Remember my comment about "What's the most useful design/size for the largest market?" this is an example of what I meant by it. Not necessarily the fewest parts per engine but the fewest kinds of parts for the largest number of engine types they can manage.) Call it an average of three cylinders per engine, that's 1217 engines or thereabouts. At the end of 1634, in all of the USE, there are fewer Schmidt steam engines than there were internal combustion engines in Grantville on the day of the Ring of Fire. In terms of horsepower, there's less than there was in the school parking lot. On the other hand, the USE is, just from that one plant in Magdeburg, 14,600 horses richer in motive power. Motive power that is several times as efficient in terms of usage cost as the horses it replaces.

All in all, it's better than nothing but not a lot better than nothing. Where are those 1217 steam engines in the fall of 1634? Well, here's where they might be:

637 might be in moderately prosperous villages, where around plowing time they are put into a tractor frame and used to plow the field. After harvest time they run a thresher or a mill wheel. The rest of the time they run other appliances of one sort or another, depending on the village.

317 might be running small to medium boats up and down the Elbe River, mostly privately owned and more than a few built in the Magdeburg ship yard. Those boats, in turn, are shipping goods upriver as far as Prague and often enough out onto the North Sea to Amsterdam or even London. A couple of those are using forty-cylinder one-ton 160hp engines in support of sails. That is, they are on single- or double-masted sailing ships and they start up the engines when the wind isn't blowing the way they want it to.

178 might be running small generators which are providing electrical power to wealthy households and palaces from Hamburg to Prague, or the needed electricity to this or that factory.

39 might be running steam wagons for wealthy industrialists to ride to the theater in, thereby proving how wealthy they are, or carrying goods over good roads. Not all of those steam wagons would be in Magdeburg. There will be some in Prague, Hamburg, other places. Heck, Louis of France might have one. Ferdinand III might have one. He likes cars, it's said.

26 might be busted by someone who didn't read the instructions, and been replaced by Schmidt Steam.

20 might be in factories running fans or water pumps or other equipment, including one that is providing power for thirty-four sewing machines in the readymade garment industry.

Or, of course, they might be in any number of other places. The only thing that is certain is that, in the fall of 1634 assuming Adolph and co. are putting out ten cylinders worth or twenty cylinders worth of steam engines a day, it's not enough. Not nearly enough. They come flooding out of the Magdeburg factory and disappear as though eaten by a Boojum.

All of which brings us to the Boojum, which is central Germany—the USE to central Europe. Eleven million people in the USE, twenty-five million in France, millions more in Poland, Italy, the Netherlands, Spain, and even England and Russia. Millions and millions of people, most of whom are desperately poor. Haiti poor. Bangladesh poor. And yet, relatively well off compared to the rest of the world. For most people in the seventeenth century, life sucked great big lemons and less savory things.

They were not poor, even then, because of a lack of productive capacity. It was more the reverse. The Mercantilists, as they would be named in another century and a half by a Scottish economist with his own axes to grind, were stuck in a zero sum game. Money was gold and silver and there wasn't enough of it to support the economy they had. There are economists out there who, like Adam Smith, have their own political axes to grind and will tell you that the market will adjust, that Adam's invisible guiding hand will put things right. Ah, no! In fact, it doesn't and the Thirty Years' War is one of the better examples of what actually does happen. Prices do go down some, but even more, productivity shrinks to fit the money supply. Now the theory can be saved by changing the definition of "right" to "really sucks to be you" and proclaiming that everything has been put right. And the very early money theorists had no real concept of money that wasn't gold or silver. They used checks, bills of lading, money of account, but it all represented gold and silver. It always had, right back to the dark ages. They had the pieces to get away from gold and silver, but ingrained belief tends to be ingrained and unthinking assumptions tend to be unthinking. Even Adam, in The Wealth of Nations, couldn't really get away from it and he knew it was wrong. Knew it. Said so right out. Several times. In print. To the economic thinkers of the seventeenth century, the goal of all commerce was to have the biggest pot of gold you could get and for everyone else to have littler ones.

