Grantville Gazette, Volume 36

Edited by Paula Goodlett

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

Copyright © 2011 by Grantville Gazette

A 1632, Inc. Publication

Grantville Gazette

P. O. Box 7488

Moore, OK 73153-1488

Grantville Gazette, Volume 36, 1 July 2011

What is this? About the Grantville Gazette

Written by Grantville Gazette Staff

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

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

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

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

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

Then, two big steps:

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

Second: There are several different versions of each issue of the Gazette. It is now available through Webscription, Amazon and B&N, plus other methods. The on-line version, depending on timing, might still be in ARC status.  That's Advanced Reader Copy. Our publications dates are 1 Jan, 1 Mar, 1 May, 1 Jul, 1 Sep and 1 Nov. In between issues, here at  www.grantvillegazette.com you'll often be reading the electronic version of an ARC, where you can read the issues as we assemble them. You'll see the art and the stories as they are prepared for publication.

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

— The Grantville Gazette Staff

Modern Medicine

Written by Kerryn Offord

1632, near Puerto Real, Andalusia

Juan Antonio de Aguilera was sitting trying to read while he waited to hear sounds from above. He glanced across the room at his father, who looked a lot more relaxed than he felt. He put down the book he wasn't managing to read and glanced up toward the bedroom above.

"The baby will come in its own good time," Antonio Diego de Aguilera said.

"But it shouldn't take this long, surely?"

His father shrugged. "María is the most experienced midwife in Puerto Real. With her in charge, what can go wrong?"

The words had barely left his mouth when they heard a baby's cry from above. Antonio smiled smugly. "What did I tell you?"

Juan rose to his feet and started for the stairs. He fully expected the midwife to call him in shortly. What he wasn't expecting was his mother swinging open the door and shouting, "Call for the doctor." Then she looked at Juan, and his stomach fell. Something was wrong, badly wrong.

Juan pushed his way into the bedroom, then stopped. The midwife was massaging Magdalida's nether region and there was blood everywhere.

Juan must have uttered something because the midwife turned to face him. "I can't stop the bleeding," she explained softly. "Nothing I have done has worked."

Juan pushed past her and reached for Magdalida. He ran gentle hands over her face.

She reached out for the hand and guided it to the baby feeding hungrily at her breast. "We have a son," she said.

Juan had to strain to hear. He ran the back of his forefinger gently across his son's face, while trying to ignore the sharp winces that flashed across Magdalida's face. He held her close.

"I want to call him Eduardo, after my papa," she whispered.

Juan looked into her dulling eyes. "Eduardo it will be."

February 1635, Cadiz

Juana de Silva wouldn't normally willingly cross the threshold of Luisa de la Vega's home, let alone drag her granddaughter along with her. However, her good friend, Anna María, wanted Juana to meet her goddaughter, Catalina de Mendoza. It was just unfortunate that the most timely opportunity to inspect the possible candidate for Juan's hand—one of the regular social gatherings arranged to introduce young girls to polite society—should be meeting at Luisa's home.

Juana smiled at the sight of her granddaughter playing with some of the other girls under Catalina's supervision. "She is a most delightful girl," she told Anna María.

"And well connected, even if she is only a minor twig on the Mendoza family tree."

"She has a good dowry?" Juana asked, concentrating on important matters.

"Well, I can't really say it is a good dowry, as Mendoza dowries go, but two villages aren't to be sneezed at."

"And she does seem to be getting on well with Isabel."

Anna María smiled. "Then it is agreed? We arrange for Catalina to meet Juan."

"Yes." Juan was still resisting the idea of providing his children with a new mother, but at least he might make the effort to look at the girl.

"I must show you what my husband sent back from Venice."

The strident tones emitted by Luisa caught Juana's attention. "I wonder what the old witch's husband has paid too much for this time?" she asked her friend.

Beside her, Anna María giggled. "Something extremely rare and expensive, no doubt. I must go to Catalina. You'll write when you've made arrangements?"

Juana nodded, and together they gathered their respective charges and dutifully trailed behind Luisa de la Vega.

Luisa led everyone to an elaborate display cabinet. "This is my most prized possession. My husband was most fortunate in being able to purchase it at considerable expense on his recent trip to Venice." She stepped away to let everyone see.

Juana's granddaughter jumped up, waving a doll. "You've got a Barbie just like mine!"

Juana knew she should reprimand Isabel for speaking without being spoken to, but the horror and embarrassment visible on the faces of Luisa and her cohorts kept her smugly silent while Isabel showed off her doll, which was exactly the same as Luisa's—although considerably more bedraggled.

"Where did you get that?" an outraged Luisa demanded, reaching for the doll in Isabel's hands.

