Spring, 1633
"Home," Boris sighed then waved at the white stone walls of the Kremlin which stood sixty feet tall and dominated the mostly wooden city of Moscow.
Bernie Zeppi, after the long trip, didn't care if it was home or not. Didn't care about the view. He just wanted in out of the wet. And, judging from what he'd seen so far, Muscovy just wasn't… well, wasn't much. Not that there wasn't a lot of it. Lots and lots of what amounted to log cabins, all crowded together. "Where do we go first?"
Boris pointed toward a street. Well, river of mud masquerading as a street. "My townhouse. I must make a report and get instructions."
Boris burst into the house roaring, "I'm home." His arms were raised in a dramatic pose, in full conquering hero mode, as though he had just returned from being the first man to reach the North Pole. Which, come to think of it, wasn't that far from the truth.
"Yes, dear," a short, plump woman said and lifted a cheek to be kissed. From her response, it seemed that Boris had gone to the corner store for milk. You'd think that after being gone for a year a guy would get a livelier reception than Boris had, Bernie thought. Mom had always run to greet and hug Dad when he came home from a trip. But not this lady, presumably Boris' wife, Daromila. Bernie shook his head. How formal could people get?
Boris deflated and gave the woman a kiss on the cheek. She looked to be about forty, maybe forty-five. She was wearing blue, mostly. Her overdress anyway. Sarafin, they called it. Reddish brown hair, with a sprinkling of gray, and twinkling blue eyes. It was almost like a game of some sort. Bernie had no clue as to the rules but Boris had lost this round. Then he saw the woman's half grin. Maybe not.
The townhouse seemed to be pretty typical. Log, like almost every building. Small windows that weren't made of glass, but he didn't know what they were made of. One corner had several of the religious cartoons that were called icons, and the other had about the biggest stove he'd ever seen.
"Come in, come in." Boris waved at him, expansive again. "My wife, Daromila. This is Bernie Zeppi. He'll be staying with us for a day or so, until I can get in touch with Natalia Yaroslavicha." Boris spoke English and Bernie was surprised when she answered in that language. It must have shown on his face.
"Boris taught me a little years ago." Daromila smiled at him. "And there is Julia, the wife of Captain Johnson. Learning English has become quite the rage since we learned of Grantville." She lifted her cheek again, this time for Bernie to kiss. Not really sure what he was supposed to do, Bernie kissed her cheek.
"You owe me a kopeck." Boris said it like it was a normal comment. Then, receiving a hard look from the little woman, Boris hastily said, "A ruble. At least."
Bernie just stood there confused. "Huh?"
"It's the custom," Daromila explained with that twinkle in her eye. "When a man enters another man's home as a guest, even just for dinner, he pays to give the wife a kiss." She laughed. "Come. I will make you tea." She turned toward that gigantic stove, where it looked like she had all the makings of a meal ready. "Sit, sit."
Bernie sat where Boris indicated. Damn, it felt good to get in out of the wet. He listened, letting the sound of the Russian language and the strangeness of it all roll over him.
It sounded weird, that bit with the kopeck and the ruble. Some weird custom or other. There were a lot of those around. This might be a joke of some kind. Bernie had no way of knowing where the custom came from, but he had plenty of time to think about it. Boris and Daromila had switched almost entirely to Russian.
Boris looked at Daromila, feasting his eyes. "Vasilii said I was to report directly to the patriarch. Otherwise I would have taken the outlander to the Yaroslavich townhouse. Vladimir, I wrote you about him, has arranged for his sister to house him rather than putting him up with the other outlanders."
"Is that wise?" Daromila busied herself at the stove. "The bureaus are in an uproar. " At Boris' curious look, she explained. "They didn't want to believe that the miracle was real. Even after all this time and the letters and books you have sent. They were arguing that it was a fraud right up until Vasilii arrived to say you were on your way. Some still are."
Boris shook his head. "I didn't want to believe it either, but after over a year to get used to the idea, I would have thought-" At his wife's look, he hesitated. "I guess it is an unbelievable story. But you can't not believe after you've seen the glass smooth cliffs of the ring wall."
"Is it really that special?" Daromila sounded a bit wistful. Unlike her husband, she had never been out of Muscovy. "I got your letters but…"
"Yes and no." Boris tilted his hand back and forth. "In some ways it is the most miraculous thing you could imagine and in others quite everyday." He shook his head. "Enough of that for now. I will tell you all about it later. Now I need to know what is going on in the bureaus." So they discussed the different factions that were shifting around the miracle in Germany. The fraud faction, the work of the devil faction, the God's will faction. Which bureau chiefs were leaning which way. How the great families were lining up. The most common reaction was "wait and see," then "how can my family benefit or be harmed," followed closely by "how will it effect my bureau?"
"From what I hear…" Daromila lifted the pot of water. "… the czar wants to see the outlander as soon as he can but the bureaus want a chance to talk to your Bernie first so they can formulate policy. They have managed to fill the czar's schedule for the next week or so to give them a chance to do so."
They went back to English to explain to Bernie that Boris had to go see the patriarch.
Half an hour into the conversation and Boris felt wrung out. Patriarch Filaret apparently remembered every fact he'd read about Grantville, not to mention every bit of the history he'd read. They'd already been through the butterfly effect and every bit of Boris' knowledge of the spies in Grantville. Now, Filaret changed the subject.
"So this Bernie, he has come to work for us?"
"Ah… not quite." Boris twitched in his seat. "In fact, he has come to work for Prince Yaroslavich. Who has paid-and is paying-his salary so far. And there is a personal contract." Boris produced the contract for the patriarch's perusal. Filaret took it and read through it rapidly. Several times during the reading he gave Boris sharp looks.
His brow creased. "A rather large salary. Do you feel it will be worth it?" Boris was surprised at the choice of first question. By custom, outlanders were always hired to work for the czar, not members of the court or the bureaus.
Boris raised his hands. "I can't say for certain. The up-timers knowledge is worth a thousand times that salary. Patriarch…" He paused. "… They could fly up-time. I have seen the movies, heard the stories… they could fly. And I have no doubt they will again
… if they survive another five or ten years."
Filaret leaned back in his chair. This was the reason he'd called for Boris Petrov to see him. He wanted to hear, first hand. "Yet they don't fly now. None of the machines, the airplanes, was it? None came with them."
Boris nodded. "True. It was a poor village of peasants that was sent back to us. Yet even there they have miracles in every art and philosophy and in things we had not even dreamed of. Undreamed of wealth, Patriarch. The products of mass production, they call it. Everything identical, made by machines. If we can make the machines, well, we should be able to do the same."
Filaret raised an eyebrow. "Yet you say you're not sure?"