That was it: For you to have more, they had to have less. Gold and silver were the only way to count who had what. All right, it wasn't really that simple. Nothing is ever that simple and pure, but it was pretty close. If the Ring of Fire had arrived without the knowledge of economics that came with them, the disaster they would have caused all unknowing would have been worse than a hundred Magdeburg sacks. A sudden increase in productivity and no way to adjust the money supply equals economic collapse. Of course, the economy of the Germanies was already pretty well collapsed. It couldn't have fallen much further, right? Wrong! At no time during the Irish potato famine did the island fail to produce more food than was necessary to feed every man, woman and child on the island. The food was exported mostly to France by their fellow Irishmen. Grantville wasn't going to run out of money. If they had gone with gold and silver currency, they would have, at worst, had a short term credit crunch slightly more severe than they did have. But the wealth they brought with them and the wealth they could produce would have bought them the gold and silver they needed to operate. It's others who would have starved because there wasn't enough money to hire them after it had all flowed into Grantville.

I will now step down off the soap box for a minute. Have a sip of coffee.

Anyway, the Grantvillers brought the vital concepts and made a pretty valid guess about how much wealth they were introducing, while not giving a lot of consideration to the sorry state of the economy surrounding them. So Grantville became an island of prosperity without too badly damaging the economy, what there was of it, around them. Their money gained credence because of their prosperity. Well, that and the fact that they and their money were clearly stamped "Special Delivery from God." That "Special Delivery from God" was pretty important when it came to the question of "what's behind this paper."

Now, it's important to remember that the economy of Europe, and especially that of central Germany, was in a state of collapse. There was considerable unused productive capacity in the system, which is demonstrated by the early results of Kipper and Wipper. Central Germany needed cash, more than wealth. When the up-timers added both, the cash spread out and was swallowed up by the same Boojum that swallowed up the Schmidt steam engines in 33-34 and came back with "please, sir, can we have some more." We got food, we got linen, we got wool, we got beer, and we're willing to work. As that money flowed out of Grantville in 1631-1634, it hit like rain on parched but well-seeded ground. There was never enough of it, but everywhere it touched wealth sprouted.

In the process, it made first the New US, then the SoTF, and to an extent the CPE and then the USE richer. The output of the Ring of Fire and all the goods and services they could come up with in four years of seven-day work weeks and eighteen-hour work days would not have been enough to raise the GDP of central Germany more than a percentage point or two. This far, the "it's too fast" people are right. It was the synergistic effect between the already present unused capacity and low cost, high return additions of the up-timers, like the cheaper nails and nuts and bolts. Also booklets, cheat sheets, whatever you want to call them that allow the down-timers to use what they already have to create new products and better, less expensive, ways of creating a product they already had that will add most of all to the GDP of the USE and the rest of Europe. Sewing machines, Adolph's steam engines, though they will add less to the GDP than the ad booklet will, do add to the growth but comparatively little by 1635 and probably not all that much by 1640. Though it's growing every year and even tiny percentages amount to pot loads of money when you're talking about a nation of eleven million people.

Schmidt steam is less than a percentage point of Magdeburg's growth and HSMC is less than a percentage point of the growth around the Ring of Fire. Because for every Schmidt Steam or HSMC that gets a story written about them, there are dozens or hundreds of businesses that never make it into print. The paper makers who have gone into gasket making, the bicycle chain maker and so on, all add to the growth rate. Not to mention the souvenir rocks that are mined along the Ring wall and sold to the tourists. And which are often used as good luck charms or the stones in wedding rings. And all of them, put together, are the smaller part of the overall growth.

These businesses make the people and places that own them considerably richer and, indirectly, even the people and places that don't own them a little bit richer. The plows and sewing machines, the nails and nuts and bolts, the booklets describing how to make crystal sets and wood and leather steam engines, flood out of the point source and make the economy of the USE and even other countries richer. But most of all it's the information. By 1634 the overall economy of the USE is growing at a rate of 10% a year and that of Western Europe at a rate of 2% to 3%. But that’s as a whole. The area right around the Ring of Fire is doing 50% or more annual growth and has been doing so since early 1632. Magdeburg is doing 25% or more and has been since early 1633. Cities like Hamburg are inching up to around 15% and on the down side great big chunks on the USE are having negative growth. Not that that's anything new. The best I have been able to tell, with the exception of the Netherlands, all of Western Europe was having negative growth in 1630.

