Late January, 1632
Martin Schmidt walked briskly down the Tech Center hallway, his mind full of plans. The thread rolling machine was working well and he was eager to take the next step and build a drop forge.
A drop forge needed a source of power to raise the ram. The thread-rolling machine used a salvaged electric motor and the up-time machinists Martin had consulted all agreed that his drop forge would need another electric motor. Unfortunately, electric motors were very useful-so useful that finding a salvaged one that worked had become nearly impossible. The previous day Herr Don McConnell had given Martin the names of some people at the Tech Center and suggested that they might know of a suitable motor.
Excited yells and cheers distracted Martin. Under and around the cheers he heard an odd chuffing noise. The Tech Center was full of wonders and Martin couldn't resist looking in to see what this one was.
On the floor at the front of the classroom a small steam engine cheerfully chugged away. Attached to the little engine was a windlass device and the rope from that stretched across the classroom. At the room's far end sat a little red steel wagon with two large male students shakily perched on top. An elderly man bent over the steam engine and the windlass began to wind up.
To Martin's amazement the wagon started to move. It didn't move very fast but, once started, it and its load rolled steadily along. The students standing around cheered, clapped, and yelled comments to the two riding the little wagon. Most were begging to be the next to ride. The American steam engine man appeared delighted to show his toy off.
The thought struck Martin that if such a small engine could pull two men maybe a larger one could raise the ram of a drop forge. He moved forward as eagerly as the students did, questions bubbling in his mind. Neither Martin's English nor the elderly American's German proved up to the discussion that ensued. By appealing to several of the Tech Center's teachers, both sides finally managed to communicate. The steam engine man called in some others and the discussion continued until a second elderly American finally smiled.
"You're right, a small steam engine should work. I… we've.. ." He nodded at the steam engine man. "… got a good idea of just the type and size you need. Heck, I've got most of the parts in my basement and I know which of the steamheads have the rest." His eyes twinkling, the elderly man grinned. "It'll be fun job for us old farts, too."
One of the Tech Center teachers spoke up then, "Can you do the work up here at the Center? We need to capture your knowledge…"
"Sure, we could, son," snorted the old man. "but my basement workshop's set up for steam and the parts are there. Send over anyone you want; just let my wife know how many are coming."
The Tech Center teachers seemed confident so Martin took a leap of faith and commissioned a steam engine. He didn't know exactly what manner of steam engine he had just commissioned but if he had understood the steamheads correctly there were other machines the engine could power, too. He asked and the steam engine man replied.
"Son, you can run a whole machine shop off a steam engine. My grandfather's shop ran off steam. My father didn't electrify the shop until 1942."
Martin was confused until one of those interpreting added, "That was probably a good twenty years after electricity and electric motors were available. Lots of machine shops were powered by a steam engine. Changing to electric motors took money and some people didn't see a reason to change."
Martin's hopes flared. The biggest problem in replicating up-time machines was how to power them. Here was an answer. Given a steam engine he would be able to build lathes and mills and… Martin gave himself a mental shake. There would be time enough for those thoughts once the drop forge was built and running. Machines needed gears and with a drop forge he could produce gears. Lots of gears.
February, 1632
The up-timers, Herr Reardon and Herr McConnell, worked with him designing and building the drop forge. It was crude compared to the sleek up-time machines but, as Herr McConnell put it, "You can frigging well pretty up the next frigging one."
As the parts of the drop forge came together Martin realized that he had a problem. The hardened steel punches and dies the forge needed were costly and there weren't enough funds left after paying for the rest of the drop forge. He knew that Kudzu Werke's blacksmith shop was doing well but he'd been happy to let Herman handle the financial end. Drop forges were useless without proper dies. Packing up drawings and his list he went to Herr Glauber to ask for money.
Herman Glauber listened carefully while Martin went into detail on which punches and dies were the most important. When Martin was finished speaking, Glauber solemnly asked, "How much will cost to buy all the dies and punches for the parts you intend to make?"
Swallowing hard, Martin named a sum that equaled two good years' wages.
"Ah, Martin. " Glauber smiled. "So much? Well, things are going well. Your fiddly little nuts and bolts sell well and the reclining chair is starting to sell, also. I have money here-just a bit of extra cash, mind you." Glauber reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. He carefully counted them, folded them over and dropped the wad into Martin's hands. "Top quality work-that's what I expect from Herr Reardon. Be certain you get the best set of punches and dies you can from him." Glauber then excused himself and hurried off, leaving a stunned Martin counting out enough American dollars to buy the full set of punches and dies.
And so, in March, with snow still on the ground, all the parts of the drop forge came together. A group of up-timers, most of them elderly, arrived with the steam engine. For the next two weeks there always seemed to be at least two or three of the 'steamheads' around fussing over the new engine. Several people from the Tech Center floated around, sketching, scribbling, and otherwise recording the steam engine's installation.
Martin insisted, much to the steamheads' delight, that all of the boys be instructed on the care and feeding of the engine. None of the boys had objected and other shops' apprentices often stood around watching, envy written clearly on their faces.
Herr McConnell made a point of coming by everyday, commenting, suggesting and helping when the pieces didn't want to fit together. Finally they had produced their first forged parts to the applause of Herr Reardon, Herr McConnell, all the steamheads, and two Tech Center teachers. When the cheering died down everyone headed off to the Gardens for a celebration. Herr Reardon pulled Martin aside.
"Most of the damned thing looks like it came out of the Middle Ages. It's crude and ugly but it works. " He paused and looked back at the drop forge. "The next one you make will be better."
April, 1632
Karl Ritterhof grunted in satisfaction. "Okay, Hans, this is how the firebox should look." Stepping back, Karl let the smaller apprentice peer past him.
"A picture of perfection, Karl. As usual." Hans Gehrt gestured back toward the Kudzu Werke building. "Too bad we won't need steam much longer. They've only got a couple of more blanks left."
A heavy thump and a brief shaking of the ground came from the building beside the boys. Kudzu Werke's new drop forge was making its presence known.
"And you know this because Master Schmidt has taken to confiding in you?"
"I've got eyes," Hans grinned, "Besides Max and Carl-Maria were yelling about the steel shipment being short as well as late. Master Schmidt's gone up to the steel works to complain."
"We do have other work. Jakob will be wanting to run more of his rulers."
"Ha! Jakob's not wanting to do anything but go to the Gardens with Heinrich. Rudy's going with them. Besides, Bertha said they've got a month's supply of blank rulers that need etching and painting."
"Tsk, tsk!" Karl stood straight, towering a head above the younger boy. He struggled to assume a stern look. "Remember your place, Apprentice Gehrt. Journeymen Ohl and Tausch may allow you familiarity but you must address Fraulein Klepsch properly."
Hans grinned slyly. "Which Fraulein Klepsch should I be so formal with? Elise who teases me when I'm cleaning flashing from ruler blanks? Or Bertha who gives me apples and sticky buns because she thinks I'm too skinny?"
Karl tried to think of a suitable retort on the way back into the shop.
Journeymen Max Ohl stood to one side and watched Jakob Betche direct the other apprentices. The boy had come a long way from the gangly, shy refugee child of six months ago. Frau Kunze's good food and work at the forge had transformed Jakob. Max realized that the boy had put inches on along with muscle and weight.
Something must have shown on Max's face because Jakob paused.
"Sir, did I forget something?" Jakob asked.
"No, Jakob. Everything is in order. Go on," Max replied.
"Come on, Jakob." Heinrich Glauber called cheerfully. "Hurry up or there won't be any good tables left."
"Yeah," Rudy Neder chimed in. "We don't want to be stuck sitting with a bunch of mommas and little kids."
Max coughed. There wasn't much he could do to rein in Heinrich's enthusiasm. The boy wasn't one of Master Schmidt's apprentices or journeymen and he was the son of the owner of Kudzu Werke. Rudy, however, was a different matter.
"Keep your mind on your work, Rudy. " Max waved at the drop forge. "This must be done correctly."
Rudy's grin faded a little and he turned back to check the steel blank he was heating.
Heinrich took the hint, too, and slid off the workbench he had been sitting on.
Rolf Ackermann prodded Rudy. "The color's right. The blank is ready."
Max coughed again and Rolf looked at him.
"This is Jakob's lesson, Rolf." Max said. "I know that you have already mastered this. I want to see how well Jakob understands."
"Yes, sir."
Carl-Maria Tausch grinned at Rolf. "Let the boys do the dirty work, Rolf. We men have better things to do. " He leaned easily against a bench with his arms folded.
Rolf smiled and copied the older journeyman's pose.
Jakob stepped over to the forge and looked through the heat shimmer at the steel blank. He stepped back and he grabbed the drop forge's drive belt lever. All signs of humor left the young blacksmith's face and he carefully nudged the drive belt onto the pulley. With a groan the drop forge's ram rose. With equal care Jakob set the drop lever and disengaged the drive belt.
"Rudy," Jakob called, "bring the blank."
Rudy fished the white-hot bolt blank out of the forge's fire with a pair of long tongs. He placed the blank on the drop forge's die plate and stepped back. Jakob took the tongs from Rudy and poked fussily at the blank. Satisfied, he also stepped back.
"Everybody clear?" Jakob asked.
Each blacksmith answered, "Clear."
Max held his breath and waited. Herr Reardon and Herr McConnell had stressed one last step for "safety." Jakob reached for the drop lever and hesitated. He turned away and walked once around the drop forge, checking that everyone was standing well back from it. When he reached the drop lever he glanced around again and called out, "Dropping!"
KATHUNK! The floor shook as the ram dropped. Tools lying on workbenches jumped and added their clinks and clanks. A carelessly placed bar clattered on the floor.
Jakob re-engaged the drive belt pulley and the ram groaned upward again. Setting the drop lever, Jakob waved theatrically at the exposed die. Left behind in the die was the newly forged bolt blank.
"Wow!" Heinrich yelled. "That's great! And so fast! Can you do more than one bolt at a time?"
"If they are small enough," Jakob answered proudly. "This one is too big and has to be done alone but we've got dies that do two, four, and six smaller bolts at a time."
"What happens to it now?"
Jakob looked over at Max. Max allowed himself a slight smile. "Go ahead, Jakob. Explain it."
"First we pry this out of the die." Jakob picked up a short pry bar and moved nearer the drop forge. "We'll let it cool off and a lowly apprentice gets to remove the flashing." Jakob pointed with the pry bar. "Then it goes to the thread rolling machine."
"None of the other blacksmiths around here have drop forges, do they?" Heinrich asked.
"No. This is the first. It's also the first to use steam power," Jakob answered with pride.
"Come on, Jakob," Rudy spoke up. "It's getting late."
"Keep your pants on, Rudy," Jakob jibed back. "I don't know why you're so worried. The frauleins prefer Heinrich or me. You're so ugly
…"
"Journeyman Neder. Apprentice Betche," Max said sternly.
Both boys settled down and Jakob began prying the bolt blank out of the die. It was stuck and he grunted.
Heinrich looked puzzled. "Why won't it come out?"
"If you'd had a ton of iron dropped on you…" Jakob moved, prying the bolt head from a different angle.
"They often stick." Max answered for Jakob. "The up-time machines have a device that pushes the blank back out. This is just a simple machine so we have to pry the blanks out."
"Some of them," Jakob panted, "are more stubborn than…" His left foot slipped a bit before finding purchase on the drop lever.
The ram dropped.
Jakob's right arm was under the ram as it slammed down and its weight pulled him down and forward into the side of the drop forge. He could hear someone screaming before things got bleary.
Rudy leapt forward and grabbed Jakob, keeping him from pulling on the ruin of his arm. Heinrich joined him in supporting Jakob.