Frightened by Luisa, Isabel rushed to her grandmother. Juana wrapped her arms around the trembling child and faced Luisa. "It's one my youngest son, Alfredo, gave to her."

Luisa pointed an accusing finger at Juana. "You let a child play with a priceless up-time artifact?"

Juana gently stroked Isabel's hair and smiled serenely at Luisa. "Only the ones that had already been well played with."

Isabel turned and, from the safety of her grandmamma's arms, carefully counted off on her fingers the various Barbies and Barbie accessories she had. Juana was impressed at how well her seven-year-old granddaughter remembered what she had been given. She didn't miss one.

"But none of the ones Isabel plays with are in anything like that good condition," Juana said. "No, the 'mint in box' ones like that are kept locked in a cabinet."

"I'm not allowed to play with them." Isabel pouted.

Juana sighed in silent relief when Isabel stopped talking. It wouldn't have done for her to tell everyone that the cabinet in question was in one of the attics. She glanced over at Anna María. Now might be a good time to take their leave. She jerked her head suggestively toward the door and Anna María nodded.

A month later

The planned meeting at San Sebastian's had not been the success Juana had hoped for. Catalina had indicated interest in Juan, but the ungrateful idiot hadn't reciprocated. Instead, he had pushed his way through the crowds in the Street of the Arch after services in his rush to get back to his wretched flying machine, leaving his poor mother to make excuses for his inexcusable behavior.

"It's not right," Juana de Silva protested to her husband later that evening. "Isabel and Eduardo need a mother, and Juan refuses to even consider remarrying."

"My love—Magdalida died in his arms," her less-than-sympathetic husband said.

"It is nothing but foolishness. God needed Magdalida more than Juan and the children did."

Antonio Diego de Aguilera shook his head. "You'll never convince Juan of that. He maintains that he will never expose another woman to that risk again."

Juana snorted. He might be her most favored son, but Juan was still only a man. She couldn't see him keeping that promise forever. However, it was an obstacle . . . just when she'd found an ideal candidate. Catalina de Mendoza was a modest girl of good family and fortune. "Isabel and Eduardo lost both parents when Magdalida died. Juan has buried himself in his flying machines instead of caring about them. Something must be done to convince him to provide them with a loving mother."

"What do you suggest? Father González has already spoken to him, with no effect."

"Priests! What good is a priest? No, what is needed is someone who can convince Juan that what happened to Magdalida is unlikely to happen again."

"One of the up-timers?" Antonio suggested.

"Dr. Nichols would be ideal. Even Juan must have heard of the famous Moor."

"I fear Dr. Nichols is unlikely to be interested in coming to Andalusia," Antonio said. "I'm sure he is much too busy practicing his profession in Grantville."

"What about one of the other doctors?"

Antonio shook his head. "I don't think we could interest an up-time trained doctor to come to Puerto Real. However, Fredo has spoken of the new doctors being trained in Grantville and at Jena. I could write to him and ask him to find someone suitable."

Juana sighed. "Ask him to find an up-timer who has trained as a doctor if he possibly can."

"Of course," Antonio said as he wrote a short note to himself. "Anyway, where is Juan?"

"Where do you think? Chancing his life playing with that devil-spawned machine." Juana shook her head in disgust at the risks Juan was taking. "If God had meant man to fly he would have given him wings."

Meanwhile . . .

"Hold her steady," Juan told the student piloting the airship.

He glanced forward, toward the landing field, where dozens of men were waiting on the ground to grab the handling ropes that dangled from the Pepino. "When you cross the fence, reduce power," he instructed the student.

Fernando López de Pérez nodded to indicate he'd heard the instructions and aimed for the men assembling on the landing field.

They were coming in nicely when Juan felt the first telltale signs of a cross-wind hitting the Pepino. "Apply power," he screamed.

Juan willed Fernando to react, to apply power so that the Pepino would gain lift from its forward momentum, and achieve the safety of altitude. Instead, Fernando cut the throttle back, causing the Pepino to sink closer to the ground.

To Juan's horror, men on the ground grabbed at the handling ropes. He knew there was no way so few men could stop the wind carrying the Pepino away, and leaned over the edge of the gondola to shout at them to let go. Then the full force of the cross-wind hit the Pepino, and sent it sideways. Juan was almost tipped from the gondola as the gas-bag tried to fold under the force of the wind. The airship was blown, careering out of control, toward the trees at the edge of the cleared landing field.

Time passed slowly for Juan as the trees grew closer. From the moment the Pepino hit them, time moved too quickly. He was thrown from the gondola and fell through the branches to the ground. On the ground, staring up at the Pepino entangled in the tree above, his final thought before he blacked out was "Don't let it burn."

Early April, 1635, Grantville, USE

John "Sully" Sullivan guided his mother to the dining room table where his wife and three children were already seated.