Boris sighed. "You know the problems with hiring outlander experts. If they were really experts they would be getting rich where they were. What we get are the second raters or the ones no one is willing to hire for some reason. You and I have seen that, time after time."
"Your outlander is a second rater?"
Boris squirmed a bit. "You must remember that there were only around three thousand people brought back in the Ring of Fire. That includes babes still at their mothers breast and those so… sick that they could not survive without constant intervention from their medical practitioners." Boris had, Filaret was sure, almost said "so old" but caught himself in time. Filaret hid a smile. He was over eighty and Boris was afraid to offend. "By their standards, it was not a particularly educated group. Most adults had high school diplomas. .. never mind." Boris clearly didn't want to get sidetracked.
"The point is," Boris continued, "that anyone who had much in the way of special skills or unusual talent was already employed by their government, getting rich right there in Grantville, or both.
"Berna is friendly, willing, and doesn't lie about his abilities. That, above all else, Vladimir insisted on. I agreed. We have had too many master cannon makers who were more familiar with gold than bronze."
Boris paused and Filaret considered. Boris was good at his job and Vladimir was clever. He didn't think that Vladimir was planning anything against the czar, partly because Vladimir was a good lad and a friend of the family, but mostly because he was staying in Grantville. Manipulating court politics from such a distance was almost impossible. Not entirely impossible; Filaret had done it from imprisonment in Poland. But that was a special case and hadn't actually worked out the way he had wanted.
"Then," Filaret leaned forward with his fingertips steepled, "if he is so unskilled, what is he doing here? And why did Vladimir hire him into the Yaroslavich family's service instead of the czar's? Why agree to pay him so much?" He motioned toward the contract. "This is what we would pay for a colonel of artillery."
"His salary is the least of the expense of this project," Boris admitted. This was one of the most important parts of the plan. "Vladimir had an idea. He will be having copies made of the books in Grantville. They will be sent here. But they are only copies, Patriarch, not translations. Not even Latin translations, much less Russian. He doesn't have the staff, or the cash on hand to pay to have it done. The books will have to be translated here."
"I still don't understand what we need this outlander for. Not that I object to his presence. The czar has been anxious to meet an outlander from this miracle and I am curious myself. That, however, doesn't justify this salary, or this change in our traditional ways." The Patriarch waved a hand at the contract again. "Contracts like this
… well, I suppose I can understand the idea. But it's not the way we have done things and I don't like the precedent it sets."
"I speak the English of England in this century quite well," Boris said. "The American English of the tail-end of the twentieth century is full of words that I don't even have the concepts for. What is an excited atom?" Boris used Russian for excited and English for atom.
At Filaret's look, he answered his own question, sort of. "Had someone asked me that before I went to Grantville, I would have had no idea. Even if I had looked up atom in a dictionary from Grantville, I would still have thought it a nonsense phrase. The dictionary would tell me that an atom is the smallest piece of material. A piece of material cannot be excited.
"Berna would probably say he doesn't know, but won't see it as nonsense. He will look it up and tell us enough of what it means that we can make something approaching an accurate translation. As for the contract, Bernie insisted on it… Patriarch, it's hard to explain unless you have seen what they can do and how freely they give out their knowledge. I am convinced that if we don't have someone like Bernie, if we don't gain this knowledge and do it now while the door is opened-" He paused and took a deep breath. "Russia, without the knowledge-the up-timers knowledge-facing a Europe with that knowledge, will not survive a hundred years. "
"Why is Vladimir paying for this?" The patriarch was nodding. Good, Boris thought. He understood why Berna was needed.
"He wants to set up a think tank." Boris spoke entirely in Russian but the concept didn't translate well.
"A gathering of minds." Boris tried again at Filaret's expression. "Also a research center. A place where concepts and devices from the books and notes he is sending can be tried. Tests can be done to see what will and will not work. A place where the knowledge from the future can be combined with the talents of Russians to make both the things he sends us designs for and new designs of our own."
The patriarch nodded, his mind jumping ahead of Boris' explanation. "Where?"
"The Yaroslavich family has a large and comfortable dacha and hunting park a half-day ride from Muscovy. Close enough to Moscow for convenience, yet far enough away so that it can be kept fairly private. He promises not only its use but money for the materials needed for the experimentation. Some thousands of rubles a year."
"That explains what he wants to do, Boris Ivanovich Petrov. It does not explain why the contract with this Bernard Zeppi is with Vladimir Petrovich Yaroslavich, not Mikhail Fedorivich Romanov, Czar of all Russia."
"Vladimir is willing to commit the Yaroslavich family to the primary funding of the project."
"And he wants what in exchange?"
"The exclusive rights to produce and sell the products of the dacha." This was common. One family might have exclusive rights to mine iron ore in a certain area, rights they had purchased from the government. Another might have exclusive rights to sell the furs of another area. And Filaret was no babe in the woods when it came to that type of negotiation.
"No, that won't work," Filaret said. "The Yaroslavich family is rich but not that rich."
"He plans to sell the rights to produce individual products," Boris explained. "The research center will make a working model of, say, a reaper and designs for the parts to it, then sell the rights to make reapers to another clan or to a set of villages."
The patriarch nodded and considered. "Exclusive except for the government. I'll not have the government giving the Yaroslavich family the rights, then paying for the research as well." That too was standard. The government of Muscovy maintained first call on everything. If a family gained exclusive control of a mine what that family got was what came out of the mine beyond the government's share. The extra.
"Of course, Patriarch." Boris nodded. As each new device was made both the government and the Yaroslavich family would have the right to produce it if they chose. In the case of the reaper, the government would be able to either make reapers itself or have them made; so would the Yaroslavich family. The Yaroslavich family might want to sell its rights to make the product but that would not affect the governments rights. "Of course, the research center will need experts from some of the bureaus."
Filaret nodded thoughtfully. "That can be arranged. And the church?"
"Vladimir would prefer not to make an open grant to all the church." Boris' answer was delicate. "There have been abuses of such grants in the past. I am very much afraid the bureaus would not like such a blanket grant either." The Russian Orthodox Church was neither monolithic nor free from corruption. Monasteries vied for power and wealth with the great families and each other.
The patriarch grinned rather sardonically and nodded. "The patriarch's office, then." He laughed at Boris' expression. "Not even that?"
Boris steeled himself. "Who will be the next patriarch?"
Filaret nodded, but lost his smile.
"Vladimir did wish me to convey his warmest personal regards to you, Patriarch Filaret. His concern, and frankly mine, is that the next patriarch may not share your concern for the czar or for Muscovy as a whole. Do you remember mention of Patriarch Nikon from the histories we sent?" Boris really wished he could avoid this part of the conversation. He was used to bureaucratic infighting but not at this level.
Filaret grimaced but nodded. "However, I am patriarch now."