"Carl, Rolf, get a bar. We have to lift the ram!" Max shouted. He grabbed a large pry bar leaning against a bench. Rolf and Carl-Maria seized others turned to the drop forge.
"Ready?" Max asked, his voice tight.
"Ready," Rolf replied and set his pry bar.
"Ready," Carl-Maria echoed.
"Karl, Hans, the wedges, quickly!" Max ordered. "We cannot hold it up long. On three. One, two, three. Huh!" The ram rose reluctantly until it was far enough up for the young apprentices to slip the wedges in a little way.
"Again. One, two, three!"
The ram grudgingly moved up a few inches. It was enough for Karl and Hans to shove the wedges fully into place.
When the ram's weight came off Jakob's arm, the severed artery began to spurt. Heinrich let go of Jakob and stood up. He pulled his belt off and whipped it around the remains of Jakob's arm, tightening it until the spurting stopped. Heinrich tugged on the belt end, thinking to neaten up his improvised tourniquet but it seemed to be caught on something.
"Sorry, Heinrich," Rudy said. "I gave him the end to bite down on. Hans! Get over here and get my belt off."
"Rudy, I think that you can let him down to the floor now." Max spoke slowly and calmly. "Rolf, your English is best. Call the hospital and tell them what has happened. We need their ambulance here as fast as possible."
"Yes, sir." Rolf bolted for the shop office and its telephone.
"How is he?" Herman Glauber's face was full of concern.
"Sleeping. He woke up for a bit and tried to speak. The doctors say that he'll live. They worked on him-operated-for hours. The right arm is gone below his elbow." Martin's voice shook. He wavered unsteadily toward a chair in the dark living room. "The doctors tell me that they can stop the wound festering. He might even regain sight in his eye. For now Jakob is out of pain and his life is in the hands of God and the American doctors."
"Good, good. Jakob's a good boy, smart, too. Here, just sit and I'll fetch you something to eat and drink. No." Glauber waved off Martin's feeble protest. "Frau Kunze left some dinner in the refrigerator. I know how to heat it up quickly."
Martin sank back into the chair, suddenly realizing how tired he was. He closed his eyes for just a moment…
"Martin, wake up. You need to eat something before you sleep."
"What? Ah, thank you, Herman, thank you." Martin struggled to open his eyes. The steam coming off the bowl of stew brought a loud growl from his stomach, reminding him he'd not eaten for a long time. "What time is it?"
"Just coming up on two A.M. I should say, two A.M. Thursday morning." Herman sat on the couch. "Have you had anything to eat or drink since Tuesday's lunch? Oh, and do Jakob's parents know about the accident?"
"Huh. I'm not sure when I last ate," Martin choked out around a thick slice of bread. "I don't remember eating. As for parents, Jakob's are dead. It was his cousin that signed the apprenticeship papers. I think that they've moved back up to Madgeburg. The cousin is a mason. Frau Kunze will know."
Glauber turned on the lamp sitting next to the couch and settled back. "Yes, she will know. If they are still in town she has probably already told them about it. What happened? Do you know?"
Carefully placing his tray on the coffee table, Martin gathered his thoughts. "Yes… I got there after it happened, but soon enough that Max had just sent for the…" fumbling for the English word, Martin finally gave up; his mind wasn't up to it. "… the hospital wagon."
"Ah, the ambulance."
"Yes, that's it. Ambulance. Max, Carl-Maria, and Rolf got the ram up and drove wedges in to hold it up. Rudy was holding Jakob. He stuffed the end of his belt between the boy's teeth to give him something to bite on. Heinrich was there, too. He, Rudy, and Jakob had intended to go off to the Gardens together. Heinrich bound up Jakob's arm. The doctors said that it was Heinrich's actions that stopped Jakob from bleeding to death."
"Ah, yes. Adolf got some of that out of Heinrich. Not the part about saving Jakob, though. According to Heinrich the accident is his fault. He dared Jakob to do something-load the blank?-in a hurry so that they could leave early," Herman Glauber stated flatly. "If so.. ."
"No!" the volume of his reply startled Martin and he continued in a quieter tone. "No, Heinrich was not at fault. That much I got from Max who also tried to take the blame." Martin rubbed his face and sighed in frustration. "It was a silly accident. We were running bolt blanks for the new farm machines and we're behind because USE Steel was late delivering the metal. Everyone was hurrying and we shouldn't have been. You've seen the drop forge."
"I have, but I don't understand it."
"We make up blanks that have enough steel or iron to make the wrench or bolt or what ever part we want. The blanks are heated in the forge and are placed on the die and then the ram and punch are dropped. The weight presses the hot blank into the die. Then the punch and ram are raised and we pry out the formed piece."
"Yes, I remember seeing that when you first installed it. But the part I saw didn't look right." Herman shook his head. "Not right at all. It had the form of a wrench in the middle but was surrounded by a skirt of thin metal."
"Oh, yes, that's the flashing along the parting line-extra metal that squeezes out where the punch and die meet. It gets cleaned off later. The hardest part of the operation often is prying the formed piece out of the die. The Americans' machines have a piece that forces the part out. Of course the American machines also automatically heated and fed the parts. Ours… ours is a simpler machine."
"Simpler, and one that we could make. How many years will it be until we can make machines like the Americans' had? Or will it be decades?" Glauber snorted in disagreement. "Herr Reardon himself complimented you on your design. And I've heard Herr McConnell bragging about how cleverly it works. You figured out that a small steam engine was all the power needed. The Americans kept saying it needed a big electric motor-a motor that could not be built yet."
"Well, yes. It might be decades…" mused Martin, distracted from his recollection of Jakob's accident and injuries.
Glauber's voice brought Martin back to present. "The ram and punch are the part on top, correct, the part that drops down?"
"Yes, and that is just what happened. Jakob was reaching in to pry out the formed part. Somehow he kicked the drop lever. When it came down on his arm, his face slammed against the ram. The cheekbone broke and fragments went up into the eye. I thought he was dying when we got to the hospital. Herr Doctor Nichols himself assured me Jakob would live."
"The Moor? Ah, I've heard that he does miraculous work. If the Moor says so then the boy will live. What job will you give Jakob when he is well? He's a smart boy and he learns things quickly. Adolf could use a bookkeeper in the furniture shop…"
"No, not a charity job-he'd not like it. Jakob is a blacksmith to his heart. Have you seen the steel rulers we made?"
"Seen them? I have two of them in my tool box. They are as good as those the Americans brought from up-time."
Martin smiled in agreement. "Yes, yes, I'm proud of those rulers. Jakob did much of the work. In fact, he built a pair of little machines that we use to make them. He's even trained two girls to paint in the numbers and lines."
"Girls? When did you hire girl apprentices?" Herman chuckled. "Now if word of that gets to Hubner-oh, what a fuss he'll raise!"
"No, no, not apprentices. Actually the girls are part of the cleaning crew. Jakob worked many late nights on his little machines and these two girls kept asking him questions. The painting takes a very steady hand and a fine eye. He told me that he was tired of being the only one of us who could paint the rulers properly so he got this idea…"
"And got the girls to do the work." Glauber shook his head. "That boy will go far. Are you paying the girls extra for their work?"
"Yes, they get a dollar for each ruler that passes Jakob's inspection." Sighing Martin leaned back. He was starting to feel the tension ebb from his shoulders and back. "Jakob's young, but those rulers are journeyman level work. I think we should give him his papers and his own little shop. Those rulers sell as fast as we can make them, you know. There are other fine instruments we've been looking at, too. Just a week ago one of the Americans from the school came by with an odd kind of ruler, one they use for drafting. He wants us to try and reproduce it. I've been meaning to talk to you and Adolf about it because it can be made from wood. That small shop, two doors down, is vacant. That's the place for making steel rulers and other fine instruments-away from the dirt and smoke of the forge. By the time Jakob comes out of the hospital, I think we could have it set up. Hubner be damned. I'll hire the girls full time to assist him and get him some likely young boys as apprentices."
"Ah, hard work and new ideas…" a beaming Glauber started.
"… make for wealth." finished Martin, smiling back.
If at First You Don't Succeed… by Paula Goodlett
"That will never work."
Margaret looked up at her younger brother, Nathan, and stuck her tongue out at him. "Says you. And what do you know, what with all your years of experience?"
"Pa says it won't work. And you've wasted your time. Time you could have been doing something more useful."
Nathan was only six. And kind of a pain in the rear. Margaret sighed. "I worked for the blacksmith's wife for a fortnight to earn these. It's mine and I'll do what I want with it." She kept pushing the tiny pins through the length of leather. She'd marked the leather with a dot in every place it needed one of the pins. She'd already finished the shorter piece that went on the small wooden drum. This length was for the larger drum and she had a thin strip of leather that would make a figure eight and follow the drawing she had. The drawing made sense. She could see that if you turned the crank, the drums would rotate and the wool would be drawn in and onto the larger drum. It would be nice and straight and let her spin finer thread. That's what the lettering under the drawing claimed, at any rate.
"Pa still says it won't work."
"We'll see then. There, I've finished the pins." Margaret stared at the drawing again. "Now I just have to glue this to the larger drum, tack it down, then put it together. And I'll be ready to try it tomorrow.
"Won't work."
Margaret just glared at him.
"Hell and damnation!" Margaret glared at the machine she'd built. "It should work. It looks exactly like the drawing."
Nathan wiped his nose on his arm, then peered at the paper. He was terribly short-sighted and usually had to hold anything he wanted to see close to his nose. "Hmm."
"Hmm, what?" The tangled mess of wool just wasn't carding properly. It was straighter than it would have been in the usual locks, but it wasn't as straight and pretty as the hand drawn picture showed it could be.
Nathan peered again. "Well, looks to me like you've done your pins wrong. See this?" He handed her the drawing. "Those little pins? They've all got a bend in them. In fact, it looks to me like the pins on the big drum and the little drum point in the same direction. And it isn't up, like yours are."
Margaret stared at the drawing. Just barely, if she looked really hard, she could see what Nathan was talking about. Then she looked at her homemade "drum carder" and the hundreds of tiny pins. She felt like weeping for just a moment. "Well then. I suppose I'll just have to find a way to bend them, won't I?"
Waves of Change by Paula Goodlett and Gorg Huff
"I WANT TO LISTEN!!!" Joseph screamed, making it impossible for anyone to listen.
"For God's sake, girl. Let your brother listen to the damned thing."
"But, Papa…" Marie couldn't help the whine in her voice.
Papa raised his hand. Marie decided to let her brat of a six-year-old brother listen to the radio. When Papa raised his hand, you did what you were told. Papa's hands were hard and they hurt when they hit you.
Marie had finally finished the crystal radio last night. She had worked from a set of instructions in a broadsheet, and had gotten the copper wire and the bits of iron from the smith for doing some extra chores for him. She had worked on it for weeks. Thankfully, she'd finished it after the brat had gone whining to bed. If there was a bright center to the world, and apparently there was now, Marie and her family lived in the village farthest from it. At least, it seemed that way to Marie.
Actually they lived in a village about one hundred and twenty miles northeast of Grantville as the crow, or the radio wave, flies. Almost due north of Dresden in Saxony. Grantville was Marie's bright center to the universe. Mama and Papa were not convinced of the central place that Grantville held in the cosmos, though.
With the brat hogging the radio, Marie couldn't listen to the rest of her English lesson. There was just the one earphone and it wasn't either particularly clear or loud. Sort of a scratchy whisper. She pouted quietly, though. You didn't argue with Papa, especially when he had had too much beer the night before.