After settling her, he took his seat and surveyed his sons and daughter across the empty expanse of the table. John Junior, Jack as he preferred to be called, was as usual, all attentive; Linda was busy tending to her nails; and the youngest, Jacob, was, as he always seemed to be doing these days, feeding his face. "Your mother and I have some good news, and some bad news. Which do you want to hear first?"

"The good news," Jack said.

John glanced over at his wife, but Annamarie shook her head indicating that he had the floor. "Your mother and I have accepted an offer of employment that will allow us to put Jack and Linda through med school, and send Jacob to the university of his choice."

Jacob, always the first to pick-up on points one would prefer were missed, piped up. "Where are these jobs?"

"We will be working for Alfredo de Aguilera's family," Annamarie said.

"But he comes from Spain, and the Spanish are our enemies," Linda protested.

"We're actually at peace," Jack corrected.

John dived in before the kids started squabbling . . . again. "That's enough, you two. Yes, we're currently at peace with Spain, and the contract your mother and I have accepted was too good to turn down. Besides, it'll be easy for us, since your mom insisted that we all keep up our Spanish even if we can no longer visit her family."

"But I'm supposed to be entering the medical program next year," Linda protested.

"I'll be renting my place and moving in here to look after you, Linda. It'll be just us two girls together," Dorothy Sullivan said.

John knew his daughter well enough to read the horror she was busy concealing. "Or, of course, you could come to Spain with us."

Linda visibly shuddered at that suggestion. "No. Staying with Grandma will be okay."

"Which just leaves Jacob, who will be going to Spain with your mother and me."

"Leave Grantville?" Jacob asked. "But I don't want to. Why can't I stay here with Grandma too, Dad?"

"Because I said so," John said. "Besides, you never know. You might enjoy it."

"But all my friends are in Grantville," Jacob protested.

"You never had trouble making friends when we visited your mom's family in Puerto Rico, so you shouldn't have any trouble making new friends in Spain," John told him. He and Annamarie had already decided that Jacob was coming with them, come hell or high water. There was no way they were leaving him behind, given the group of undesirables he'd been mixing with lately.

May, near Puerto Real, Andalusia

"The bones look to have set properly," Sebastian Ferrer said as he gently ran his hands over Juan's leg.

Juan glared at the man in the brown habit and white belt of a Franciscan lay brother. "And what would you do if they weren't properly set? Break them and try again?" Juan thought he was being sarcastic, but the gentle nod from the heavyset man was anything but reassuring.

"You don't really expect me to believe you'd break my bones if they weren't healing properly?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't enjoy doing it," Sebastian said.

Juan raised his brows. The mauling he'd suffered at the bonesetter's hands when his leg was set gave the lie to that. He was positive the man had smiled all through the procedure.

"The alternative would be that you are left crippled for life because the bones don't heal properly."

Juan looked at his left leg, finally free of its splints. He reached down to scratch the itch that had suddenly started. He had to concede that point. Nobody wanted to be crippled for life. However, it was purely academic, as the man seemed happy with his handiwork. "How long before I can walk again?"

"You could get up right now, with a little help." Sebastian lifted Juan's legs off the bed and carefully set his feet on the floor. "Give me your arms."

Juan reached out, and suddenly he was pulled to his feet.

"We'll just walk to the door and back this time. If someone will take your other side?"

With a servant standing to his left and the bonesetter to his right, Juan slowly shuffled to the door and back. He fell onto his bed and lay down, exhausted after walking a massive twenty feet. "How long before I'm fit?"

"If you don't force the pace and hurt yourself again, maybe six or seven weeks."

Juan winced. "Another six or seven weeks?"

"Maybe eight," Sebastian said.

Mid-May 1635

Annamarie Sullivan leaned on the starboard gunwale of the De Fortuijree and stared at the city in the distance. She'd always wanted to visit Cadiz, and there the city was, just across the bay from where their ship was anchored.

"Is that where we're going?" Jacob asked, tugging on her jacket and pointing across the ship.

Annamarie turned her back on Cadiz and looked across the ship toward Puerto Real. "Yes, that's Puerto Real. The de Aguilera's live somewhere past the city."

Jacob kicked out at one of the strategically placed sand-filled fire-buckets on the deck. "Dad said we were going to be traveling through pirate-infested waters."

"Dad was right. The English Channel is pirate infested.

"But we didn't even see another ship."

She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Poor thing, nothing exciting ever happens to you, does it?"

Jacob shook off the hand, and glared at her. She grinned at his offended look and offered him the crook of her arm. "Come on. It looks like your father might have all our stuff on the lighter."

"Are you going to use the ladder again, Mom?" The hint of a grin started to displace the scowl on Jacob's face.