"As long as that happy situation remains, the patriarch's office will receive anything the dacha can provide."
Filaret's fingers made a drum roll on the desk as he thought about it. "It is a great risk for young Vladimir. He could ruin his family if it doesn't work." Then he stared at Boris. "What about you, Boris? What do you gain in this? What do you risk?"
"It has been suggested that I would make an excellent candidate for the head of the Grantville section of the embassy bureau." He shrugged. "That is both the reward and the risk. If it doesn't work, well, my position in the bureau would become untenable."
"Yes." Filaret's eyes glittered. "It would." Another pause while the patriarch's fingers continued to tap out a strange beat on the desk. "Very well. I will talk to Fedor Ivanovich Shermentev, then. I'll even do what I can to get the appropriate people assigned to your section and loaned to the Yaroslavich dacha." He paused a moment. "You understand what you're risking?"
"I think so, Patriarch."
"And with that he sent me on my way." Boris took another sip of the tea Daromila had made him. He felt exhausted and at the same time, jubilant. Also a bit frightened.
"Let me get this straight." Daromila sat down. "If this 'think tank' doesn't produce results-good results-inside a few years… say five at most, you will lose the Grantville section. You will also lose any hope of ever again becoming a section chief. If it succeeds-but not extraordinarily well-you will end your career as a relatively minor section chief. If it succeeds extraordinarily well, then section chief of the Grantville section will become a plum job."
Boris nodded. "It's a risk. Section Chief is a nice promotion but the important point is section chief of which section. If the Grantville section becomes like the Bristol section-just the section chief and a clerk-well, I'll spend the rest of my life sitting there growing mold. If Grantville and the research center become as important as I think they might be, then the Grantville Section will rival the Polish Section. More than a hundred jobs to hand out. Favors to other section chiefs. It will be the job everyone wants. That will have it's own dangers but also opportunities. It will become a stepping stone to still higher positions, which could work well for us. Patriarch Filaret said 'I'll do what I can for you, if it succeeds.'"
"If he's still here," Daromila pointed out. "The man is eighty." Daromila had helped him negotiate the waters of the Moscow bureaucracy all the years of their marriage. She knew the risks and rewards as well as he did.
"Positions for the boys," she murmured. Their four sons were of an age to begin government service. The eldest, Pavel, was already working in the bureau of posts, although as a minor clerk. The middle two, Boris Borisovich and Vasilli, were currently overseeing the villages. Only the youngest, Ivan, remained at home.
"Ah, yes." Boris hesitated a moment. Daromila was a mother. Mothers worried. "We should send each of them to Grantville, you know. They will gain experience there." Boris knew that Daromila wasn't entirely happy with the idea that her sons would follow in his footsteps, as least as far as being a spy was concerned.
Daromila frowned. Boris held his breath. He didn't really like it when she frowned, but this wasn't directed at him. She stood, went to the stove and moved a pot to a cooler spot. "You're probably right. " She turned back to him. "The prince you went with, Vladimir? Will he be careful of them?"
"He's an honorable man."
Daromila nodded. "We must do what we can. Pavel first."
"Ivan, I think," Boris said, "should join the dacha. In a minor post, of course."
"That should work." Then she smiled the smile that had always tugged his heartstrings. "He and Bernie have been talking all the time you were gone."
Boris groaned a bit. "He'll be ruined. Ruined."
Daromila smiled again. "Now, dear. Don't worry so. Bernie is a nice boy." Her eyes grew distant. "The first thing we should do is go and see Natasha Petrovna Yaroslavicha."
Boris nodded. "Yes. I have letters for her. First thing tomorrow morning, I think."
Boris had sent a message and he knew Vladimir had corresponded with his sister. She should be aware that he was coming. He thought it best not to spring Bernie on her as a surprise. The Yaroslavich townhouse was large and palatial. To a young, protected princess (the great families tended to keep women sheltered) Bernie Zeppi might come as an unwelcome surprise. Best to make her acquaintance first, Daromila had said.
His first surprise came at the door. The tall, young woman who answered it wasn't a servant. She was the princess in full court dress. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. Vladimir speaks very highly of you." She was looking around curiously like a like a child looking for the clowns to arrive. "But why did you not bring Bernie? Vladimir says he's to stay at the dacha."
This girl-well, young woman-was not shy. Not in the least what he'd expected. "Well, I thought I might prepare you a bit." Boris stumbled over his answer. "Bernie is… well, Bernie. Rather unusual. Not like us."
A cackle from the other end of the room surprised him. And a tiny old woman rose to greet him and lifted her cheek for his kiss. "Sofia Petrovna. Vladimir's aunt. We've both been looking forward to meeting the outlander." Her black eyes sparkled with intelligence. "Letters?" It was not a question. Boris handed them over, while the princess told a servant to bring tea.
Both women made sure he was comfortable and began to skim their letters. After a moment or so, the princess looked up at him. "Forgive me." She was even blushing a bit though it was hard to tell with the makeup. "I enjoy my brother's letters so much." She set them aside, reluctantly, he thought. "Tell me about this miracle from the future. The rumors would have it that they are all devils on the one hand, and all saints on the other."
Boris felt the grin breaking out. "Not devils or saints. Just people. Though they are different in culture and belief." The girl was a cutie even if she was unusually tall and thin. She bubbled like a brook or a laughing child still some how anxious for the next existing treat the world would provide her.
Sofia and the princess "Call me Natasha; everyone does," kept him busy answering questions for an hour. Boris finally broke away, swearing to return the next day with Bernie.
"Oh, and your wife." Natasha smiled. "I'm quite anxious to meet her."
As promised, Boris delivered Bernie the next day. Natasha had decided, again, that since the outlander was visiting today she would greet him in full court dress. Then, as they often did, things had come up. She rushed through the last of her preparation, took a deep breath and made her entrance. Boris-as custom dictated-kissed her on the cheek. However, though Boris seemed a nice man, he was inconveniently short. The customary kiss entailed her leaning down and Boris standing on tiptoe.
Natasha had worn a gown that was mostly black. She had heard that the Protestants had the oddest notions about somber clothing being a mark of virtue of some sort and she did want the outlander to feel comfortable. By custom, her makeup was pure white with red lips and cheeks. The outlander's face was turning the oddest shade of red. Then he started to laugh uncontrollably. She thought he might be apologizing as he laughed-which just made it worse.
Bernie couldn't help it. He had been nervous all morning after the lecture Mrs. Petrov had given him on how important the Yaroslavich family was. And suddenly it was like he was in a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon with Boris and Natasha. He cracked up. He almost had himself under control. "Where's Bullwinkle?" slipped out he lost it again.
Things were getting tense by the time Bernie got himself under control. "I'm sorry. I'm away from home and nervous about the new job. It was just that you two right then happened to look like Boris and Natasha."