Her impression that her village was the end of the earth was more cultural than physical. They were just so… primitive. It had taken her weeks to get the thing tuned just right and now she had to yield to the brat.
Karl started grousing after the children had gone to do their chores. "I'm tempted to break the darn thing if it's going to be that much trouble."
Greta snorted. "It's harmless enough, husband. And it isn't like the girl has that much to look forward to."
Karl liked to grouse but he was unlikely to do anything that would upset Marie. He doted on the girl, even if he didn't show it well. Part of it was guilt. Marie was not pretty. Aside from a beak for a nose, she had caught the pox when she was ten and her face was permanently scarred. Absent looks or a good dowry-which they would not be able to afford-the girl was unlikely to ever make a good marriage. Not that marriage was going to be a consideration anytime soon; Marie was only fifteen, after all. But even another ten years were unlikely to improve her prospects. Right now, they were happy enough to have her help at home.
Karl nodded. "True." He sighed. "She did build it. We should make sure she gets time to listen. Joseph can't be allowed to just throw temper tantrums to get what he wants."
Greta nodded. Joseph would get the farm, what there was of it. Things had not gone well for the family. Karl was a half farmer, who-truth be told-was not the brightest man in the village. Marie had the brains in the family, which was an awful waste. What would a girl do with them?
"I need to buy bread today." Greta sighed a bit. "It's getting more expensive every day." Greta didn't know why. There was no real way for anyone in the village to understand the economic situation. Unlike Grantville or Magdeburg, their part of Saxony was experiencing a depression combined with inflation. Everything cost more and no one had any money. What little money the area had poured into Magdeburg to buy all the new products.
"And on the weekly farm to market report, brought to you by Castelanni Brothers, the price for wheat is up a bit from last week. From $89.67 a bushel to $90.54…"
Greta cocked her head and listened harder. Greta was listening because, well, Karl had a little trouble following that sort of thing. The important point was that the crop report didn't sound that much like what Herr Berger had been telling them. Herr Berger said that prices for wheat were down in Magdeburg because up-timers and their "magic" would be providing the food needed by Magdeburg.
She listened even harder. "In spite of the improved farming techniques that have been introduced, Thuringia will still be importing quite a bit of grain. The increased population in Magdeburg, as the city is rebuilt and new industry moves in, means that prices for the fall harvest are expected to be higher along most of the rivers that feed into that city."
"Did you hear me?" Greta looked up at her husband. "Prices are up, not down. Herr Berger said they were down."
Karl grunted. He took a sip of beer. "We don't know that what's reported is the truth, do we? Berger is the factor. He knows what he's doing."
Greta didn't doubt that Berger knew what he was doing. She just wondered if the village knew what Berger was doing. Berger was in the business to make money, wasn't he?
"Oh, don't be silly, Greta." Eva Katharina sniffed in scorn. "That useless toy! I don't intend to tell Hans anything about what this so called Farm to Market report said. He's not going to give any credence to words out of the air."
Greta sniffed back. "Well, you'll have to send him to our house this evening, then. Let him listen for himself."
Most of the women had reacted that way. Greta headed back for home, griping all the way. The villagers all knew that Marie was working on some sort of toy based on a broadsheet provided by a peddler. They even knew that it was supposed to produce sound sent from Grantville. Most of them didn't believe it was possible. Those that did-there were a few who had been to a neighboring town that had one-didn't believe that you could make one from a broadsheet. And they certainly didn't believe that a teenaged girl could do it.
"It's too much mumbling." Hans handed the earphone to another farmer. "I can't make head or tail of it."
It was a less than entirely successful demonstration. While not near the edge of the broadcast radius of the radio station, neither were they sitting in the great stone tower's shadow. There was a storm between the radio station and them that evening, though they didn't know it. That wasn't helping reception at all. They could hear the voices and mostly make out what was being said, but it was scratchy. Which was not helped by the fact that Marie had made the earphone herself and it wasn't very good.
Johan motioned Hans to be quiet. He was listening intently. "In the money markets this week, the dollar is holding steady. It's down only eight cents against the guilder which is slowly recovering after the Amsterdam panic."
"They buy money? Why would you buy money?" Johan looked around. Everyone shrugged. Why indeed?
"My turn." Another man took the earphone and listened. "Not money this time. Stocks… doesn't make much sense. It's not any stock I have ever heard of. How do you milk an oh-pe-em? Can it plow a field? Something called USE Steel… ah…" He handed the earphone to the next man. "Doesn't make any sense."
The earphone got passed around most of the evening, much to Marie's irritation. She still wasn't getting any listening time and it was her radio. By the time she finally got a chance to listen, a music program was playing. She didn't like it much, but listened anyway. All the while wondering what blue suede was. Still, it was English. Probably.
So it went until the next week. Marie and Joseph argued over the crystal set. Karl complained about the wasted money for the tiny magnet, though, in truth, it wasn't much money, even for them. And Marie had earned it, running errands for people or doing extra work for others. Greta mostly ignored all the shouting matches. She became interested in the little radio while Joseph was at school and Marie running errands.
"So, you see, the percentage of acidity is very important in vinegar…" This was a "rebroadcast" of a "how to" show. The radio had said so. The woman had talked about the techniques and dangers involved in preserving foods. Much of it Greta already knew. She had been making sauerkraut and pickled beets since she was Joseph's age. She hadn't known the why, though. This could be useful. And there was a book on the subject that was available through mail order. It was advertised at the end of the show.
"Mama, can I listen now?" Marie was back from the baker. Greta held up a hand. "Just a moment."
Marie thought this was incredibly unfair, but wisely refrained from commenting on it. It was Greta who heard the sign off for the morning broadcast segment.
"Paper, quickly." Marie handed her mother a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal. Greta began writing as quickly as she could. The sign off included the present Grantville time, the time of the next sign on and the schedule for the week. The next seven days, to be precise.
"Ha." Marie jumped. Her mother rarely sounded triumphant.
Greta waved the scrap of paper. "They do the Farm to Market report in two days. On the evening broadcast. And Herr Kreger must come to listen. Must. "
Johan Kreger wrapped the wire around the log. No paper tubes for him. He'd already smashed two of them. If Beak Nose can make a crystal radio, I can. He was, after all, the son of the head of the village council. She was just a girl, the daughter of a half farmer. His would be better than hers. He worked steadily, if a bit sloppily, and if wire touched wire every now and then, so what? His radio would be clearer and louder than hers. Poor Johan. While it's certainly true that size matters, bigger is not always better.
"I bet she did something else. Must have." He had hooked everything up right, he was sure of that. "Some girl thing. Secret girl thing." Johan was getting a bit frustrated. As is often the case, he was convinced that if he wasn't winning the other guy, or especially the girl, must be cheating. She must have done some secret thing. Probably some weird ritual and possibly something demonic.
Pastor Althus looked down his fairly pointed nose at Johan. "Don't be silly. Marie is a good girl. She only followed the instructions better than you have. I asked her about it and got a lecture, complete with details and gestures, on just how it was made. No secret rites, just quite a bit of fiddling to get all the bits just right and a bit of calculation. Calculation I taught her." Pastor Althus paused. "And you."
Johan winced a bit. Telling his theory to the pastor, who was also the schoolmaster, might not have been his best ever idea.
"I still say it's a useless toy." Johan was the son of the head of the village council. So his opinions carried a certain amount of indirect weight. By the time of the next Farm to Market report, most of the adults in the village were of the opinion that the crystal set was a mostly harmless, but definitely useless, hobby.
"You should come and listen." Greta had been talking about that Farm to Market report for half an hour. Peter Kreger finally agreed, just so she'd get off his back.
"Enough, Frau Shultz. I will come and listen. But let that be an end to it."
That evening, Peter Kreger found himself listening intently. Much to Marie's dismay, he kept listening. "I guess I'm going to have to build another one," Marie said. "I certainly never get to listen to this one."
Peter held up his hand for silence. Then he looked at her and smiled. It wasn't until the program was over that he handed her the earphone. "Here, child. You're right and I apologize. I really did need to hear the whole report. You did a good job on this radio of yours. It works well. " He glanced over at his son. "Unlike some."
Johan started to protest, but Peter waved him silent. "You should ask Marie for help. I'm sure she'd be willing to assist you."
Johan looked a bit miffed. Peter ignored it. He'd made up his mind. He looked at Greta and Karl. "We must investigate. If the information on this broadcast is correct, we can get a better price for our wheat than Herr Berger offers us. At the least, we'll have a stronger bargaining position when it comes time to sell the crops."
Karl nodded. So did Greta. The fifteen percent higher price quoted on the Farm to Market report would be the difference between being relatively comfortable and barely making the rent.
"So." Peter slapped his hands on his thighs. "I will go to Riesa and investigate. And you…" He pointed to Marie. "You will go with me. You know more about the radio than anyone else."
"But, Papa…" Johan began.
Peter shushed him. "She does." Peter looked at Karl and Greta again. "Agreed?"
Karl nodded. "It isn't a toy. " He grinned. "Well, not just a toy. I think we need more of them if our house is not to be invaded every night. " Then he winked at Marie. "And if Marie is ever to get to listen."
Riesa was some twenty miles away. They would take the hay wagon which was pulled by a pair of oxen. The trip would take a day, perhaps a bit more than a couple of days in Riesa and another day back. It would mean almost a week away from home and it was coming up on harvest time. That was why Peter needed to make the trip now. He wanted to be sure, before Berger came to buy the wheat. After thinking about it, Peter decided to include his son on the trip, as well. Johan was, he thought, a bit jealous of Marie. But Peter was convinced that she had the most knowledge about radios. Perhaps she could teach Johan more about them.
Besides, Peter had no intention of wasting a trip. He loaded the wagon with fruits, vegetables and walnuts picked from the trees around the village. If he was going to the big city, he was going to take something to sell.
He was, in his own mind, convinced that the radio was telling the truth. He couldn't see anything for the people who gave the reports to gain by lying about the price of grain in Magdeburg. He could see a great deal for Herr Berger to gain. Peter wasn't even particularly angry about it. It was just business. But armed with the knowledge that the prices were higher, their bargaining position had greatly improved. Still, he needed the confirmation.
"Your mother says that there are a lot of different programs." Peter looked down at the girl beside him. She was a plain little thing.
"Oh, lots and lots." Marie's excitement was obvious. "And someday there will be a lot more of them. I heard them say so. Someday the radio will have programs and music all day and all night long. They had them, back up-time. I heard them say so."
"What sort of things will be on the radio?" Peter knew that the Farm to Market report was useful and was beginning, sort of vaguely, to think that the radio might be a more generally useful device.
"Well, there is an English class and a Latin class. Those are on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Then there is 'Civics for Children' on Monday mornings. It talks about how the government works and tells little stories to explain how rights work and stuff like that. There's a show on bookkeeping and how to keep your finances in order. Mama likes that one and the one on cooking…" Peter let the girl rattle on about all the shows. In general, the morning broadcast seemed to be dominated by education talks. The evenings had the entertainments, though there were exceptions. It might be a good thing if the village had more radios, or perhaps one of those amplifying speaker things. Considering the educational talks in the mornings, perhaps a radio in the school house would be good.
"I still don't see why we had to bring her." Johan cast a look at Marie, who was walking for a while. Finally. He had had to walk all morning. She was a bit ahead of the wagon.
"Shut up."
Johan looked up at his father in surprise.
His father gave him that disappointed look. "If you had asked her to help, you'd have your own radio working. Think, son. Am I the best baker in the village?"
"You don't cook, Papa." Johan was totally confused by his father's comment.