Annamarie looked across the deck to the other passengers preparing to disembark using a bosun's chair. "They do look ready to be outraged again, don't they?"

Jacob produced a full-blown smile as he nodded.

"Well then, who are we to disappoint them? I'll follow you and your father down the ladder, just like I did when we stopped over at Amsterdam."

****

Alfonso, the de Aguilera major-domo, stood on the dock watching people disembark from the De Fortuijree, a Dutch armed-merchant of eighty lasts. He was looking for the Americans Alfredo de Aguilera had recruited. He almost missed the female, until he saw her ignore the bosun's chair and climb down the ladder to the lighter below. She looked Spanish, which was why he hadn't thought her to be one of the Americans. However, no Spanish lady would ever climb down a ladder, especially not with sailors waiting below.

Once he'd identified the woman, the rest of the Sullivan family were easy to find. The husband was darker-skinned than his wife, suggesting a life spent working in the sun. Alfonso shuddered at so little care taken of one's complexion. Why, people might mistake him for a peasant. He lowered his telescope and snapped his fingers hopefully.

When nothing happened he looked over his shoulder, and released a sigh. The quality of help was deplorable. "Get up, you lazy clots. The up-timers will soon be here."

Alfonso knew his people, so he didn't rely on just words to get the two peasants moving. He managed to give each of them a solid kick in the rump before they could avoid him. "Hurry up; I want the horses here before they reach the dock." While Sancho and Pedro hurried off Alfonso prepared to greet his employer's newest employees.

"Allow me," he said as he offered the señora a helping hand off the lighter. A surprisingly strong hand gripped his hand and the woman jumped onto the dock.

"Thank you," Annamarie said. "I'm Doctor Sullivan. You wouldn't happen to be here to meet us, would you?"

"Your husband is also Doctor Sullivan?" Alfonso asked, hoping that maybe the up-timers allowed the wives of doctors to use the honorific.

"No, just me."

Alfonso hoped he was able to conceal his horror. A female doctor? How was this blasphemy possible? More importantly, how would the local Franciscan order, which was waiting hopefully for someone to teach them the up-time medicine, going to cope with being instructed by a female?

****

While Jacob got to know the spirited pony he was allocated, John and Annamarie examined the two horses provided for them. One was a stallion, the other a mare. "I think you should take the stallion," John suggested.

"You thinking about your hip?"

It was nearly seventeen years since he'd been invalided out of the US Army after breaking his hip in a parachuting accident, He'd mostly recovered, but . . . "Nah. It's doing the thinking for me. The mare looks nice and quiet."

John helped Annamarie up onto the nearly sixteen-hand stallion before mounting the smaller mare. He was adjusting his stirrup leathers when there was a clatter of hooves and squeals from Jacob's pony. He looked across to see the animal rearing. A glance at the ironmongery in the pony's mouth suggested the source of the problem. Obviously Jacob had forgotten that he wasn't on his old pony, using his normal mouthpiece, and he'd done something to upset the animal. Then Annamarie's stallion decided anything the pony could do, he could do better. Annamarie was caught with her feet out of her stirrups—probably because they had been too long and she was shortening them. But she had her legs clamped tightly around the animal's chest and a hand gripping the saddle just under the pommel, while she used her free hand to bring the animal under control. The whole family had just about been born in the saddle, so he had absolute confidence in both Jacob's and Annamarie's ability to control their mounts, but he didn't want his mount joining in on the fun.

"I hope you aren't planning on joining in," he said to the mare's head.

The mare's ears twitched at his voice and she turned her head as if to glare at him. He could swear she was expressing disgust at the very idea. When Jacob and Annamarie had their mounts back on the ground and under control, he shortened his reins and gripped a little tighter with his calves. That didn't excite the mare to move, so he told her to move out. That didn't excite any action either, and John was thinking he might have to actually kick her to get her moving when the others started to move. John's mare decided she wanted to stick with her herd and followed them. John shrugged philosophically. Maybe the mare was going to be a bit too gentle a ride.

Outside the city, he edged up alongside Alfonso to find out more about the clinic they were supposed to be running.

"There might be problems with the Franciscans," Alfonso said.

"Why?" John asked. They'd been assured back in Grantville that there would be no problem with the Franciscans. In fact, they'd been told by Alfredo de Aguilera that the Franciscans were very open to new knowledge.

"I don't know how they'll take being taught the new medicine by a female."

John smiled. So that was the problem. "Don't worry. I'll be in charge of training, while Annamarie deals with treating patients."

"But your good wife said that you weren't a doctor," Alfonso said, obviously confused.

"I'm not, but I spent nearly twelve years as an Army Special Forces Medic. I've got a lot of experience training people."

"Why are they building a cathedral in the middle of nowhere?" Annamarie interrupted, pointing to a large structure in the distance.