Now the princess was looking confused again. "But we are Boris and Natasha?"
"I know." Bernie almost lost it again. He shook his head. "I think that's what really did it. Not like you, Boris and Natasha; like the cartoon Boris and Natasha. Natasha was tall and slinky, ah, beautiful with a very pale face and red lips, Boris was short and stocky. They were spies." Another giggle. "Spies who were constantly trying to blow up Rocky, the Flying Squirrel and Bullwinkle J. Moose. I used to watch it on Nickelodeon when I was a kid."
"What is a cartoon?" Princess Natasha was apparently much mollified by the notion that this other Natasha was beautiful. Bernie was less confident of her reaction to slinky, though you never knew.
"It's a simple drawing." Bernie tried to explain.
"Something like an icon but without the religious significance," Boris clarified.
"Except the ones with Boris and Natasha moved."
"Moved how?" Natasha's forehead creased under the makeup. "Did they shake the paper?" Which lead to a discussion of moving pictures in general and how they were made. By the end of this discussion, Natasha was too interested to be offended.
"Now I see how it works." Natasha saw something else too. This was why they needed Bernie Zeppi and the dacha turned into a research center. He had not come here to introduce moving icons on a screen. It had just popped out like a chicken laying an egg. How many other eggs were buried in his head and how valuable would they be to the family? Natasha had seen mimes and clowns perform. In spite of his comments, she knew that the movies and cartoons didn't need sound to be a major draw.
Daromila, who had been fairly quiet during the visit, asked, "Berna, what is all this about the moose and squirrel?"
Bernie jerked a bit. "Berna?"
Daromila grinned a bit. "It is what we do, the names. When someone is close or well liked, we… do things to the names. Boris, for instance… I call him Boriska, usually. As he calls me Dara. The princess Natalia, you recall…"
"Call me Natasha," Bernie said. "Oh. I get it. Nicknames. Like Bernie is to begin with. My real name is Bernard. Always hated it. Sounds like some old grandpa dude's name."
Daromila nodded. "Exactly. Now, tell me about the moose and squirrel," Then, with emphasis, "and the spies, Boris and Natasha."
Spring, 1633
"I think we can use him," General Kabanov said. He was in charge of guns and weapons for the Russian musketeers. "He does seem to know a great deal about guns and their use."
Boris nodded. He saw no need to point out that Bernie's familiarity with the 30.06 was nothing unusual. Bernie had just finished disassembling and reassembling his up-time rifle and then loading it and emptying it into a set of targets. Another thing Boris neglected to mention was how very slow Bernie had been in doing both those things in comparison to some of the up-timers he had seen.
"Why can't we make these repeating rifles?" General Kabanov asked Bernie but he didn't speak English, much less up-timer English, so questions were funneled through Boris. Which was probably for the best, as it allowed him to edit at need.
"Primers," Bernie said. "You can't make the primers. We went over all this in Grantville."
"In the brass cartridges," Boris translated, "are compounds of a chemical that is difficult and expensive to make in quantity-"
So it went. It was the third interview that day and there were three more to go and still more tomorrow.
"Why did you have to bring us an idiot?" Filip Pavlovich Tupikov was pacing back and forth, scratching furiously at a rather weak beard. "They know how to fly. They can make materials we never dreamed of. And you bring us this? Not a doctor, not a… what is the word? Engineer. Not an engineer. Instead you bring us this… this… barely a craftsman. Why, Boris Ivanovich?"
Boris Ivanovich looked at Filip Pavlovich. The man was a brilliant artisan and a skilled natural philosopher, but had no understanding of how the world worked. Besides, Boris had been getting some version of this from about half the interviewers for the last two weeks. "Ah, how foolish of me." Boris snorted. "I should, no doubt, have asked their president, Mike Stearns, to give up all he had in Grantville and come be a servant in Muscovy? Perhaps the master of machining, Ollie Reardon, would have given up his factory with its machines and the electric to run them? Better yet, I could have tried to persuade Melissa Mailey, a qualified teacher in their high school. Of course, she has been heard to say-more than once, I might point out-that they should start by executing nine out of ten of the nobility of Europe. She then suggests that they go up from there. I'm sure she would have been happy to serve the czar."
Filip Pavlovich flinched a bit. Boris felt he'd gotten his point across. "I brought Berna because he was who I could get. He has graduated their high school. He is a qualified auto mechanic with tools. I should know. I had to arrange for their transport. He speaks, reads and writes their up-timer English. English which is not so similar to the English we know as Polish is to Russian. You can get by with practice but the words have changed their meaning and pronunciation as often as not. Believe me, Filip Pavlovich, there are people I could have recruited that you would have liked less."
Bernie sighed. "Dude, when is this sh… ah… stuff going to be done with. Let me get to work, will you?"
"Soon, Bernie, soon." Boris waved at the stairs. "We have the audience today. Natasha will be down soon and we will leave."
"The makeup again?" Bernie giggled.
Boris glared at Bernie, remembering the silly business about Boris and Natasha. "I trust you will be able to control your sense of humor."
"Wish she'd hurry up." Bernie's complaint brought Boris back to the present. Then Natasha arrived, walked to Boris and said in a deep sultry voice-not her own-but which Bernie claimed was a fairly good imitation of the cartoon Natasha, "Welcome, my little Borisky. This time we will capture that naughty moose, yes?"
Bernie cracked up and Boris turned red.
Bernie tried to suppress his occasional giggles as Boris and Natasha coached him very carefully for his meeting with Mr. Big. Mr. Big, otherwise known as the Czar of all the Russias. Armed with Vladimir's gifts, as well as his own, Bernie followed their instructions carefully.
Boris whispered names and positions while they stood in the line of people waiting to be presented. "Patriarch Filaret, the czar's father, there to the left of Czar Mikhail. On the right, Fedor Ivanovich Shermentev, he is in charge of the bureau of records. It is an especially powerful post, because he can cause so much trouble for the other bureaus." The list of names went on an on and Bernie quit paying that much attention. Natasha had left them, and gone off to see the czar's wife. When they got a bit closer, Bernie started looking around a bit. Good thing he was farsighted, since the room seemed to be about eighty-feet long.
Mr. Big-no, that really didn't seem to fit-was a pretty ordinary guy when you got a look at him. The czar looked to be in his mid thirties. He also looked like he didn't want to be there. Sort of bored and sad. He seemed like the kind of guy who got stuffed in his locker in gym class. The patriarch guy, his father, was really old, but looked to be a tough old bird. And all these… boyars, they were called. There was some serious money tied up in their clothes. "Dimitry Mamstriukovich Cherakasky." Boris nodded toward another man. "Not a man to cross, that one." Well, Bernie wasn't going to cross anyone if he could help it.