"No, I don't. I am no good at it nor am I a good carpenter or smith. Have you once heard me suggest that your mother, Karl Vight, or Stephen Schmidt has a compact with the devil or is cheating because they can do things I can't?"
Papa's voice was quiet but Johan still found himself looking at his shoes. He really didn't want to look up and see the disappointment in his father's eyes. "No, Papa." Then it slipped out. "But she's so good at everything. It's not fair."
"That's a good thing, son. It makes the village a better place if people are good at things. You need to stop complaining and see what you can learn from her."
Marie grinned to herself. She'd heard every word. And was delighted to hear them, especially to hear Johan say she was good at everything. Johan had been consistently unwilling to ask Marie about how the radio worked or listen to any advice she offered. She liked the idea that Johan thought she was better at everything than he was. It wasn't really true. Johan was better at drawing and music and a bunch of things.
There was a certain amount of jealousy involved in their relationship. Though Marie was loath to admit it, it went both ways. They had gone to school together. Johan was handsome and had a marvelous singing voice. He was usually second in the class standings. Marie was generally first. She hadn't been nice about that, she knew. He was a boy. His father was the head of the council. He wouldn't have to go off and be someone's servant. Unlike her.
Marie knew she didn't have much chance at marriage. She wasn't pretty and didn't have a dowry. Wouldn't ever have one, probably. But she didn't want to be a servant. She wanted more.
Marie and Johan stared around in wonder. Peter's observation had a bit less wonder and a bit more calculation in it, but he had been to Riesa before. Riesa was much, much larger than the village. Much more crowded, too. For a wonder, there were radios in several places. Peter noted the antenna wires. It wasn't hard. Marie was constantly pointing them out.
They had spent the night on the road. Not by preference; they had run out of sunlight and it wasn't safe to travel at night. That brought them into Riesa fairly early in the morning. Business in the market square was brisk. The fee for a stall wasn't all that bad, though it seemed so at first. Peter was surprised at the prices they were getting for the fruits and vegetables they brought into town. They had sold most of their produce by noon and went looking for a likely tavern. Marie pointed out a tavern with a radio wire showing.
"Magnavox?" Herr Kreger's face creased.
The tavern owner laughed. "First time you've see one? There aren't many around yet; I got one of the first. I got it in Magdeburg. There's a factory there that makes them. I listened to quite a few and I thought this one had the best sound."
Marie stared at the Magnavox. It was beautiful. A very fancy cabinet, with carved wood. Unfortunately, she couldn't see the coil. She pointed to the knobs on the front. "What are those?"
The tavern owner turned a knob. "They call this one a tuner. It's so I can get the Voice of Luther station. Very uplifting sermons on Voice of Luther. We listen to them on Sunday. Mostly, though, we keep it on Voice of America." He looked around before saying, "The programming is a lot more interesting, most days. " Then after setting it back to roughly the VOA, he turned the other knob. "This is the volume control. My radio has a real amplifier." They could hear the static clearly, but that was all. Neither station was broadcasting this time of day.
"How does the amplufior, ah… whatever you said work?" Marie wanted to know.
"Don't know and don't care, girl." The tavern keeper grinned. "It works is enough for me. I just pay the boy from the shop down the street. He comes by once a week and fiddles with the batteries. They also sell a generator set up, but that's more expensive."
"Amazing." Peter shook his head. "Just well… amazing."
The tavern owner nodded. "Yes. It cost an amazing amount, too. But it's worth every penny. People come in to listen to the radio shows most nights and buy a beer and maybe some dinner. Besides, I heard a program about brewing that helped me improve the taste of my beer. 'Course, there are some disadvantages. My wife orders powder for baking all the way from Jena. Costs a bit, that does, but it does make quick bread. Biscuits, they're called. And there's that annoying ditty. The Gribbleflotz jingle, they call it. Got sick of that one pretty quick."
Peter nodded. Though the one time he had heard the jingle, he had rather liked it.
"What is that?" Johan pointed. This was a very strange looking machine, sitting next to the radio.
The tavern owner grinned. "It's a record player."
At their curious looks, he explained. "The radios don't broadcast all the time. This plays recorded music anytime we want it. I even have a couple of records of speeches but I'd rather listen to the music. Or the language lessons. When customers pay, I play whichever of the records they want to hear. For twenty-five cents, American." He puffed out his chest. "Brings in a lot of customers. Here, I'll show you. This one is on the house."
He went to the record player and opened a cabinet under it. Then he removed a flat disk. He carefully placed the disk on the record player and then did something with a handle of some sort. Suddenly there was music.
After the music died away, Peter finished eating and checked that Marie and Johan had finished, too. He stood. "Thank you for the demonstration. We'll be off for now, but we'll be back this evening."
The trio set out to explore a bit. A number of merchants and shop keepers had radios. Some were homemade, like Marie's. Some had been bought. Several appeared to be a combination of both.
The Magnavox was the best, though. But it was obviously too expensive for the village. "It would be good to have that 'amplifying device,'" Peter said.
Marie nodded. "Perhaps we can find a way to build one."
That evening, when they returned to the inn, the dining area was full. It stayed that way till the VOA signed off. Then a bit longer, with people listening to and dancing to records. It seemed every customer had a favorite song they wanted to hear at least once. Some were played quite a few times. Marie decided that she liked some of the music, but not all of it. If she'd had any money, she'd have paid for a language lesson.
Marie woke up already excited about the day. The innkeeper had provided them with the location of the shop that sent the boy to fiddle with his batteries. It specialized in products from Grantville. She was anxious to see them. So was Peter. So was Johan, but he tried to hide it.
"If we can afford it," Peter explained, "one of the amplifying devices would be good for the village. Perhaps some more wire, a better earphone. You can build more radios, can't you?" He looked down at Marie.
She nodded. "I'm sure I can. One for everyone in the village. So nobody has to share them."
Peter laughed. "That's a tall order."
Marie looked stubborn. "I can. I know I can."
The shop was fun. Cluttered, but fun. There were record players and radios, records and all sorts of interesting accessories for them. There were also booklets, brochures, and the shop keeper could order things. The number and type of doodads was frankly amazing.
Peter pointed at one item. "What's that?"
The clerk shrugged. "It's a carbon granule microphone 'amp' for radios or phonographs. That one has three stages."
"How does it work?" Marie asked.
The clerked shrugged again. "Well, it's a bit hard to explain. No offense meant."
"I built a crystal set." Marie glared at him.
Suddenly the clerk looked interested. "Really? So have I." Then he paused. "I was already working here, though. So I had all the parts. You built one from scratch?"
Marie nodded, not noticing the dark look Johan was giving the clerk.
"The amp works through variable resistance…"
Peter looked on while Marie and the clerk got into an animated discussion of the "amp" and the other types of amplifiers available. They must, he thought, be speaking English. It certainly was no German dialect he had ever heard. Well, part of it was recognizable. But the technical terms they were using were very confusing. From the bits he caught, he gathered that there was more than one type of amplifier available. Plus woven wire for connections, special screws and a variety of other products. Also books on the making of a number of things. Electric and not electric.
Marie and the clerk headed for the rack of books. Somehow, Peter, who had the money to actually buy things from the shop, was totally forgotten. As was Johan. Peter was amused by this turn of event. Johan obviously wasn't.
Peter looked around the shop for a bit, while he waited for the clerk to realize that he had a customer. Aside from the electric radio stuff there were sewing machines, typewriters, egg beaters, all sorts of things. All very expensive, much to Peter's dismay. Well, except for the egg beaters. Those weren't so bad. In fact, Peter decided to get one for his wife. He liked the clever little gadget. With it, at least, it only took one look and you knew how it worked.
After a few minutes, Peter gave up. The clerk wasn't budging from Marie's side. He walked over to Marie and looked at the book she held. "What is that?" He pointed to a picture.
Marie looked up at him. "That's a generator." She flipped a few pages. "That's a battery. And from what I've been able to tell, there's a lot of information on a lot of things I could build, if I had what I needed. Some of the parts might have to be sent for from Grantville or Magdeburg, but a lot of it I could do."
Johan snorted. "You're a girl."
Marie glared at him. "A girl with a working radio."
The clerk snorted a laugh. "From what I hear, the best radio tech in the world is a girl. Well, a woman. The up-timers say," the young man continued as if quoting gospel, "women can do anything men can."
Peter put a hand on Johan's shoulder before he could get in a fight with the clerk. "He has a point, at least in regard to radios. Now, hush." Peter guessed the clerk to be in his late teens or early twenties and clearly enamored of the up-timers everyone talked about. But that was no reason to be rude. He gave the clerk a repressive look before turning to Marie.
"Marie, explain this to me." He pointed at a drawing.
Marie took a moment to read the text that came with the drawing. "A balance beam amplifier, it says. It looks like it would be hard to build." She hesitated. "I think," she emphasized the word, "I could build one, given enough time."
"Ah… they work all right for voices," the clerk cautiously interjected-he had caught Peter's look clear enough-"but not so well for music."
Peter made up his mind. He handed the book to the clerk. "We'll take this. Now, Marie, make a list of things you're going to need. Need, mind, not just want. If the list is too long, or the items too expensive, you won't get any of it."
Just before they finished up, the clerk winked at Marie and handed her a ceramic tube. "If you're going to make a lot of these, this will be a big help. It's the form for making your coils."
"But I don't have any money," Marie protested.
"On the house." And he refused to accept it back.
Peter spent the morning thinking as the cart slowly took them homeward. Marie was reading and Johan sulking. He would have to do something with that boy. He wanted to wait until after they had sold this year's crop before buying expensive parts for better radios. He also wanted to see what Marie could come up with in terms of making the electric gadgets herself. So, while they had gotten some of the things on Marie's list, they hadn't gotten them all, even though the cost had been surprisingly reasonable. Johan's sulking had a lot to do with that, and perhaps even more to do with the interest the clerk had shown in Marie.
Their village had held together fairly well though the course of the war. Mostly because they took care of each other. Peter was convinced of that. Having an expert in radios would be a boon to the village. Not a great boon, but something that they could supply to neighboring villages, to bring in a bit of money. It would also mean that Marie's family would need a bit less village charity. Her father, Karl, was a hard working man but not a successful one. Everything he touched seemed to turn to mud.
That was the point that Johan failed to see. If Marie could make some money on her radios and whatever else she could find in the electric book, it was that much less support that Karl, Greta, Joseph and Marie would need from the village. At the same time, Peter wasn't entirely sure he liked all the unfettered information flowing into the village. The clerk had made him a bit nervous. There was no telling what sort of problems it might cause. Peter scratched his head. There really was no telling.
When they stopped for lunch, Peter tried, again, to get Johan to see what was going on. He was pretty sure what the problem was. For one thing, there was the way Johan looked at Marie. Peter had no idea whether anything would ever come of it, but clearly Marie had captured Johan's attention somewhere along the line. It was an interest that Johan was unable to acknowledge; was probably unaware of.
Peter was less sure if that interest was returned. Marie was harder to read. Partly, that was because Peter didn't know her as well. Partly, it was because she was so focused on radios right now that nothing else held much interest for her.
Somewhere along the way, Johan and Marie had gotten in the habit of fighting. Of seeing each other as competitors, even enemies, not allies from the same village. That was a bit scary. Marie was a bright girl. If she was permanently turned against Johan…
"You nearly walked into a tree." Peter took the book from Marie's hands and put it in the slow moving oxcart. Marie didn't complain as much as she wanted to. She and Peter were walking beside the oxcart while Johan drove. "When we get back home, I'll let you read it. I'll let anyone read it. But you'll have it the most, because you'll be making more crystal sets for the village. And later, you'll be making them to sell."