"That is not a cathedral, Dr. Sullivan," Alfonso said. "That is His Excellency's new airship hangar."

"Airship hangar?" John stood in his stirrups to get a marginally better view. In the distance, he could see an enormous structure surrounded by scaffolding. In his travels, he'd seen the airship hangars at Moffett Field and the Zeppelin hangar in Rio de Janeiro, and, well, this one looked like it was going to be that kind of big. He settled back in his saddle and turned to Alfonso. "Someone's making an airship that big?" he asked, gesturing at the structure under construction.

"His Excellency, Don Juan Manuel Pérez de Guzman y Silva, believes that airships could provide a means of moving the treasures of the new world home to Spain without risk of piracy."

"Hence the size." John nodded. If one stopped to think about it, that was reasonable. Certainly, there was no way any normal pirate could intercept an airship. "We were told that Don Juan de Aguilera was injured when his airship crashed into trees." He pointed toward the hangar. "Does that mean we're close to our destination?"

"Just over the next hill, Señor Sullivan."

****

John knew enough to take "over the next hill" with a large pinch of salt, so he wasn't surprised that it was another twenty minutes before they topped a hill overlooking the sprawling white-washed walls and terracotta roof complex that was the de Aguilera hacienda.

They were led through an olive grove to the stables, where they dismounted. Then, while their mounts were led away, they and their baggage followed Alfonso to their temporary quarters.

"If you would like to tidy up, I will inform Doña Juana that you have arrived." He paused to look pointedly at their clothes. "She will wish to see you immediately.

John waited until Alfonso had left before turning to his family. "I guess that means we better wash up and put on our Sunday best before we're called in to meet our boss."

"Do I have to?" Jacob asked.

"Yes, you do," Annamarie said. "Find where the servants have put your good clothes and then wash and change."

****

Doña Juana dusted her hands nervously over her gown. It was of the latest fashion, being black, but not an ordinary black. It was a true black. The fine silk overdress was dyed with the wondrous dyes being made in Grantville. Who would have thought that Alfredo, usually so feckless Alfredo, would think of sending back dyes from Grantville?

She heard footsteps in the hall and hurried over to the settee she'd had placed so the light from the window was behind her, and fell onto the seats she'd had placed for the up-timers on who so much depended. She wanted to be able to see their every expression clearly during the interview.

Juana noticed the female first. Señora Sullivan was—or at least she looked—Spanish. She was wearing a tailored white blouse with beautiful embroidery, and a full length skirt in a black at least as good as her own dress. The males were dressed in black trousers and white shirts. She studied the boy, and silently complimented the woman on her ability to turn her son out looking so clean and tidy. Juana knew how hard that could be. "I wish to talk to your parents now. Follow Alfonso. He will take you to the kitchen, where, no doubt, the cook will have something for you to eat," she told Jacob.

The bright smile that elicited from Jacob told Juana that up-timer children were not that much different. Certainly, at his age, her sons had always been concerned with their stomachs.

"Doctor Sullivan," Doña Juana de Silva addressed John. "My eldest son . . ."

"I'm sorry, Doña Juana , but you are mistaken," John hastily interrupted. "I'm a nurse, my wife here—Annamarie—is the doctor."

Juana turned her eyes onto the Señora Sullivan. "You are truly a doctor?"

"I'm one of the new Doctors of Osteopathy, Doña Juana. I was a nurse up-time, and I trained as a doctor at Grantville and Jena after the Ring of Fire."

Juana smiled. It couldn't be better. A male doctor wouldn't understand her problem. "That is close enough," Juana said. "My eldest son . . ."

"I understand he was involved in a serious accident," Annamarie interrupted.

Juana waved her hand in dismissal. "A few broken bones and some bruising. Nothing of consequence. No, Juan's accident isn't what I wish to talk to you about."

"Broken bones and bruising can have long term consequences," John said, massaging his hip.

Doña Juana glared John into silence. "Juan has had the attentions of the best of medicants. Certainly we have paid enough to restore four chapels for his care. No, this is much more important. My Juan is a widower. A widower with young children, and he refuses to think of remarrying."

"How long has he been a widower?" Annamarie asked.

Juana smiled. Yes, the woman understood the problem. A quick glance took in the confusion on the face of the doctor's husband. Clearly, as a mere male, he had no idea. "Over three years. His Magdalida died giving little Eduardo life." She patted her suddenly teary eyes with a scrap of heavily embroidered linen. "The poor boy and his older sister need the influence of a mother, but Juan refuses to even think of remarrying." She blew her nose into the handkerchief. "Magdalida died in his arms, you see. She bled to death. There was nothing either the midwife or doctor could do.