Finally, they got up to the front of the line. Boris did all the talking, which was just as well. Bernie hadn't had much luck figuring out the lingo, not yet. Boris gave the agreed upon signal and Bernie bowed. "Your Majesty."
Mikhail Romanov smiled at the obvious awkwardness of the outlander's attempt to bow. He knew from Vladimir Yaroslavich's letters that the people brought back in time by God's hand had no custom of bowing.
"Welcome to Moscow." Mikhail had picked up a bit of English over the years. There were several English merchants and diplomats in Muscovy. He wanted to make the outlander feel at home. To have been touched by God in such a material way. It must be a blessing.
The outlander bowed again and Boris Petrovich made a gesture. The outlander presented his gifts. Not the usual gold or silver dishes and artwork. Jewelry, perhaps? Mikhail looked at the thing.
"It is an up-time 'watch.'" Boris Petrovich spoke softly. "If you will press that button there, it will light up."
Mikhail, with some trepidation, pressed the button. This had been made, would be made, almost four hundred years in the future. More, God had seen fit to send it back in time to him. "Very interesting," was all he managed to say. He watched the numbers on the end change. They were a bit blurry, but that wasn't the numbers fault. Mikhail couldn't see very well, close up. The interesting thing was that they changed. Changed at regular intervals. It was a clock in a piece of jewelry worn about the wrist. He wondered for just a moment if it might be some sort of magic. Probably not, he decided. Probably the electric craft that Vladimir had written about. He had said that it often looked like magic at first acquaintance. He looked forward to showing it to Evdokia.
Evdokia gathered her ladies and signaled Natasha to walk with her. As usual, it was the younger of her ladies who accompanied her. They left the Palace of Facets to return to the Terem Palace. The Terem was the czar's private residence. She, he, the children and some cousins and servants all lived there. It was also often occupied by the wives and daughters of the great families of Muscovy.
"The outlander." Evdokia paused. "I wonder what the future was like to live in."
"I do, too," Natasha agreed. "Not the history so much. But what it was like to live in a world where they had so much… magic. In the future, Boris says, they had carriages that traveled without horses and others that would fly. Plays and music put in boxes and new clothes made in hours. And cartoons. Which sound like fun."
Evodkia refrained from running back to the terem section of the palace with some difficulty. She felt like a girl again, even if she was twenty-four with three living children. Evdokia hadn't been raised in Muscovy. She wasn't that fond of it, either. It was more restrictive than her home and required more subtlety. The cats in the capital could be nasty and had been when Mikhail had chosen her over them and their daughters. This new land of the future offered excitement. It offered new things to contemplate, which was essential. Moscow was not the den of iniquity that her mother had painted it as. At least not the parts of it that she got to see. As the mother of the next czar, her life was somewhat circumscribed. There were parties but they were formal affairs. There were the children and Mikhail, but truth be told, she was often bored. The palace was run by the palace staff, who rarely asked her opinion of anything.
One saving grace existed in all of this. Mikhail was a gentle man. He loved his family and treated them well. He spent more time with them than the cabinet would prefer. No. That wasn't true. The cabinet liked things just the way they were. In all honesty, Evdokia had to admit that the cabinet probably listened to Mikhail less than the palace staff listened to her.
Later that afternoon, Evodkia found her husband pouring over papers. Mikhail looked depressed, even from the rear. She put her hands on his temples and rubbed them. Mikhail often had headaches and said that helped. He began to relax.
"It's getting more dangerous now." He almost whispered. "The safe course is denied us by the histories from the future." That sent a chill down Evdokia's back. She had been aware that the basic policy of the patriarch had been one of social conservatism, while at the same time trying to upgrade the army and bring in advances of the west. She had also been aware that the reason for that policy was the instability of the situation.
"The cabinet will use any change." Evdokia worried. "As will the church." A pretender to the throne could be tonsured like Mikhail's father. For Mikhail-and for her and the children-a more drastic solution would be needed. Politics in Muscovy were very personal at times.
"God has told us. Given us a miracle. " Mikhail looked at her. "A miracle… but what does it mean?"
"How much longer?" It was the next afternoon and they were on their way to the dacha. Bernie's voice was plaintive.
Natasha looked out the open windows of the carriage she rode in and grinned. "We have been moving for only a few moments since the last time you asked that question, Berna. A bit longer, still."
Bernie sighed. "God, I wish I had my car. I wish I had some gas. I wish…" His voice trailed off and he stared into the distance.
Natasha had Vladimir's request that she keep Bernie as happy as she could, within certain limitations. "You wish you could go back? But we have only begun to become acquainted."
Bernie shook his head. "No, not back to Grantville. I wish I could go home, back to the world I came from. This place, all these places, just aren't home. Even Grantville isn't home. I used to do all right, you know. I had enough money to do what I wanted, for the most part. I dated, I worked my hours. I got by. Now, though, well, it's just not the same, not even in Grantville."
Natasha murmured a sympathetic sound and Bernie kept talking. Natasha could tell Bernie was lonely and feeling lost. Not much of a wonder, judging from Bernie's appearance. He had worn what he called his "best suit" to the audience, but now he was wearing something called "jeans." They were blue but faded, clearly inappropriate for a person of Bernie's station in life. Peasants wore faded clothing.
I shall have to help him with his wardrobe, Natasha thought. He needs to grow a beard, as well. Else no one will take him seriously.
Bernie looked at the girl. She seemed nice enough and she hadn't gotten pissed at the Boris and Natasha bit. On the other hand, she was Vladimir's sister and Bernie had finally picked up on just how rich and powerful Vlad was after he had gotten to Moscow. This girl was the daughter of a great house. She was pretty, dark haired and slim. Slimmer than a lot of the Russian women, with black hair that hung down to her b… past her waist. She spoke some English. Funny sounding English, but English. Mostly, though, she was someone to talk to.
"So," he said, "tell me about you."
Natasha was a bit surprised. It was a fairly forward question, it seemed to her. She had little experience with men not part of her family or sworn to it. Members of her family would already know such things. Retainers would never have the gall to ask such a question if not invited. Her aunt, Sofia, tittered a bit. Natasha cast a glance her way and the sixty-year-old Sofia pretended innocence, staring out the windows on the other side of the carriage.
"Ah…" Natasha stopped. What about her? "What do you wish to know?"
"Oh…" Bernie hesitated a moment. "Like, what do you figure on doing with your life? Do you have any plans to become a doctor or lawyer? What's it like in the winter here? Do you like parties?" He snorted. "What's your sign?" Natasha had no idea what that meant.
Bernie stopped suddenly. He even blushed a bit. "That's probably too many questions, isn't it?"