All of which leads us back to where?

Remember that assumption I mentioned early on. "The most common assumption is that it's going to slow things down." It being the lack of up-timers and especially the lack of college-egimacated up-timers. It assumes that most of the up-timers aren’t going to step up to the plate and that those that do are mostly going to strike out. But the seventeenth century is tossing soft balls. And the down-timers are setting up ball stands like for peewee league. One other thing, and this I must admit is a personal belief. I believe in people. I think that the average person does step up when given the chance and seeing the need. No, not everyone is a J.P. Morgan or Mother Teresa but there are a lot of them out there that simply through circumstances never had the chance or the need to turn into heroes. What do I think would happen if Atlas Shrugged, if the ten thousand or hundred thousand of the best, most successful, industrialists were to disappear and leave the world to struggle on without them? The next Atlas would step up to the plate and mostly the world would never notice. It would go in different directions, but in the butterfly wings way not the killer asteroid way and the good changes would be as likely as bad. And in the 1632 universe even if their inclinations aren't to step up to the plate, there's probably a down-timer pushing them to it.

Down-timer: "Look, you can tell me. How did you guys get so rich?"

Up-timer: "We're not rich."

Down-timer thinking: This one's really dumb.

Down-timer: "I mean how did you get so much stuff?"

Up-timer shrugs: "Made in factories mostly."

Down-timer: "We have factories!"

Up-timer thinking: This one's really dumb.

Up-timer: "Not like ours. We had assembly lines and stuff."

After a few more beers our intrepid entrepreneurs wobble out of the Thuringen Gardens and in the direction of the National Library. Where they are promptly turned away for being drunk in public. I'd name the up-timer Ron White but somebody already took it. Maybe I'll call him Mashed Tater and make up some incident from his teenage years involving potato mash white lightning.

The next day, somewhat closer to sober and with the monstrous hangover—two monstrous hangovers—they almost give it up as a bad job. They didn't get into the National Library, they hadn't had the library usage course. On the other hand, their question was a common one. One that had already been researched several times and the National Library had a booklet on how up-time industrial practices had evolved and how they worked in the latter half of the twentieth century. The booklet was about thirty pages and cost ten bucks, which the Tater thought was outrageous, and Gunther thought quite reasonable. Tater, grumbling, put up his five and Guns put up his with no noticeable hesitation, then they went off to the Gardens to read it over a little hair of the dog.

Guns, whose nickname came in part because it was short for Gunther and partly because he just really liked guns, had apprenticed for a while as a gunsmith. The striking thing to Guns was how much of the process described in the booklet was just refinements of the sort of stuff you would see in a large gunsmith shop, or a lot of other shops, for that matter. The specifics were different, sure enough, just as they were different if you were making pots and mugs or knives. One of the examples in the booklet was how wheels were made in the early Ford plants. The Ford assembly lines were, after all, the quintessential example of industrialization. It wasn't exactly the same as you'd see in a wheelwright's shop where they made a lot of wagon wheels but it had that familiarity of something that related to what you know. "It's weird how much this stuff is like what we already do."

"Really?" Tater asked.

"Uh huh. Oh, there's some neat tricks in there and some of the machines they use are really big suckers, but it's not anything we couldn’t do." Then Guns got a thoughtful look on his face—which look was thoroughly out of place on that face. "Why didn't we have this stuff in this century?"

And having Mashed Tater and Guns asking that question was the whole point of this little vignette. Sneaky, ain't I? Remember the soap box about the economic situation of the seventeenth century? Sure you do, I just stepped off it a minute ago. And that's why in our time line they didn't have a Ford in the seventeenth century. They didn't have the economy to support a market for that level of productivity. They didn't even have an economy that would support the level of productivity they already had.

As I think has been mentioned by another author in the 1632 universe once or twice, we aren’t dealing with the Middle Ages here, not even the Renaissance. This is the Early Modern period, the starting lap to the Modern period, almost everything needed for the modern industrial world. Just few bits missing. It is my belief that the most important of those missing bits was an economic system that could adapt to changes in productivity. Absent such a system, major advances in productive development are more likely to cause an economic collapse than an improvement in standard of living. With it, the slack in the system becomes an immediate or almost immediate benefit to the economy.