"Since Magdalida's death, my son has refused to consider marrying and putting another woman at risk of dying like that again." Juana stared at Annamarie. "I want you to persuade him that your modern medicine will prevent it happening again, and it is safe for him to remarry."

****

John stamped around the room in frustration. "How the heck do we reassure a guy that a woman won't die in childbirth? And what happens if we can't convince him it's safe to remarry?"

"Stop fretting, John." Annamarie laid a hand on his shoulder. "What're the most likely reasons for fatal postpartum hemorrhaging?"

"The doctor fouled up, or failure to pass all of the placenta."

Annamarie nodded. "And given that the birth was supervised by an experienced midwife, I'd discount physician induced trauma being the problem. Which leaves us with . . ."

"Part of the placenta being left behind," John finished the sentence.

"Very good, John, and do we know how to deal with that?"

John nodded. "Sure, a D&C. But how do we convince a down-timer that curettage to remove the bit left behind would have saved his wife?"

"We don't," Annamarie said. "There is no way a hidalgo is going to listen to an unsolicited explanation of how we could have saved his wife's life."

"So what are you suggesting we do?"

"We're just going to have to demonstrate how all-powerful modern medicine is."

John snorted. He knew Annamarie believed in the all-powerful nature of modern medicine about as much as he did—which wasn't much at all.

"More realistically," Annamarie said, "you're just going to have to do such a good job teaching whoever the Franciscans send for training that people start talking about how good the new medicine is."

"And what will you be doing?" John asked.

"I'll concentrate on the midwives. If nothing else, the knowledge ought to stop another woman bleeding to death in childbirth."

A week later

Don Juan sat upon his quietest mare on a hill above the scene of his accident and looked down upon the duke of Medina Sidonia's airfield. The Richard Peeke—the duke's new semi-rigid airship—was being guided out of its hangar on the rail system he had pioneered with the Pepino. Once the airship was clear of the hangar, it was released to fly under its own power.

The Richard Peeke was more than three times the size of the Pepino and had something like ten times the power in its two up-time engines. Under the control of its pilot, no doubt that ham-fisted fool, Don Fernando López de Pérez, the Richard Peeke took to the air and gracefully flew over Puerto Real before returning to the waiting mass of men in the middle of the airfield.

"Don Fernando has developed into a fine pilot," Alfonso observed.

"He could hardly have developed into a worse one," Juan snapped.

They stared at the airship in silence until it was moved back into its hangar. Then Juan sent Alfonso a wry smile. "I've been left behind. They don't need me any longer, and there is no longer a place for me in His Grace's plans." He stuck his clenched fist against his thigh in frustration. "I spent more than the estate could really afford developing the Pepino, and now I have nothing to show for it."

"You still have the Pepino."

Juan snorted. "His Grace's agent has thanked me for letting them have the Pepino as a training vehicle. You think I can now ask for it back?"

Alfonso winced and shook his head.

"That's what I thought." Juan kneed his mare into motion and pulled her head around toward home. He nearly cantered home, but the pain in his body quickly had him slowing down to a gentle trot. That was the ultimate humiliation. Not only was he reduced to riding a mare, he couldn't even travel above a trot. He wondered if the American doctor had anything to reduce the pain.

****

"I can't see any problems," Annamarie reassured the young woman she'd been called in to examine. She sent what she hoped was a reassuring smile toward the midwife who'd insisted on being present.

"I told you so," the middle-aged midwife said.

"Yes, María," the patient said. "But the Señora is a doctor, an up-time doctor, and it is good to hear what she has to say."

María glared at Annamarie and stormed out.

"I'm sorry about María. She takes my husband insisting on you examining me personally," Ursula Lorenzo said.

"She probably thinks you no longer have confidence in her abilities. I'll talk to her, and see if I can get her to understand that I'm not trying to take over your care."

"Thank you," Ursula said.

****

The huffy midwife, obviously building up a head of steam, intercepted Annamarie on the front steps as she left the house. "You aren't wanted here. I can look after Señora Lorenzo myself."

"Señora, I'm here to help you, not take over your patient," Annamarie said.

"You already have the señor insisting that the up-time doctor examine his wife. How is that supposed to help me?"

"He's just a husband thinking a university degree is worth more than experience," Annamarie said. "In a straightforward case like Señora Lorenzo's, I'm not needed. However, if something goes wrong, such as in a case like that of Señora Amellera, I have knowledge that could help."

María snorted. "Not even that puffed up Englishman with his medical degree from Padua could save Señora Amellera. What makes you, a graduate of the jumped-up University of Jena, think you could have done better?"

"Was part of the placenta missing?"

The midwife made a sign to ward off the devil. "How did you know that?"