"Perhaps," Natasha acknowledged. "In any case, I didn't understand what all of them meant. I don't know what my sign is. Unless you mean the family crest."
"Never mind." Bernie said hastily. Then he scratched his chin. "Why do all the men wear beards?"
Natasha found herself suppressing a giggle. Didn't this outlander know anything? "Men wear beards because the church says that it is a mortal sin to shave them. God did not create men beardless, only cats and dogs."
"Not to mention rats and mice," Bernie said. "Cattle. Sheep. Well, sheep are sort of bearded all over. Goats, though. Goats have beards."
Aunt Sofia was suppressing laughter, Natasha thought. Her shoulders were shaking, at any rate. And her black eyes sparkled a bit.
"Perhaps so." Natasha felt a grin trying to break out. "But I'm not sure the church would like hearing that…" She searched for the word. "Ah… compare?"
"Comparison," Bernie said. "Yeah. Churches up-time didn't like it when you pointed out that sort of thing, either. Whatever. So, anyway, what do you do?"
The question threw Natasha into a bit of confusion. What did she do? Did he mean how she spent her time? "I take care of the family properties while Vladimir is away. Someone must."
Bernie shook his head and shifted his weight on the saddle. Natasha envied that he was riding a horse. It had to be more comfortable than the jolting carriage. The carriage hit a rut and she bounced a bit, grabbing onto the edge of the seat. "Uff."
"That's one of the things we gotta do." Bernie made a tsking sound, staring ahead at the road. "These roads are the pits."
Yet another word she wasn't sure of, Natasha thought. Pit for hunting? Pit of Hell? Thinking about it, she wasn't sure that the latter wasn't accurate. "Pits?"
"Really bad. But that's one thing I know how to fix. Some ditches, some drainage and some gravel. Easy."
The carriage jolted again and Natasha suppressed a groan. Fix the roads. What a good idea.
Berna was moved in and settled. It had been a busy three days, but Natasha was at her desk, at last. There were several letters to write. She, as was her nature, started with the hardest.
To the Up-timer Citizen of Grantville, United States of America, Miss Brandy Bates,
I make free to write to you at the suggestion of your fellow up-timer, Bernard Zeppi. I hope that this missive finds you in the best of good health.
Natasha hated this part. She was a regular correspondent with several women of Muscovy and even a few men. But writing to someone new was always a challenge, especially someone from a foreign country. Worse, in this case, because the up-timers probably thought of everyone from this century as barbarians. But she really did need an answer to this question.
Let me apologize if I have failed to include the titles appropriate to your station. It is not with the intent of insult but from simple ignorance. Goodman Zeppi informs me that you are a woman of great accomplishment and considerable status among the up-timers, being a professional researcher at the research center. Also that you are of good family and possessed of a Ged.
I gather that the Ged is a title? But I confess my ignorance in how it is to be applied to a salutation. Mr Zeppi professes ignorance of your other titles, not being a student of heraldry.
The talk Bernie and Natasha had on the road to the dacha and the talk Natasha had with Sofia led to other talks with Bernie. He had made a very strange comment. When Natasha had asked about it his face had gone red and he had refused to answer. He suggested that she write Brandy Bates. When she had asked why, he had said that Brandy was a better person to ask and insisted that she was an expert and a person of high status. Natasha suspected that he might have overstated the woman's importance and wasn't at all sure she liked the way Berna had waxed effusive on Brandy Bates' accomplishments. Still, if she wanted to know this was the only way to find out.
I fear this may be a delicate matter to broach on first acquaintance, but what is a bra and why should one burn it in the grand market square?
Princess Natalia Petrovna Yaroslavicha
Natasha knew she should be saying more, introducing herself more clearly, but she was uncertain of what degree of formality she should use in writing to an unknown up-timer. She set the letter aside and started working on the next. It would go to Vladimir and discuss the Grantville Section of the Embassy Bureau and the agreements reached between the family and the government.
Fall, 1633
The Grantville Section was, so far, not doing all that well. Boris was having organizational problems. Pavel Borisovich, his eldest son, shook his head at him. "They won't authorize it, Father."
"Why not?" Boris felt he was asking the question with considerable restraint.
His son shrugged. "The official reason or the real reason?"
"The official one, I know the real one." The real reason was resentment. The patriarch had gotten Boris the Grantville section and a reasonable budget. That only fueled the resentment. There were other people who were in line for the promotion; people with better family connections. That would normally mean that if a new section was established they might reasonably expect to be tapped to head it up. Assistant section chiefs-in and out of the embassy bureau-were pissed that Boris had been jumped a rank.
"Priorities." Pavel squinted and hunched over as though he expected a strong wind.
"I was given to understand that we had a rather high priority?" Boris tried to keep his voice calm. Perhaps too calm.
"I'm just passing on what I was told." Pavel waved the report, then began to read. "Because of the requirements of the grain shipments to Sweden, Yuri Petrovich Gorbochov is desperately needed to expedite the harvest in the Gdansk region."
"They picked one that has a higher priority than we do." Boris had to give that section chief credit. It was cleverly done anyway. There might even be some truth to it.
"Father, I'm not sure you do know the real reason. At least not all of them. I was talking to Petr Somovich. He said that a lot of people are starting to be afraid that this is a nowhere job. Not that much has come out of the dacha yet and we have all these books that mostly don't make sense, not even to people who do speak English. Who cares that Audubon painted birds? Russia has real issues to deal with."
"I know, son. " Boris had to concede that some of the objections to working with the dacha crew seemed to be valid. Among the other things that Boris had brought back was a down-time copy of the first book of the Encyclopedia International, 1963 edition, that had been in someone's garage. They had refused the outright sale of the books but had rented them to Vladimir for an outrageous sum. "But you never know what might combine with something else to solve a problem. We saw it again and again in Grantville. There would be an article on something that they needed but it would be missing some vital bit. Then the vital bit would show up in the biographic blurb about the guy who discovered it. Something like where he was when he found the first deposit of some rare earth."
"So you decided to send a copy of everything. I know. Father. I even agree." Pavel's face was serious, his dark eyes intent. "That doesn't change the fact that spending the next ten years of their lives translating minutia about people who will never even be born seems a pointless, career-ending job to most people."
Boris sighed. "I had hoped it would be more popular. It is a secure position, doing important work, if not the most exciting. A safe place in the bureaus."
"That's the problem, Father." Pavel shrugged. "It's not secure unless the Grantville section becomes secure."
Boris was left with an office and a budget and not nearly enough people who read and wrote English and Russian. The budget… for the moment he had plenty of money. Well, lands. The government of Muscovy ran on a formalized barter system because there was not nearly enough money to support the economy they had. That, however, was about to change.