Marie looked up at him. He grinned. "Yes. You'll be paid a fair price for them, too." He gave her a severe look. "After you've paid me back for the stuff I bought in Riesa."
Marie grinned. "I can do it. I can make a lot of them. Sell them." She paused a moment. "I'll have a craft. Something I can do, that not everyone can."
The thought made her happy. With any luck at all, she wouldn't have to become a servant.
Marie started skipping. She wanted to get home and get started.
"It's the up-timers, you see." Ernst Berger was a pudgy man with a red face and a head of blond-going-to-grey hair. Well, a partial head of hair. His dome gleamed in the sun. "They've made so many improvements that the price of wheat is very low. I can't pay any more than thirty dollars a bushel. Probably won't be able to sell it for more than forty-five, once I've gotten it barged down to Magdeburg."
Peter took a sip of his beer and watched the factor. It was the beginning of their usual bargaining session. But this time, Peter had more information than he usually had.
Herr Berger didn't wait for his answer. "It's a perfectly fair price. It's what I've paid all over this area and what I'll be paying you. Besides, with the up-timers' high yield crops, I might lose money even at that price."
Peter grinned. He couldn't help it. "Let me relieve your mind, Herr Berger. The Farm to Market report says that wheat in Magdeburg is going for $92.03 a bushel."
Berger's face paled a bit. "But I have to get it there. Transportation costs…"
Peter interrupted him. "Yes, I know. I've been looking into transportation costs." He smiled again to drive home the warning. The fact that he had been looking into transportation costs meant more than just his knowing how much it would cost Berger. It meant he was getting prepared to arrange other transport if he had to. "I don't expect the full amount that you'll sell it for when you get it to Magdeburg." He smiled. "I'm a reasonable man, after all. Transportation is expensive. And a certain amount of profit for you is your due, I'm aware of that, too. I think seventy dollars a bushel would be fair. Don't you? Especially with the favor I've just done you?"
"Favor?" Berger asked.
"Of course. Relieving your mind about the prices in Magdeburg. Such a horrible rumor, that. It must have cost you many sleepless nights." There was a decided edge to Peter's smile now. "It's all right now, though. Aren't the radios wonderful things? Why, just the other day I heard a program on how to build a barge."
Berger swallowed audibly. Peter barely managed to keep from laughing out loud. Making barges of their own was the next thing to a hollow threat. Between the time and effort needed and the transit fees, they would be charged more than Berger would be charged. Peter doubted the village would clear forty dollars a bushel.
On the other hand, Berger didn't know that Peter knew that. Some of the other villages were mad enough to try building their own barges. If enough if them did, it would ruin Berger. That was another thing that Berger didn't know that Peter knew. Peter was prepared to let Berger bargain him down a bit. But only a bit. If Berger wouldn't see reason, they would just have to build barges of their own.
The bargaining continued. Outrageous lies were told on both sides. All in all, it was a most enjoyable evening. At least, Peter found it so.
Ernst Berger sat on the barge taking him and the grain to Magdeburg and tried really hard not to curse. He was a religious man after all. It was the damn VOA that had done it. Ernst bought grain from dozens of villages along the Schwarze Elster. Over half of those villages now had crystal sets. The Farm to Market reports had cost him a small fortune.
Ernst steamed for a while. The radios. The damned radios. Anyone could make the damn things. It only took a little wire, some bits of iron nails and a cheap magnet.
Peter Kreger had been grinning like a loon all though the negotiations. He'd even insisted on American dollars. Threatened to make some barges and take the grain to Magdeburg himself, he had. "I heard a program on how to build a barge." Karl Junker had been even worse. He hadn't threatened anything. His village had flatly refused to sell to Berger at any price. Junker's brother-in-law had made one of the radios.
If Ernst ever caught the bastard traveling tinker who had been selling those broadsheets with the designs for the radios, he was going to… to… He didn't know what he was going to do.
He looked at his books again and winced. Between the villages that had insisted on higher prices and the ones that had refused to sell to him at all, he was going to be hurting.
"I have a letter?" Marie looked amazed.
"Apparently so." Greta handed her daughter the letter but made no move to leave. There was no way she was going let her not yet sixteen-year-old daughter get letters from persons unknown without finding out what was in them.
She watched as Marie opened the letter. "It's Thomas Gerter, the clerk from that store in Riesa I told you about. It's an invitation to join a group of correspondence."
Greta was not reassured. "Robin of the Committees of Correspondence" was exciting to listen to, but not something she wanted her daughter involved in. Which she made clear to Marie.
"Oh, Mama. It's not that sort of committee. It's about radios. Thomas says it might develop into a guild or maybe an up-timer style union. There are people all over who are making radios. And some of them aren't real good at it." She giggled. Johan had finally gotten a working radio, sort of. "Others are less than honest. Selling radios that don't work or claiming that they will do stuff they won't."
Marie handed the letter to Greta. She read it. The plan, as the boy said, was to assure the good reputation of workers in the fields of radios and electronics and to share knowledge and techniques. There were tests of skill. And… ah ha… there was a fee. It was probably a scam.
"No. I don't think so, Greta." Peter Kreger smiled at the worried mother.
The village had done all right through Marie's radios. Peter knew of a couple of cases where the villages she had sold radios to had insisted that she wait right there in the village through a couple of broadcasts to insure that the radios worked. Not that that was a problem. Marie flatly refused to sell a radio, or any other gadget, unless she had tested it completely. "This is going to happen anytime something new comes up. The people who can really do it, and do it well… they have to do something to separate themselves from the charlatans. Looks to me like Marie is being invited to join the guild."
Try, Try Again by Paula Goodlett
"It isn't right."
Marie lowered her eyes so that her employer wouldn't see the glare she couldn't suppress. "Ma'am, I did what the package said to do. Twice." She picked up the container of Spirits of Hartshorn and tried to get Frau Werrin to look at it.
The Frau ignored her pointing finger. "If these American's can get bright shining white, we can get bright shining white. Try again. Try the other product-the, what do they call it? The bleach."
Marie nodded. Frau Werrin stomped out of the laundry area and slammed the door. Marie shook her head at the retreating back. Damn the Americans anyway. Word of the costumes that had been worn for the ballet had even reached this far and nothing would do but that Frau Werrin must have the glowing white fabric the reviews spoke of. No matter that wool-even white wool-tended to be a creamy color.
There was nothing else to try and her job was on the line. Marie heated another cauldron of water, added the Spirits of Hartshorn and the bleach. She stirred the mixture for a moment, then began adding the fabric.
Her eyes watered a bit when she leaned over the cauldron, but she blinked away the tears that formed. "If only I can figure this out," she thought. She stood straight, but her eyes kept tearing. She shook her head and gently pressed the fabric under the water with her paddle.
The fumes kept rising. Marie kept stirring as long as she could. When the gasping started, she tried to make it to the door.
Frau Werrin stormed into the laundry room. "Marie, where are you?" Then she gasped. Marie was on the floor and the acrid stench in the room made her eyes water. "What is that smell?"
With the door open, the stench began to clear out. Frau Werrin blinked back the tears the stench had caused, then went to check on her fabric.
"Oh. We really can get the glowing white!"
Little Jammer Boys by Kim Mackey
The terrified servant handed the message to Johnny von Sachsen as he and his younger brother, Augi, entered the elector's palace in Dresden. It was terse and to the point.
Come to my bedchambers. Now.
In their father's handwriting. John George I, Elector of Saxony, was not a subtle man.
"Wonderful." Johnny heard the disgust in his voice. He handed the note to his brother. "Simply wonderful. What have you done now, Augi?"
"Me?" hissed Augi. "Why does it always have to be me that our father is unhappy with? You're the one who got us into this mess, with your record players and American radios."
Johnny looked at his rotund brother and shook his head. "It can't be that. Maybe he's heard about your indiscreet comments to the French ambassador. Calling him a drunken pig and a disgrace to Saxony was just too much."
"Wait a minute. You started it with your comments about how ashamed you were of him. I was just following your lead!"
The two young men continued their bickering all the way to the elector of Saxony's bedchambers.
When they entered there were only three people in the room. A bad sign. Worse was the presence of their father's personal guard dogs, Fang, Dagger and Granite. The boar-hounds were each two hundred plus pounds of dark gray fur and muscle. Granite growled at them as they entered and the elector clouted him on the head.
"You can't eat them just yet, Granite. Shut up."
John George the First looked at his court dwarf, Maximilian, and motioned him out the doors. Johnny felt the boom of their closing like a knell of doom.
The elector's blond hair and beard were beginning to gray but his broad shoulders were still firm and muscular. With the toe of one foot he pushed a jumble of wire and wood in the direction of his sons. "Do you know what this is?"
Johnny took the initiative. "Wood and copper wire?"
The elector snorted and took a swig from his beer mug. "Tell them, Benedict."
The other man in the room stepped forward. Benedict Carpzov was one of the Elector's most trusted privy councilors and an expert in German and Roman law. "Crystal radios, as I am sure you both know. Confiscated right here in the palace."
Carpzov looked at John George, then back at Johnny and his brother. "The elector is not amused. You were responsible for stopping the influx of radios into this area. Yet you cannot even keep them out of the palace!"
"We tried!" Augi threw his hands in the air. "But they are too easy to make! Everyone wants to listen to the broadcasts. Every time the soldiers capture or confiscate radios, the parts, or those pamphlets at one point on the border, they pour through at another. It's impossible!"
"Bah," spat the elector. "Tried my sainted ass! I'm tired of your useless whining! Benedict will now be in charge of this task, and you will assist him in any way you can. We may be at war with the fucking Swede and his pet Americans by next spring and we don't need our people listening to the enemy's mindless blathering. Get this done, and do it quickly."
John George turned to Carpzov. "You have my authorization to call on whatever resources you need to stop this plague of radios. I'm not that worried about the nobility, but we have to stop the lower orders from listening to the Voice of America. Understood?"
Benedict Carpzov nodded. "I understand, Your Excellency. Your sons and I will accomplish what you command."
When the elector waved in dismissal, Carpzov motioned for them to follow. They left the bedchamber.
"We really have tried, Benedict. Honestly," Augi said. "But the border is just too porous."
"Not to mention that the Committee of Correspondence is involved," Johnny added. "Even if we could close the border, it wouldn't do any good. They're printing the pamphlets everywhere, we're sure of it. We don't have the manpower to do a house-to-house search of every village."
"Then we will have to look for other solutions," Carpzov said. "Now where is my half-brother?"
"Gus?" Augi asked tentatively.
Benedict's smile was a thin angry line. "Yes, that's the one. August Carpzov. The person who is selling radios to all the nobility in Dresden. The one you are in league with, making money when you are supposed to be limiting the use of radios. The person who supplies the records for your parties in the country estates."
Augi blanched and Johnny was pretty sure he did, too. Benedict laughed. "No, I have not told your father. Yet. My honor is involved here as well. But you will take me to him. Now."
"So how did you get started in all of this?" Bernard Stoltz was one of Dresden's more prominent goldsmiths.
Gus Carpzov smiled his best genial smile. "I was going to school in Jena when the Americans first came through to stop one of Tilly's regiments after the battle of Breitenfeld. I was intrigued by their CB radios and decided to investigate. I spent almost two years in Grantville before coming home."
Gus motioned at a radio on the shelf. This one was mounted on polished wood and stone. "Your daughter might like this one. It was designed to appeal to a woman's vanity."