Annamarie pulled the cross she wore on a chain around her neck out from under her blouse and showed it to María to reassure her that she wasn't an agent of the devil. "It's a process of elimination. According to her mother-in-law, Señora Amellera died of blood loss after giving birth. Either the problem was part of the placenta not being delivered, or you don't know how to do your job. And nothing I've seen or heard suggests you don't know how to do your job."

"Of course I know how to do my job. Nobody in Andalusia has delivered more babies than me."

"Well, that only leaves part of the placenta not being delivered as an explanation for the bleeding." Annamarie was hopeful that her judicious lying would reduce María's belligerence.

"Nothing I did would get the body to push out the last piece of placenta." María folded her arms and glared. "And now I suppose you're going to tell me that you could have removed the last piece of placenta and saved Magdalida?"

Rather than just answer, Annamarie dug into her medical bag and bought out a curette. "I'd use one of these to scrape the remaining bits off the uterus."

María took the ten-inch-long nickel-plated-steel screwdriver-like implement with a half-inch wide open-loop head and turned it over and over in her hands. "This," she demanded, holding it up, "was all I would have needed to save Magdalida's life?"

Annamarie winced at the flash of obvious pain passing across María's face. "If you'll let me, I can teach you when and how to use it."

María handed the curette back. "What's it going to cost me?"

Annamarie studied María's expression. She still appeared belligerent, but there was a hint of a desire for knowledge. It was clear she expected there to be some price to pay, and there was no way María was going to believe Annamarie just wanted to spread knowledge. Her hand in the medical bag fell upon some of the Sanitation Commission pamphlets she always carried, and she pulled them out. "How well can you read?" Annamarie asked.

"Well enough," María said, as she tried to read the papers in Annamarie's hand.

"Then I want you to read these, and then talk to me about them. I need to train some assistants, and I'd welcome your assistance in designing a training program."

Annamarie watched María take the pamphlets and slowly, using a finger to track the words and her lips moving as she read the first page of 20 Useful Things to do with Carbolic Soap. That was a good sign. She'd been afraid that the Spanish of the mainly noble visitors to Grantville might be different to the everyday Spanish of the ordinary people.

****

In theory, Manuel Gomez was supposed to be instructing Jacob Sullivan on the local flora and fauna, but Manuel had been distracted by a particularly pretty piece of the local fauna by the name of Inés, and Jacob had been able to escape while Manuel devoted his attention to the young señorita. That meant he was at a loose end. He could always head for home, but Mom or Dad would just find some chore for him to do. So, he decided to explore the land around the hacienda on his own.

He was among olive trees, not too far from the main house, when he stumbled across something he hadn't expected to see in Spain. What the heck? It was a real up-time Barbie. Not one of the new wood, porcelain, or cellulose plastic copies. The hair was the clue. It had nylon hair, whereas the copies tended to used real human hair. What it was doing just lying around? Jacob didn't know, but it was something to relieve the boredom until Manuel came to find him.

A quick search of his pockets yielded a pocket knife—which might be useful—a large handkerchief, and the string he'd been looking for. However, rather than suspend the doll from a tree limb as a target, as he'd originally planed, he decided to try something else. Using the handkerchief and some of the string, in a few minutes he had a four point parachute attached to the doll.

Jacob moved from under the trees as he folded the parachute. With clear sky around him, he threw the doll into the air. On the way down, the parachute deployed, and the Barbie floated down to the ground. Jacob hurried over to the doll and folded the parachute for another flight.

A dozen flights later Jacob was starting to get bored with the game. He folded the parachute for one last flight and threw it into the air.

"What are you doing to Ana?" a young voice demanded.

Jacob barely had time to turn before he was attacked by a little terror. He managed to grab the young girl's hands and clamp them to her body, then held her securely while they both watched Ana slowly drift to the ground.

"What is that on Ana?" the girl asked.

Jacob looked down at the no longer struggling girl. "A parachute."

"Can I try it?"

"Only if there's no hitting."

The long considering look she sent his way told Jacob it was a struggle of one desire over the other, but eventually she nodded. "No hitting."

Jacob gratefully released his hold on the girl and together they walked over to where the doll had landed. He folded the parachute and demonstrated to the girl how to hold the doll and throw it.

Her first attempt wasn't very good. The girl dared him to say anything while she ran over and recovered the doll, then, to Jacob's surprise, she folded the parachute properly without asking for assistance. Her next throw wasn't much better than the first. The doll wasn't getting enough height for the parachute to deploy before it hit the ground. Her lips quivered a bit, and Jacob had the distinct impression that she was on the edge of bursting into tears—something he didn't want to have to deal with. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and discovered a possible solution. He pulled out the spare handkerchief his mother always insisted he carry and gestured to the girl to bring over the doll. "If we use this as a sling, then we should be able to send Ana much higher."