Ivan Nikitich Odoevskii didn't look like a book worm. He was tall and as richly dressed as a prince and a member of the boyar cabinet ought to be. He rode, he was a skilled falconer, but he did love to read. He read anything. Account books. Treatises. Stories. Anything he could get his hands on. His fierce black beard was twitching and his blue eyes squinted as he thought. "It's complicated, Patriarch. Yes, the up-timers use paper money but their system is a tortured mix of the government and… well, anarchy."
"Anarchy?"
"They have something called Federal reserve banks…"
Patriarch Filaret was a man of no mean intellect, but his eyes were trying to glaze over within a paragraph. He tried to follow the salient points for a while, but finally gave up. "Enough. Can we use it, Ivan Nikitich? Can we use it?"
Ivan Nikitich sighed like the wind gusting from the north. "Yes. But it is dangerous. The books made that clear, even if I could only understand one word in three without talking to that idiot Bernie Janovich." Ivan Nikitich snorted. "And only one word in two after talking to him. The danger is more than the simple temptation to print ever more and more as it loses it's value. That's a danger, true enough. It is made worse by the fact that failing to print enough can hurt the nation even more. That is one thing the books on economics taught me. Half of Muscovy's troubles are caused by not enough cash."
"You needed a book from the future to tell you Muscovy is not a wealthy nation?" Fileret snorted in exasperation.
"No!" Ivan Nikitich almost shouted, then visibly got hold of himself. "Patriarch, what I needed the books from the future to tell me was that Muscovy is a wealthy nation. A wealthy nation with a cash flow problem. That Muscovy has everything it needs to have a booming economy, except the economy."
Filaret glared a bit. "Speak sense!"
Ivan Nikitich sighed. "We have grain. We have timber. We have pitch, not to mention furs of all sorts. We have rivers that in summer give us clear roads from China and India to the Baltic sea. In hard winter, the sleighs are more efficient than wagons are. What we lack is a means of tying all those things together. Much of our trade is just that. A peasant trades a bushel of grain to another peasant for bit of cloth. It happens that way because neither peasant has any money. Did you know that over ninety percent of the up-timers purchases were made with money? Everything from their homes to a piece of candy for their children. Everyone had money, even the very poor. That-along with their transportation system-made the manufacturing of goods in one place to be sold in another much easier."
Ivan Nikitich spoke with passion. He even stood and began pacing the room. "The raw materials are here. The trade routes are here, mostly. Even the skills are here. Every peasant in holy Rus spends half the year at some craft because you can't farm ice." Ivan Nikitich shook his head. "The only thing really missing is some practical means of letting the people in one place buy the products from another. Buy them, Patriarch, not trade for them. Because barter simply won't work for what we need. The things we must have are: Money, ways of transferring money from one place to another without bandits robbing the caravan, banks where bureau men and even peasants can save money or get loans. As I said-everything we need for an economic boom but an economy."
"What you're saying is we're rich in goods but not in money?"
Ivan Nikitich nodded. "What we need is cash and the books of the up-timers explain how to do that without silver or gold. The idea is to have just a little more money available than there is product for it to buy. That encourages the peasants to work harder to get the last bit. It's like hanging a carrot in front of a mule. Too close and he eats it. Too far and he gives up. Muscovy's carrot is hanging off the mule's ass."
"So, you think Vladimir is right." This was the test. The Odoevskii didn't get along all that well with the Yaroslavich family. If Ivan Nikitich could find a way to say Vladimir's report was wrong, he would.
"No, absolutely not," Ivan Nikitich said by reflex. Then he laughed. "Well, perhaps a little bit. The way the boy proposes to go about it is all wrong. We are not some barbarous western nation. It will need to be the Czar's Bank and all the little banks part of the Czar's Bank. The Yaroslavich boy's proposal will just make the Yaroslavich family richer than they already are."
Filaret gave the Boyar of the Exchequer a look.
"Very well. The Yaroslavich family and many others," Ivan Nikitich conceded. "But the czar should reap a greater benefit if the government owns all the banks, not just the Czar's Bank."
Filaret considered. "What bureau would control the Czar's Bank?" he gave Ivan Nikitich another hard look.
Ivan Nikitich gave him back look for look. "The bureau of the exchequer is the obvious choice," he acknowledged.
In some ways Filaret really preferred Vladimir's plan. As chaotic as it was, it had the advantage of not putting the power of a central bank in the hands of one of the great families. On the other hand, having the Romanov family in charge of the central bank would strengthen them considerably.
The discussion continued for several hours that night and then broadened over the next several days. Eventually, it included every member of the cabinet and many members of the Assembly of the Land. It was pointed out that the institution of this system would probably mean fewer taxes would be needed, at least for now. Which made it quite popular.
Fall, 1633
The Fresno Scrapers left Filip Pavlovich Tupikov wondering what they really needed Bernie for. It wasn't that he was unhelpful. "Yes, da," Bernie said. "The handles let you control the depth of the cut. Push down for a shallower cut, let them rise just a bit for a deeper cut."
Filip translated.
"How deep can you cut?" Petr Stefanovich asked.
Filip translated.
"It depends on the ground," Bernie explained. "If you loosen the earth with a drag board, you can usually cut a couple of inches. You get a feel for it with practice. You start to notice when the scraper is pushing up hard. Then you have to push down and shallow the cut."
Filip translated. Bernie had indeed been of help to the blacksmith and carpenters in making an iron reinforced wooden version of the scraper in a matter of days. That wasn't the reason Filip wondered why they needed Bernie. Filip had seen the design for the scraper, the drag board and a couple of other pieces of road construction equipment. They were all quite clear. Written and drawn to make it easy for a village smith and carpenter.
The horses, small steppe ponies, were hitched and Filip followed along as Bernie demonstrated. A cut, about half an inch deep grew quickly to a length of about twenty feet.
"Whoa." Bernie pulled the horses up. He turned to Petr. "You want to give it a try?"
Petr Stefanovich took Bernie's place. At first the scraper slid along the ground. "Lift the handles." Bernie gave directions as Filip translated. Filip stepped between Bernie and Petr Stefanovich to see. Petr Stefanovich lifted the handles about three inches.
"Gently," Bernie shouted. The next thing Filip Pavlovich Tupikov knew he was being jerked back by his collar. He saw a blur.
He turned on the uppity outlander but Bernie wasn't there. He was checking on Petr Stefanovich, who was holding his arm and looking surprised. The scraper was turned over and the ponies were looking back in confusion.
"Look, dude." Bernie's voice was harsh. "This stuff is heavy equipment even if it's run by horses, not a motor. Gentle does it. At first, until you get to know it. I don't give a fuck how big you are, you're not stronger than two fucking horses working together with leverage on their side. You empty the bucket by lifting the handle, too." Then Bernie turned to Filip Pavlovich, eyes flashing. "Dude, the handles on the scraper are like the end of a lever. You just came within an inch of getting your head busted, big time."