Stoltz took the radio down and admired it. "Nicely done. Helmholtz did the inlays? I think I recognize his style. "
Gus nodded. "You have a fine eye, Herr Stoltz. Yes, that is Helmholtz's work. For someone like yourself, I will offer a discount. Only twenty guilders. I manufactured the inner workings myself using a real up-time transistor. I will guarantee the radio for six months, no charge for any repairs needed. " That wasn't true, but it let Gus sell a radio that cost him a guilder to make-including the case-for twenty guilders. No one was going to pay twenty guilders for something peasants could make from a broadsheet.
"Excellent," Stoltz said. "Done. But she also wants one of the.. . record players, are they called?"
"Yes, record players. " Gus nodded. "Right this way. I have them in a side room under lock. Since we cannot manufacture them yet, they are considerably more valuable, you understand."
Stoltz nodded. Mentally Gus rubbed his hands. He would discount the record player, as a sign of respect for Stoltz, but mark-up the records he had. If he could impress Stoltz, that would open up a whole new clientele among the richer merchants in Dresden.
Gus Carpzov's workshop was in an old stable and store room behind the Golden Swan Tavern. The Golden Swan catered to the higher orders of society in Dresden and the location had allowed him to make contact with a number of successful merchants. As for the patricians, his life-long friendship with the sons of the elector had paid huge dividends. It also kept the elector's soldiers off his back.
When Johnny and Augi walked into his store, he greeted them enthusiastically. "Hello, boys. Guess who I sold a radio and record player to today? Bernard Stoltz, the goldsmith, he…" Gus stopped cold when he saw the expressions on the faces of his friends. "What's wrong? You both look like you just lost your best horse or something. What's happened?"
Johnny shook his head. "We're really sorry, Gus. We had no choice."
"Yeah," said Augi. "He forced us to bring him here."
"Him? Him who?"
The bell on the front door blinged again and Gus froze in horror when his elder brother entered.
Benedict Carpzov smiled. To Gus it seemed like the smile a wolf would give a lamb just before devouring it.
"Hello, August. I think we need to have a talk."
After Benedict Carpzov had left, Augi patted Gus's shoulder in sympathy. "Well, at least you've got a week to come up with something."
"Come up with what?" Gus raised his head off his arms. "If I could build a transmitter so the elector could have his own radio station, that might be one thing. But I just don't have the expertise to put it together in a week. And the people I knew in Grantville aren't exactly my friends any longer. Considering the radios and other things I, ah, borrowed when I left. What the hell am I going to do?"
"Do you think your brother was serious? Would he really put you on trial as a warlock?"
Gus nodded. "Count on it. The family honor is at stake. And that's likely to be where I wind up, burning on a stake. Unless I can think of something. Sorry, guys. I have to do some serious thinking. Come back in a few hours?"
The two Von Saschen brothers nodded and left the store, shaking their own heads. It would be a shame to lose Gus. He had the best contacts with smugglers bringing in records from the USE.
Augi looked over at his older brother. "What are we going to do?"
"Well," said Johnny, "if Gus comes up with something, help him the best we can. If not, I guess we'll have to look for a new supplier."
Gus Carpzov spent an hour trying to convince himself that he could build a transmitter for the elector. But he knew his own limitations. There were too many variables, too many unknowns. Plus he knew there had been a lot of difficulties getting Voice of America and Voice of Luther operational. The elector would not be satisfied unless his own radio station rivaled Voice of Luther, at the least.
But what else could he do? He could probably stretch out the pretense for months, which would be vastly better than being tortured into a confession of witchcraft in the dungeons of Dresden. He could just imagine his half-brother enjoying that.
Start brainstorming, Gus.
He decided to put some Christmas music on the record player. It was soothing enough to calm him down and maybe his mind would remember things from his time in Grantville. It really had been the best time of year there.
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum…
That's what he needed, a fine gift for the elector. But he doubted the elector would be pleased with just a record player. He needed something to address the problem of the lower orders having radios. But what?
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum, that's fit to give our King…
Right, a record player or even an up-time radio wasn't a fit gift for the elector. He wanted to prevent people from listening, not necessarily listen himself.
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum, Me and my drum.
So how to make the elector smile?
Gus chuckled. If I had a big enough drum I could drown out the Voice of America and the Voice of Luther combined. He sat up. Wait a minute…
Suddenly eager, he began to make sketches in his notebook.
Benedict Carpzov blinked in astonishment after Gus finished demonstrating his device. "It really works. And even against an up-time radio."
Gus laughed. "Of course it works. As my old radio instructor used to say, it was simple dimple. Battery, buzzer, capacitor, and a few dozen feet of antenna. Coverage will be only a few hundred feet, maybe two hundred yards maximum. We'll have to do experiments. But with limited coverage we can make sure that the nobility isn't bothered by proper placement in the appropriate parts of town. And then there's the export market."
"Export market?"
"Sure. " Gus grinned. "There are lots of villages and towns in the USE that aren't too happy about the Voice of America and Voice of Luther programming. And a porous border works both ways. So we can start shipping jammers to people in the USE who want to jam the signals. They can even tailor the jamming to certain programs by turning it on and off as needed."
Benedict shook his head. He hadn't really believed his half-brother would actually come up with a viable solution, but he had. What was more, it would delight the elector to ship jammers into the USE to disrupt his enemies.
"So tell me. How did you come up with this idea?"
Gus grinned. "Let's just say a little jammer boy whispered in my ear."
Safe at First Base by Mark H Huston
"I tell you, I saw it in the movie. Plain as the nose on your face. And you have a large nose, Johan. The up-time device looked just like this-"
"Heinrich. Listen to yourself. Movies are like dreams; they are not real. This is reality." With that, Johan pointed over the edge of the precipice, a two hundred fifty foot drop, straight down. He backed away slightly. Johan was so focused on talking his brother out of testing his homemade copy of this absurd up-time device, he didn't realize his proximity to the edge. He could see the dirty brown ribbon of the river in the bottom of the valley. He swallowed and tugged at his nose, edging backwards. Heinrich was speaking again.
"-I tell you it was just like this. A harness that supports the man, ropes fastened to a harness, and the ropes attached to the cloth canopy above. I tell you, I will float down like a feather. A parachute, it's called."
Logic was not working. Johan knew that he had to try something stronger. He now tried screaming the obvious. "HEINRICH. YOU WILL DIE. DIE! COLD-DEAD-IN-THE-GROUND-DEAD!" He glared at his younger brother. Heinrich glared back, unyielding.
Time for the best argument.
"Heinrich," Johan said with a voice as smooth as sweet cream, "what would Mother say?"
Heinrich snorted, and looked at the ground. "It is not fair of you to bring our mother into this argument." He made a pensive, slightly confused face, but only for a moment. There was a pause, then he then turned, resolute. "But I am sure that she would be proud. I will be the first person on the world to "base jump." Think of the fame, and notoriety that will come with this feat. Yes, she will be very proud. I am certain." The steadfast and unyielding glare returned.
"I cannot let you do this, brother."
"You have no say in the matter, brother. I am old enough. I am no longer under your charge. I have tested it once with bags of rocks, and it worked-mostly. Stand aside." Johan was caught off guard when Heinrich pushed him out of the way. He stumbled and fell hard onto his backside. He then watched in helpless horror as Heinrich took three paces back, then ran forward and flung himself out into the air, his patchwork quilt of a canopy trailing behind. The last thing Johan saw was the cloth canopy sliding over the edge, dragging some dust and pebbles along with it. Johan held his breath. He listened for the deadly thud of a body bouncing down the cliff face.
Instead, after a pause, he heard a long series of curses. Very coarse cursing. Colorful and sincere cursing. Johan eased himself up, crawled to the edge of the cliff, laid down flat and peered over. He knew his brother had picked up new words since their visit to Grantville, but these…
Below him, no more than ten feet away, was the colorful top of the parachute. It was caught on a protruding tree that had taken root below the cliff face. Heinrich hung helplessly, kicking his legs and twisting, completely and solidly snagged.
Johan felt a great smile begin to beam on his face. "Brother, it looks as if you need a rescue, which can be arranged. But only on certain conditions."
His brother looked up, twisted around, and began cursing again. Eventually, he stopped struggling, and hung in the air, feet dangling and arms folded, disgruntled. He swayed slightly in the breeze.
"Heinrich, are you finished with your tantrum?"
Heinrich nodded.
"Good. Here's my deal. I will go and get help and pull your idiotic ass up here onto solid ground on two conditions, and only two. Otherwise you can hang here until the cows come home. And much longer. It will be cold tonight at this altitude."
He watched as his brother mentally reviewed his limited options. Finding none, Heinrich simply said, "Conditions?"
"First, the parachute and all of the clothing sewn into it goes back to the tailor. Second, you no longer jump bases." Johan looked down at his brother, who looked back. Heinrich struggled to look dignified, and failed.
"Is that all?"
Johan smiled. "Yes, that's all."
Heinrich twisted around in the harness again. Paused again, and then sighed. "Agreed. I will not base jump again. Shake on it." Johan nodded in agreement, and stuck his hand over the side of the cliff, miming shaking hands. Heinrich did the same thing from ten feet below. Johan edged his way back from the cliff edge to get help, and a voice came from below.
"Johan? What do you know about rocketry? There was this other movie I saw…"
The Order of the Foot by Richard Evans
Grantville Police Department Offices
A Monday morning, early winter 1634
"We've had another complaint about Bigfoot, Chief. This time over by the fairgrounds where the locals store their flocks before they can be sold and then processed at the slaughterhouse." Officer Ralph Onofrio looked up from his cup of coffee with a smile. "A farmer is saying that it switched his flock with another farmer's this time. He wants a guarantee that he won't suffer a loss when they finally go to sale; he wants what he was bid at auction."
"Now that's a new twist." Chief Preston Richards sat down in his seat, not before checking his inflatable ring pillow for pudding or another surprise. He'd learned his lesson last April Fools Day. Always check your six. "That real coffee?"
Ralph nodded and pulled his cup in protectively. The office budget had been so tight this quarter that they had to bring in their own coffee if they wanted some on duty.
"Well?" Preston raised an eyebrow.
"Hey! This is my own stash!"
"That you brewed with office equipment, Ralph. Police equipment. Do I have to remind you who's boss?" Preston tapped the shiny badge on his jacket for emphasis.
Crossed eyes and a stuck-out tongue that would have done a three-year-old proud showed Officer Onofrio's opinion on where this conversation was going.
"Oh, that's real pretty. Didn't your mother ever tell you that your face might get stuck like that? Half a cup? Please?"
"That's better, Chief. Until the next pack train gets in with another load of coffee beans, this is it."
"I'll authorize an armed escort to guide the merchants in this time. Think they'd recall me if I abused our position to guarantee we got first crack at a bulk purchase? I know the merchants will appreciate the escort. I can't believe we missed the news of the last caravan's arrival. I barely got enough to last a month myself."
"Don't see why they would, Chief. We could put it under 'essential police material needs.' Just like doughnuts. And maybe even hot dogs, too."
The grin was back, but Preston ignored the jibe. "I'm not getting fat, and I resent any such implications. Mel's got me eating better these days, anyways. No more sausages or hot dogs for me and definitely no doughnuts."
With a cup of precious coffee in his hands, Preston took a look at the stack of reports that until recently had been filed under "H for Huh?," that being real close to the File 13 cabinet. A piece of peanut brittle disappeared as he flipped through the reports. Melanie never said he couldn't have peanut brittle and it went well with the coffee.
"There seems to be more and more Bigfoot sightings during the winter." He counted the reports and set them aside. "Where did these farmers learn about Bigfoot?"
"Dunno, Boss. But I put it off to cabin fever. That and the number of babies born every fall seems to indicate that there's not much else to do with the snows falling. That and counting sheep," Ralph offered as a cause for the increased number of sightings.