Most of the concepts of mass production were not new to the down-timers anymore than they are new to you and me. We can know about them if we have a need or interest, but mostly ignore them. Because how the comb or nail file got made isn't important. It's there in the store at a reasonable price. Who cares about the rest?

So the point source is going to act more like a salt crystal dropped into supersaturated salt water or a point source of fire into a keg of gunpowder than like a water faucet that everything must flow through. In two ways this explosion of innovation is going to be different than a number of people seem to see it. First they don't need the up-timers for everything. Not even for most things a visit to the national library later the state Library of Thuringia Franconia will get you most of the way there and some clever craftsmen or scholars will take you the rest of the way. And when up-timers are involved they aren't going to be dealing with people that must be introduced to industrialization as a totally new concept. All they will be doing is showing new tweaks to guys that already get it. And that is a whole different ball game.

****

The Importance of Stories

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Back when I edited The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, I would occasionally explore the topic of storytelling in my editorials. More precisely, I would explore why storytelling is important and what makes it a necessary part of the human condition.

I think about that topic often because at times I feel like I work in a frivolous profession. I read a lot and write a lot, things I would do even if no one paid me. I come from a family of teachers who can see tangible results from their work. When my father died, students from all over the world talked about the way he influenced them. Just this last year as I got in touch with old high school friends on Facebook, they told me they took my father’s classes while in college, and he was one of the best, most influential teachers they had.

Writers don’t usually get that kind of feedback. We get nice letters from fans, people who talk about the enjoyment they got from the fiction or the way that they love the stories. That’s important, but it’s not a direct correlation from a class to a job, for example, like my father’s students would often mention.

The week I struggled most with the frivolity of my profession was the week after 9/11 in 2001. Friends escaped the Towers or had harrowing experiences near Ground Zero. I was in the middle of a novel, and I couldn’t bring myself to return to it. It felt like I wasn’t doing enough.

Gradually, I got past that feeling, but it took Harry Potter to get me through. Seriously, without Harry, I’m not sure I would have come back to writing as quickly as I had.

In those dark days after the attack, I overdosed on news—both from friends in New York and from the television. Eventually, I couldn’t watch or listen any more. I needed an escape. I’d been planning to read the Harry Potter books, but hadn’t gotten to them. I picked up the first on the night of 9/11 and read it in silence, letting Harry’s troubles substitute for my own.

And eventually, Harry reminded me that fiction was more than frivolity; it was a necessary escape from a harsh world.

What I had forgotten, even then, was that fiction can have a larger, even more powerful purpose than escape. I knew this intellectually, but I hadn’t really thought about it until this September, when I was lucky enough to be a Guest of Honor at Elstercon in Leipzig, Germany.

Leipzig has a long intellectual tradition. Its university has existed for an unbroken six hundred years—longer than our country has existed. Bach spent 27 years in the city as the man in charge of all the church choirs, and he wrote some of his most important music there. Goethe wrote his most famous play, Faust, there, setting part of it in a still existing tavern called Auerbachs Keller.

In 1945, the Allies traded Leipzig and the surrounding area to the Soviets for a chunk of Berlin, and Leipzig—that great intellectual city—disappeared behind the communist veil. Suddenly, thoughts became dangerous and ideas were restricted. Literature got censored. The world narrowed for the people left behind.

Leipzig remained true to its traditions, though, and the movement to tear down the Wall started there, not a mile from where the convention would eventually be held. In 1989, the world opened up for the citizens of that city, and they could travel. Within three years, the small science fiction community there started a convention and invited their favorite authors from the west to visit.

Science fiction—and ideas—were important, in a way that those of us who lived in the free west couldn’t understand.

The original founders of the convention still put on this convention. A large number of the attendees have returned each year. This convention is different than any other I’ve gone to (and I’ve been to more conventions than I can say), primarily because it’s about science fiction.

You’d think that Worldcon or Readercon would be about science fiction, but they aren’t. They’re about science fiction and writing and games and and and. Elstercon is the first convention I’ve attended where I did not spend 90% of my time talking to new writers about how to break into publishing. I spent 90% of my time talking about literature and ideas and how important they are.