Filip Pavlovich looked at the scraper, remembered the blur and decided that perhaps Bernie wasn't totally useless after all.
Bernie wasn't sure whether to be elated or scared shitless. He had just repeated almost word for word the two lectures he had received the first day he worked with the scraper after he joined the road crew. The combination of his wrenched arms and the fear in the supervisor's eyes had impressed the lecture on him. Petr Stefanovich was a big mother, and proud of it. Bernie should have figured that he would push it, but he hadn't. Worse, Bernie hadn't even considered that Filip Pavlovich, the Russian nerd, would stick his head in the way of the handles. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to him that someone could get killed using the stuff he helped the Russians build.
"Look, dudes. This stuff can be dangerous. I guess most of the stuff we brought back in the Ring of Fire can be dangerous, even the medicine." Filip was looking at him funny and Bernie sort of ran out of steam, not really knowing how to say what he wanted to say. He really didn't want to be responsible for getting someone killed.
"I understand, Berna." It was the first time Filip had called him Berna like Boris did. "You came to help us, not to get people killed. It's all right. People get killed using shovels to smooth a road or dig a canal, too. Believe me, this will help."
As soon as the test was finished, Filip sent a message to Boris in Moscow. He also sent one to his cousin who worked in the bureau of roads. Boris didn't know it but by the time he arrived at the offices of the bureau of roads, the place was abuzz with the news of the scraper. Boris was surprised at how easy it was to arrange a meeting with an assistant to an assistant bureau chief. Still, things have to go through channels. It was almost a week before they could arrange for a viewing of the scraper and the drag board.
In the mean time, both devices had been put to use. The primary purpose of that use was to familiarize the crews with the equipment. But the still small dacha team also wanted to show off.
Boris was riding beside the assistant underchief of roads. Yuri Mikhailovich was in charge of assigning crews to specific roads in the area around Moscow. When the man suddenly pulled up his horse, Boris pulled up, too. Yuri was staring at a ridge in the road-path, rather-they were riding on. About a hundred yards from the dacha, the road suddenly rose about six inches and became quite smooth. There were bare sections on either side, where the grass and an inch or two of top soil had been scrapped away, clearly where the new surface of the road had come from. Slowly, Yuri approached the road. He paused again and gave Boris a look. Evaluating.
Boris looked back and shrugged. I tried to tell you, the look said, as plain as words. Boris had seen roads like this before, near Grantville. Truthfully, he hadn't expected to see one here. Not this soon, anyway. There was no way he was going to admit that, though. Not even with his expression.
Yuri snorted. They rode on, carefully getting a feel for the road. "Where is this scraper, Boris? I would have expected it to be working on the road."
Boris shrugged and they continued on.
They were greeted at the dacha by Filip Pavlovich. And Berna, who clearly wanted to be somewhere else.
"Come, come." Filip Pavlovich waved pompously. Then led the way around back, where the scrapper was in use.
The drag board was just a board with spikes sticking out the bottom. It was used to cut the ground and loosen the soil. In combination with the scraper, two men and four small Russian ponies could do a phenomenal amount of work, more than twenty men with shovels could accomplish.
Boris paused and stared. So did Yuri.
"You see?" Filip Pavlovich waved at the project. "You see what can be accomplished?"
The trench was about seventeen feet, just under three scrapers wide. It was a hundred feet long and about three feet deep, not including the mounds on either side of it. It had ramps on either end which allowed the horses to get in and out of the trench, which the team pulling the scraper was doing now.
"It will take planning for proper use." Filip Pavlovich waved at it again. "With that planning, a team can cut a six foot wide trench at a rate of approximately one mile in four hours in this sort of soil. The trench will be approximately two inches deep. The second pass is actually slightly faster than the first because the ground is smoother. Three teams could do the same but with the trench seventeen feet wide. Or a six foot wide trench six inches deep could be cut. As the depth of the cut deepens, it gets harder to do, of course. You need a ramp about every hundred feet."
Yuri nodded, still watching the scraper as it dumped a load along the side of the trench. It had climbed the ramp then gone around to the side of the trench to dump the load. He finally pulled his eyes away from the scraper and looked at Filip Pavlovich. "I am impressed with the scraper, Filip Pavlovich. Considering your comments about planning, why haven't you taken your own advice and planed the placement of this trench to serve some purpose? You could have made a fish pond if nothing else." Yuri was a relative of Filip Pavlovich's and enjoyed twitting him a bit. While Yuri was the more politically astute and of higher rank, both within the family and in the bureaus, Filip was the more intellectual of the two and had never gone to any effort to hide it.
Filip Pavlovich sighed with what he thought was drama. Both Yuri and Boris found it overdone. "It's for the tile field, part of the plumbing system. See the notch half way down the trench? That will be dug deeper for the septic tank."
Boris laughed. "Is Berna still going on about indoor plumbing?"
Filip Pavlovich sighed again, more real this time. "Constantly. Toilets and showers are his constant obsession. When I first saw the design I thought it would take months. Now it seems we will see it begin to work in a few more days."
"So we are presented with a useful device that is to be used for expensive doodads?" Yuri sneered.
"Not entirely." Filip Pavlovich's admission was a bit grudging. He threw a glance at Bernie, who grinned. "Sanitation, from what I have read, is an essential part of preventing the spread of disease. It is a complicated field and I have not studied it deeply yet."
Boris was trying not to grin. Filip Pavlovich's grudging admission meant that there was another use for scrapers. Which in turn meant that the scrapers were still more valuable in terms of favors.
Yuri didn't bother to hide his scowl. "What else have you got?"
Filip Pavlovich shrugged. "There is a report on something called 'macadam style road construction.' We haven't finished translating it yet. It seems to make for good roads that handle the winter freezing well."
New roads and canals would make trade easier and safer. Boris didn't concern himself with the other blocks on trade; they were above his pay grade.
Boris smiled, as Filip Pavlovich explained. "We used the road out front to practice road work, then we used this to test its use in digging canals."
"Canals?" Boris heard the apprehension in Yuri's voice though Filip Pavlovich apparently missed it.
"The scraper works by scraping a thin layer of soil then putting it somewhere else. By going over the same stretch again and again you can go a little deeper with every pass. " Filip Pavlovich waved at the trench. "Roads, leach fields, canals, even cellars. Anything where large amounts of earth need to be moved."
The underchief of roads gave his cousin a sharp look, which Filip Pavlovich appeared totally unaware of. The bureau of canals and river transport was constantly in competition with roads for resources of all sorts. The families that controlled the bureaus disliked each other intensely. The bidding war has begun Boris thought.