"Any actual sightings? Or just footprints as usual?"
"Footprints. I took castings again, and I've asked the beat cops to swing an extra patrol where the farmers can see them. Mostly to keep the farmers and locals happy. I can't believe people still believe in Bigfoot. I've told them and told them it's just kids fooling around with fake feet. Superstitious fools."
"Interesting. I'll have a look into it, maybe I can figure out who's behind this. And we don't call our charges fools, Ralph. At least not to their faces or in the reports. " Preston took another sip of coffee and decided he could feel his toes again. Time to get new boots and new socks. Might even spring for some of the new Brillo Wool Socks, the ones without the little sheep on them of course. Not that anyone would be able to see them, but just in case.
"Could just be that we brought a real Bigfoot back with us after all."
"Weren't that common in West Virginia that I was aware of. " Preston deadpanned.
"Not like the Pacific Northwest."
"Nope. Not like the Northwest."
Unnoticed, the duty dispatcher slipped back into the cubicle that served as his office and made a very quiet phone call. His non-stop snickering also went unheard.
A Tuesday Night, Several Weeks Later
Grantville, USE
"I gotta make water, don't move." Signore Ascanio Lante slid off his horse right into a slush-filled hole. He cursed when the ice cold water seeped through the cheap boots. He wasn't dressed for slogging through the snow; his hunting and travel clothes along with his dogs had been stolen two weeks before his arrival here in Grantville. "Sons of pox ridden whores!" His cursing wasn't directed at anyone in particular and at everyone at the same time, but mostly at the thieves that had joined his caravan and then disappeared with his personal luggage.
His unfocused eyes glanced about the street and then back at the group of hangers-on that had joined his group when he'd started buying drinks. He stumbled towards the alley behind what he assumed was a corner smithy from the hammer and anvil on the sign. The words were too blurry for him to read properly.
"No hunting permits! Hah! I'll show them!" Ascanio waved his newly-purchased, double-barrel pistol about and then shoved it back into his jacket. "I, Ascanio Lante, will find the beast and kill it! Its head will decorate my mantle!" His rented horse tugged impatiently on the reins, reminding him why he'd dismounted and moved into the alley in the first place.
At least his horse still served its master, not like those cretins back in Rome. He'd managed to pull out with most of his belongings and all of his personal fortune. Most importantly, he'd gotten out with all of his shipping contracts and ship ownership documents, and the money had been converted into letters of credit. Those had been secured in his very thick money belt and never left his ample waist.
His brother's secret departure from Rome to attend to some ecclesiastical business with unnamed Spanish parties to the south hadn't remained secret for long. There were simply too many spies in Rome for that. Without Cardinal Marcello Lante's protection, old business rivals had decided that it was an opportune time for revenge.
Ascanio had then decided it was a good time as any for a grand tour of Europe and to extend his business contacts to the north, war or not. That was something he believed only he could attend to properly. It was that attention to business that had made him a rich man. Well, that and his brother's influence.
It would have been a perfect opportunity to take in some hunting along the way, although the hunting had been disappointing so far. One undersized boar, two wolves and that was it. Not even a bear to shoot at. Then he'd heard the fantastic stories coming out of Grantville and had directed his tour here.
A beast of enough cunning and skill to remain unseen near a populated area? That was worthy of his time and effort! The article and photograph of this beast were safely tucked away with his letters of credit.
His group was starting to sing that annoying song they'd learned at one of the bars again. Something about a lumberjack, a woodman who dressed in woman's clothing, of all things. He didn't understand why they found it so funny and he'd matched them drink for drink like a true Lante could.
Damn Germans. Ascanio carefully positioned himself in front of the gate. The reins looped over his arm, he fumbled with the lacing of his pants. He was bursting to go when suddenly, the gate crashed open to reveal a giant beast.
The beast roared, and Ascanio hurriedly backpedaled out of the alleyway, hauling at horse. Nothing he'd ever seen was that big, except for the great brown bear one of his uncles had in his library.
" Jesu Cristo! " Ascanio fumbled for his pistol. The jacket he'd recently purchased to replace the one that had been stolen was overlarge and caused more fumbling. He finally cleared the pistol and cocked both hammers back. The Americans could refuse him a permit to hunt the beast in their territory, but if he was attacked by one in the middle of their town there was no way they would begrudge him his trophy!
The horse, upset at Ascanio's behavior, tried to pull free, upsetting Ascanio's aim. The first shot missed. That shot was too much for the horse. It bolted, dragging Ascanio off his feet. He lost his grip on his pistol as he flailed about.
Terrified, Ascanio fumbled around in the dark alley for his pistol. "Dear God! Help me! Help! Somebody!" He reverted to his native Italian in his panic. The singers didn't notice his calls for help or the discharge of his pistol.
Heavy footsteps approached him. Ascanio stopped hunting for his pistol and struggled to his feet.
"Run," he thought, but his legs refused to obey him.
The nearly seven foot tall beast advanced on him. Its red face promised death.
"I'm a dead man," Ascanio thought just before he passed out.
Wednesday Afternoon
Darke amp; Nelson Law Offices
"Yes, I can get Herr Lante a set of the footprints. But I must ask. Why?" Frank van der Darke flipped a piece of imaginary lint off his ruffled cuffs.
"You know of the curio cabinets that many nobles keep, do you not?" Raised eyebrows indicated that the Dutch merchant and lawyer did indeed know of the hobby. "Well, the cardinal's brother is an avid hunter and, well…"
"He was denied a hunting permit to go after a trophy in this case?"
"Yes. " The small courtier fidgeted as Frank leaned forward feigning interest. "He was most displeased. He wanted the trophy very much. He's read all the books and pamphlets and he is sure that he and his dogs have the skill to track this legendary beast down once and for all. If he still had his dogs, that is."
"And the plaster footprints?"
"They will show his equals that this hunting trip to Grantville wasn't without success. He could say that the body was claimed by the local lord."
"Or corrupted during transport?" Frank suggested.
"Exactly."
Frank coughed. He'd received a few calls only minutes before Lante's seneschal had finally found his office. The servant had tried three other lawyer's offices downtown before settling on his practice. Although, in truth, the servant hadn't settled, he had just been laughed out of every other practice when he'd made similar requests at each stop. It must have been a very long and cold walk for the small man before he found the Darke and Nelson Law Offices.
Luckily Frank's partner, Richard Nelson, wasn't in town this week. He was a dour Englishman known for his lack of humor as much as he was renowned for his ability to unravel contract disputes down to their basics and keep all parties involved happy.
Their practice served both the rich and the poor alike, though lately they'd been doing more pro-bono work as word got out that they'd represent folks who normally couldn't afford to pay for a lawyer. Thus, some of the cases they got were ones no other lawyer would touch. Then there were days like this. Rich clients, with no common sense, who got deeper into trouble with every footstep once they fell afoul of the law and the un-bribable officers of the law.
"So I secure some of these… footprints. You do know that they will be considered evidence and be locked up, do you not? These creatures are very clever, shy and hard to locate. Or so I've been told."
"Expense is not an issue." A pouch of coins landed on the desk. When Frank didn't reach for it, a second-heavier-purse landed next to it. "That's all I'm authorized to offer at this time."
"That is, if you wish to bail Herr Lante out of jail, too." Frank pretended to examine the court documents the servant had brought with him.
"Yes. That is true."
"Tell me, how did Herr Lante end up in jail?" Frank knew the story, but wanted to hear the servant's own version more than the one that his employer would have instructed him to tell others.
"We had just toured three machine shops that afternoon and then visited several establishments to sample the local cuisine and beverages." It had actually been another grand tour, consisting of every bar, pub and restaurant in Grantville, but Frank knew better than to interrupt.
"When Signore Lante went to admire the architecture of a building behind some shops we'd just visited…"
"Herr Lante broke statute 214," Frank read silently. The yellow snow was a clear bit of evidence listed on the papers. Frank amended the list of possible charges he'd have to get reduced if he took the case.
"Next thing he knew, he was being attacked by a giant fur covered beast and had to defend himself."
"I believe Signore Lante shot at this… beast, even before it attacked him. " Frank slid the police report over to the seneschal and tapped the relevant section. Why Lante had brought his household manager along with him on such a long trip, Frank didn't know. Perhaps there was more going on back home than either was willing to admit to.
"In fact, this beast was one of the Swedish smiths who works in the area. It was his home and shop your master was relieving himself behind. Your master and his drunken friends woke him and his family up with their singing and carousing."
"I saw it. It was like no man that I've ever seen."
"He is big, I'll give you that. But he is no wild beast. Perhaps Signore Lante was a bit tipsy and confused this citizen with this legendary Bigfoot he was here to hunt for?"
"Perhaps. Not that we're admitting to anything, but it wasn't like he was trying to kill anyone important."
"Signore, I will caution you once about that mindset and hope you take this to heart. There are no racial or birth lines enforced here in Grantville. You're lucky that your master was too drunk to aim straight."
"The man struck Signore Lante! He demands recompense!"
"I don't think so. You are aware that your master might end up facing charges of attempted murder on top of the public defecation statutes he broke, aren't you?" Frank held up his hand to forestall any further interruptions. "I think I can get those charges reduced or eliminated to just a fine along with public service and time served. .. but only if he is willing to plead guilty to lesser charges."
"Signore Lante can't stay in jail like a common criminal! He would not agree to pleading guilty to anything. What would folks back home think of him?"
Not much differently than they do now, Frank thought. "I will speak with the judge and the chief of police when I'm next at court. But I will not try to bribe them or ask for favors. That would cost me my license to practice law. Would tomorrow morning be fast enough for a meeting with Signore Lante? I do have other engagements this evening, so tomorrow morning would be best. I also have other engagements to attend to tomorrow afternoon and evening, so you and Signore Lante will be on your own. I trust you can keep him out of any further trouble? I suggest staying at the Higgins Hotel." Poker night at the General Store was the event the next evening, but Signore Lante's attendant didn't need to know that.
"I will put out feelers to see how the prosecution is standing on this case and if they are amenable to a deal. That's all I can promise at this time. Then, we'll have to see if Signore Lante is willing to plead to lesser charges or is willing to go for a more expensive and lengthy trial. I do warn you that the jury will consist of twelve of his peers, but not those that Signore Lante would consider his peers. They are just as likely to consist of the common people he holds in such high regard."
"If the charges… No. If all of this could disappear, his gratitude would know no end. You are a man of business; you understand these things."
Frank shrugged. "I focus on the law and my client's needs. I do not worry if their business would affect my interests in any way. We here at Darke and Nelson serve the poor and rich alike." But the fees are quite different, my little man.
"Well, Signore Lante owns many ships, too." The weasel grinned and paused for emphasis. Subtle, he was not. "Many, many ships. Perhaps, if he were treated well, he might overlook the current situation between the crown of Spain and the Swedish Emperor. Thus new business investments might come to light?" The weasel looked like the last words had tasted like a sour bug in his mouth. "Overlook it enough to perhaps guarantee a share of the next ships coming back from Mexico and the West Indies as a show of good faith. At a modest investment, but a with guaranteed return?"
"Go back to your master and tell him I'll take the case. I'll see about getting him his trophies and I'll go down to the court tomorrow and see about his bail." Frank subtracted the bail charges from his retainer and made notes to charge his client for that again when he presented the final bill. The transparent attempt at a bribe annoyed him. "As for the rest…" Frank shrugged.
"Would it be possible to arrange for his hunt, too? Once bail is met, that is." The man paused as if mentally counting coins. "Signore Lante will need to arrange for new dogs and a new horse for a proper hunt, the one he rented doesn't have the proper temperament and it was a mare too." The face soured even more. "And perhaps you could also share the name of your tailor? Signore Lante wishes to replace the inferior clothing he was forced to purchase after a slight accident on his trip here to Grantville."