Plus I listened to stories. Stories about kids who grew up in a world where bookstores couldn’t carry the latest title. Several attendees told me about the bookstores behind the Wall. They used the word “adventure.” It was exciting to go to a bookstore because you never knew what you would find. A bookstore in Leipzig might differ from a bookstore somewhere in the GDR, in that neither store would have the same books. And the books would differ between East and West Germany. In East Germany, the editions might be censored. In West Germany, they weren’t.

Over the weekend, I heard stories about books so important that the stores wouldn’t sell their only copy, but would loan them out instead; books that received mythological status; books with hand-typed chapters in them that someone culled from the uncensored West German versions.

As we walked through the tiny dealers’ room, filled with books and nothing else, one reader pointed out a Gregory Benford book in German. “That’s the first book I read,” he said, “that took me away from this world. And,” he added with a smile, “it was the first book I read that had a compelling story.”

So much of East German science fiction was utopian. It existed to prove a point or to show a future that was better than the present. It was political, yes, but also inspirational. The idea of a story was secondary.

And that came up often as well. We spent quite a bit of time discussing utopian science fiction, even in the context of Star Trek.

“Why did Voyager abandon Gene Roddenberry’s vision?” one fan asked me. It turned out she wasn’t talking about my complaint with Voyager—that James T. Kirk could have gotten the entire ship home within the two-hour time limit of the pilot episode. (Think about it.)

She was complaining about the conflict between the crew, of the utopian vision that Roddenberry had of people who had a positive mission, of all nationalities getting along, and of a society without money at all. It was, she said, the perfect communist utopia, one that no one had achieved but everyone wanted.

That made me stop and think. It also made me realize that she had a good point. If you were talking pure quill communism, the kind of stuff that Marx discussed in Das Kapital, the things my poli-sci professor of thirty years ago meant when he called Marx’s vision the purest vision of democracy ever invented (everyone equal across the board—not created equal, but living equal), then she was right. Roddenberry’s idealism, which he in no way would have called communism, spoke to someone behind a Wall, offering her a hope for the future, a hope she believed badly hurt by a new show in the franchise, Voyager.

Ideas as presented in fiction—whether it was in novels or in televised sf—were threatening, and important, and difficult. In another conversation, a Star Trek fan told me that the only episode of classic Trek that did not air in Germany (I presume West Germany, but I might be wrong) in the 1970s was “Patterns of Force,” the Nazi episode. Bootlegged copies found their way to Germany by the 1980s, but no one saw the entire episode until the videocassettes arrived in the 1990s.

As all of this marvelous discussion happened, I remembered something I had learned in yet another college class. I remembered all of the novelists imprisoned for writing their truth. Not the truth. But their truth. And not just novelists imprisoned by the Soviets, but throughout history. Writers have often suffered for telling stories.

We’re just lucky, here in the United States and in the West. We don’t imprison novelists for writing what they want. We can tell whatever story we chose to tell. Those stories might not find an audience because they might not sell, but they’re not being censored, and their authors aren’t being told they cannot write about that topic without fearing for their lives.

Writing feels frivolous here at times because we have so much freedom. Because we can talk about what we want to talk about. We can exchange ideas without being afraid someone will put us in prison for our beliefs.

We forget—or at least I forget—that this is a luxury that writers throughout history have not always had. We forget—or at least I forget—that stories are often the way that Walls develop cracks, that ideas make their way into the general populace, which then opens minds to new ways of thinking, to new worlds, and new cultures, and different ways of doing things.

I valued the weekend in Leipzig more than I can say. It had a profound impact on me, and sent me home with new resolve to write about things that I sometimes shy away from—my own views of the world (couched, of course, in science fictional terms). Yes, sometimes what I do—what writers do—is frivolous. Sometimes, it provides a much needed escape from a very dark world. And sometimes, it provides a light where no light has existed for a long time.

Writing provides adventure, not just within the pages of the book, but with the existence of the book itself.

The folks of Elstercon reminded me of that. Leipzig itself reminded me of that.

And I am grateful.

****

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Table of Contents

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

All Steamed Up

Bibelgesellschaft

A Marriage of Inconvenience

Requiem in Blue

The Baptist Basement Bar and Grill

Second Chance Bird, Episode One

Treasures of the Earth: Geophysical and Geochemical Prospecting

Point Source

The Importance of Stories