"One thing at a time, please." Frank thought a moment, then suppressed a grin. This man-and his so-called master-deserved a little treat. A little treat Frank could arrange.
"Will you be needing a ride? I do have a carriage."
The look of relief on the small man's face was almost comical. Frank's offices were far from the bustling center of town and nearer to those who needed his services.
Thursday Night
The General Store
"Raise you two." Robert Butcher tossed two white chips into the growing pile in the middle of the poker table. "And, Cyrus, if you know what's good for you, you won't try that trick Preston taught you last week when he was playing poker with us." The old Sea-bee glared across the table they had set up in the back room of Butcher's General Store. "Though someone of your stature would never stoop to cheating, now would they? Even if their nickname was 'Snake.'"
"Heh." The palmed card landed on the ones he laid face down on the poker table. "Had crap anyway. I'm out."
"I'll see you two and raise you five." Well-manicured fingers painted to match this evening's outfit tossed the required tokens onto the pile and Frank van der Darke smiled like a cat that not only got the milk, but also the mouse.
"I don't buy that 'I don't have a poker face' act no more, Frank. I call." Robert groaned when he saw that the Dutchman's full house trumped his own.
"Damn it. Got me again, Fancy Pants."
Frank glanced around the back room again to make sure that all the uninitiated guests for the evening's poker game had indeed departed before he raked in the final pot. Satisfied, he slid his chair back and changed his boots. Others around the table did the same.
"Fred, Dennis, Snake, and, of course, Robert… Honored Knights of the Order of the Foot. You have all heard about my latest client and the purpose of his visit to Grantville." Frank raised his hands to forestall the objections to bringing official business into the back room after the shoes came off. "Not court stuff, though I think that Judge Tito did come down hard on him. Harder than I expected. Five thousand dollars bail."
"Well, I bet that Spaghetti-head pissed them off mightily," Cyrus "Snake" Guffy muttered. "I would've thrown the book at him were I a judge. I heard the Swede's not pressing charges. Guess knocking him into a puddle of muddy ice water was enough to satisfy his honor."
"Okay, Frank, we forgive you for bringing up business after the boots were on. Yer still new to this prank thing. Not many rules here, but talking business ruins all the fun." Dennis leaned forward and gathered up the cards and began to shuffle.
His grin promised that the group would pay close attention to this visitor to Grantville. "We each have our own secret networks of information, now don't we? We'll think of something appropriate to make Mr. Ascanio Lante's trip here memorable. Won't we, boys?" Everyone chuckled except Frank. His eyes glazed as his mind raced over the details the seneschal had shared with him earlier that day. He already had a plan forming.
Everyone's eyes watched Dennis's hands, especially Robert Butcher, who was regretting letting Preston Richards show all the other old farts in the back room some of his best card palming tricks last week. Who knew that they'd pick up on a new way cheating that fast?
"We're going to have to do something about his insisting on hunting for Bigfoot, though. With the latest sightings others might jump on the bandwagon and we'll have another incident." He tapped his size twenty-five furred shoes to emphasize his point. "Fred almost got caught last week."
"Luckily it was only rock salt," Fred added.
"Sure sounded like a Bigfoot scream when you hightailed it out of there though." Robert chuckled.
"I have a possible solution for that. Well, a suggestion, anyway. I still have to prove I'm worthy of filling these big shoes," Frank offered. "Does Duncan's wife still have those dogs he was breeding?" He bit back his smile.
"Old Pete's get?"
"No. Not those big dogs. The small annoying ones." Frank grinned. "I think they'd be the perfect dogs for a hunt for up-time legendary critters such as Bigfoot."
"That's evil."
"Oh, not so much evil, as an opportunity for some great fun. That's why we meet, yes?"
Laughter filled the back room. This group was all about having fun at the expense of others, usually in very subtle ways, though. The recent rash of Bigfoot footprints had been an old fall back prank that they'd been doing every winter for well over forty years.
Frank put his size twenty-two Bigfoot over-boots up onto the poker table and the rest of the fellows followed suit. The size of their furred shoes indicated the person's rank in this secret club. His were the smallest, but hopefully by next week he'd be wearing bigger shoes.
"So we, the Order of the Foot, are agreed? This next weekend, after his trial, we take Signore Lante on a hunt he will never forget? Then we sell him his trophy footprints and that trophy of the Bigfoot he keeps on insisting he must have."
"I'll do you one better, you damned peacock," Robert Butcher drawled. His shoes were the biggest in the back room.
"And how would you do that, Robert?"
"We don't just take him hunting with the little yappers. We entice him to buy them."
"How?" Cyrus asked.
"We go looking for Bigfoot, but that's not what we'll go after."
"No?"
"No. Saturday night after this one, we take him snipe hunting. I hear them lil' doggies are perfect for snipe hunting."
"Things breed like rabbits." Fred chuckled.
"Dangerous, unless you have the right dogs and right gear."
"Bet they've even reached Italy and Spain by now. He'll have to take the dogs with him all the way home, won't he?"
As the full intent of Robert's plan filtered through the group, looks close to awe were turned onto him.
"Vote?" Everyone around the table raised his right foot into the air.
"The Feet have it. So, think we can get Birdie to go along with this one? We're gonna need some outside help this time," Snake added.
Two weeks later
Saturday evening at Birdie's farm
"Snake, hell, I've got a farm to run here."
"Look, all we need you to do is follow behind us and toss our camp while wearing these special boots-after we move out on this wild goose chase."
"I heard about that nut case. He shot someone he thought looked like Bigfoot. No way, Cyrus. I ain't doing it. Normally I'm all about putting one over on folks like him, but this sounds too dangerous."
"You owe me, Birdie."
"Yeah, I do. But that don't pay the bills."
Snake narrowed his eyes. Time to up the ante. "He's willing to buy that Jackalope trophy you got, too."
"How much?"
Cyrus named the figure and watched Birdie's face change. It had been worth holding that bargaining card close to his vest.
"Well, why didn't you tell me that in the first place? Wife's been after me to get rid of old Fang-face for years."
"I was hoping to appeal to your sense of civic duty first, Birdie."
"Screw civic duty. Cash on the barrel is what gets things done."
"Thought so." Cyrus counted over a small fortune in silver and gold into Birdie's hands. "But there's one more thing. We need you to leave Boojum marks on his gear and around the camp too."
"What the heck is a 'Boojum,' Snake?"
Snake grinned. "I hear they're small and nearly invisible and leave marks that only show up under a black light…" Cyrus passed over a pair of newly made boots as well as a wood stamp and a bottle containing a chemical that Robert's grandson had guaranteed would fluoresce under a black light, but be invisible in normal lighting. "Don't ask what this stuff is and don't get any on your skin."
"Can I ask who made this stuff?" Birdie pocketed the coins before Snake could change his mind.
"Best you don't know any more details, that way you won't have to lie if you're asked about it. Okay, here's the plan." Cyrus Guffy laid out the map he'd copied and marked with a route that was guaranteed to move through every bog, over every ridge, and through some of the most difficult terrain on this side of Grantville. He pointed out locations that he needed Birdie to set up and make Wookie, snipe and boojum calls and lay scents for the dogs, and where the base camp would be located.
As more and more details fell into place, Birdie's grin grew bigger and he offered up some suggestions of his own.
"You're an evil, evil man, Cyrus Guffy. I think I'm glad I'm on your list of friends."
Snake chortled and grinned in response.
The next Sunday morning, a few hours before dawn
The hunting dogs, if the small hybrids could be called that, had charged into the campsite, full of excitement. They were running around yapping, alternating with their noses to the ground and excited leaps into the air. It was obvious that they were on to the scent of something.
Lante looked up from the dogs to Robert Butcher. "More snipes?" He eyed the way the gear had been tossed and swallowed hard. "Maybe a Bigfoot?"
"Nah, the dogs don't react like this to snipes." Robert waved the rest of the group back into the camp with the shotgun-blasted snipe-net-on-a-pole he carried. "Dennis, you got that device with yah?" Dennis Haygood pulled out a three-way flashlight with a dark purple tube along one side and showed it to Robert.
"By the way the dogs are behaving this has the look and smell of. .." Dramatic pause. "Boojums!"
"What's a Boojum?"
"Well, the thing of it is, we're not sure. No one's ever really seen one."
"Seen and lived to tell that is," Frank finished. It was all in the timing.
"How then do you know that these 'Boojums' are about?"
"The dogs, Signore Lante, the dogs. Otherwise, you don't know until it's too late. I've heard stories that my Grand'marm told me when I was a whippersnapper, oh, so high." Robert Butcher moved his hand parallel to the ground just below his waistline. He leaned the long pole against a nearby tree. "Once they mark something, they'll follow it until they or that person dies. They got a great sense of smell. Track anything anywhere they can."
"Then how do you…" Signore Lante stopped when Dennis lit the light and panned it about the camp. In the weird light, glowing prints of small clawed feet left a spiral pattern around the camp. The spiral circled all the gear and ended up on Lante's gear. The same place the small dogs had finally congregated.
"The prints, they go nowhere after?" The voice cracked with every other word. Dennis followed the tracks back to Ascanio Lante and stopped.
"Boojums are like that, Signore." The light turned onto Lante and he looked down onto his new safari shirt. The scream that echoed through the hills would have done horror movie scream queens proud.
The Transmitter by Gorg Huff
"But the article says that Monsieur Bell's selenium cells had a resistance of one hundred to three hundred oms!" Piair La Corrian pointed imperiously at a pile of papers on his desk. "That's a variation of two hundred watts. With one positive and the next negative, four hundred watts. If we run four mirrors on the same turntable with each mirror hitting its own cell so we have four cells running in parallel, that's eight hundred watts positive on the up tick to eight hundred watts negative on the down tick."
"Fine. Build the silly thing. But it won't work." Oliver De Champaign had actually been to Grantville and seen the difficulty they were having in building the Voice of Luther radio station.
Ten months and several hundred thousand royals later, Oliver wished he had kept arguing, in spite of the fact that the cardinal had insisted they try every idea, even the most hare-brained. He looked around the room. It was circular, about twenty-eight feet wide, and painted flat black. In the center was an electric motor that he had had bought in Grantville and shipped here to this small estate outside of Paris. On top of the motor was a turntable, on top of the turntable was a reflective pyramid made of four triangular slightly concave mirrors. Above the mirrors, a long black tube went up through the ceiling to a complex collection of reflectors that La Corrian called his light gatherers.
"We are ready for the alignment test," La Corrian shouted. "Open the light vent." A moment later there was a bright light shining down from the black tube in the ceiling. When he had been in Grantville, Oliver had watched a detective show about a little Belgian detective. Though La Corrian didn't look a thing like Hercule Poirot usually, at that moment he sort of did. He made finicky adjustments to the mirrors so that each of the four beams of light was pointed at one of the hundreds of selenium photo-resistors. "See." La Corrian wiggled the four sided reflecting pyramid a little and the four beams each shifted over one photo-resistor. "Now the current flow would be through the other electromagnet, producing a field in the other direction. All the odd numbered cells go to one electromagnet and all the even numbered cells go to the other one. As the strength of one increases, the strength of the other decreases, producing an alternating field in the coil and alternating waves in the air. "
Three months later they tried it for real. The pyramid spun so fast that as far as the human eye could see there was a strip of light around the black painted room. And, well, not much else. They did get transmission and within the required frequency but it was very weak and they couldn't figure out why.
Author's note: Neither can I, frankly.