Jacob whipped his arm around, releasing one end of the handkerchief-sling at about the right time, to send Ana skyward. He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as she soared into the air, until the parachute opened, stopping her assent, and then she floated to the ground.

The girl pounced on the doll, and after refolding the parachute removed her hair scarf to use as a sling. She sent Jacob a smug look before using both arms to swing the sling. The launch was successful, and the doll floated gently to the ground. The girl giggled and ran for her doll to try again. She got more than enough height, but her direction was bad. The doll floated into the branches of a tree.

Jacob didn't need her to turn and look hopefully at him to know what he had to do. He approached the tree and looked for handholds to climb it, but there was noting within reach. He took a few steps back and ran at the tree in an attempt to jump up to the first branch, but he couldn't quite reach.

"Allow me to be of assistance."

Jacob swung around. It was Don Antonio, his parent's patron.

"Grandpapa," the girl squealed before launching herself at the old man. "Ana's stuck in the tree," she said, tugging at his hand and pointing up into the tree.

"I can see that, and this young man needs a helping hand so he can rescue the intrepid aviatrix. Come on, boy; use my hands as a step up."

Jacob did as he was told, and was soon up on the limb and edging his way toward the parachute. With a little judicious shaking of branches, he was able to shake the parachute free and it floated to the ground. Then he looked down.

"If you hang from the limb, I should be able to lower you to the ground," Don Antonio said.

Jacob wasn't sure he should be this up-close and personal with his parent's boss, but he had offered, and it did look a long way down. He backed down until he was hanging, and two strong hands lifted him under the ribs. "Thank you, Don Antonio," Jacob said when he was safely on the ground.

Antonio waved Jacob's thanks away. "No, I should thank you for entertaining Isabel. Now, what is this thing attached to Ana?"

"It's a parachute. He made it," she said pointing at Jacob.

"He is Jacob Sullivan," Antonio said.

"One of the up-timers?" Isabel asked.

Antonio nodded. Then he turned to Jacob and rested a hand on Isabel's shoulder. "And this, as I'm sure you must have guessed, is my granddaughter, Isabel. Now, young lady, what have you done with your maid?"

Jacob had an idea where the maid might be, but he wasn't looking to get anybody into trouble, so he kept quiet. Isabel seemed similarly inclined. She looked around as if she was shocked her maid wasn't within view.

Antonio then turned his attention to Jacob. "Shouldn't you be with your tutor?"

"Yes, Don Antonio, but he got distracted by a boring piece of fauna, and I just wandered off." He saw a familiar face just entering the olive grove. "There's Manuel now." He hurried over to the approaching tutor. "I said I wandered off while you were distracted by some fauna," he whispered.

"Thanks," Manuel muttered before he approached Don Antonio. "I hope the boy hasn't been bothering you, Don Antonio. I came across Inés looking for Isabel while I was looking for Jacob, and we decided to look for our charges together."

"Jacob has been entertaining Isabel, and I'd like to talk to him. Why don't you and Inés take Isabel home?"

With only a little protest from Isabel, who was permitted to keep Ana and her parachute, the three of them set off for home. They were barely out of earshot when Don Antonio turned to Jacob. "A boring piece of fauna? How old did you say you were?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve? Maybe that explains it. Now, back to more important things. You made Ana's parachute out of a simple piece of linen?"

"A handkerchief," Jacob said, pulling out the spare he'd used to launch Ana. "And some string."

Antonio accepted the string and handkerchief. "And how do you turn this into a parachute?"

"You take four pieces of string of equal length, and tie one to each corner. Then, you attach the other ends to a weight." He saw Don Antonio start tying strings to corners, and hunted around for a suitable weight. He couldn't find anything, so, when Don Antonio was ready to attach a weight, he handed over his pocket knife.

Antonio hefted the knife and looked at Jacob. "Isn't this a bit valuable to risk?"

Jacob shook his head. "There's not much chance it'll break, and the weight will mean you can get some real height."

Antonio tied the makeshift parachute to the pocket knife. "Now what do I do?"

"You fold the parachute like this, and hold it against the weight," Jacob demonstrated before handing it back to Antonio. "Then you throw it into the air."

Antonio threw the pocket knife and parachute into the air, and smiled as the chute opened and the knife drifted down to the ground. He picked it up, and while he refolded the parachute he turned to Jacob. "If you made one big enough, could it support a man?"

Jacob nodded. "You should talk to Dad. He used to jump out of airplanes using a parachute when he was in the US Army."

"It seems I should indeed talk to your father. Where will I find him?"

"At the clinic," Jacob said.

"That's close enough to walk. Lead the way."

****

John Sullivan saw them coming—his son and their patron. "Oh, God, what's your son gone and done now?"

"My son?" Annamarie Rivera-Sullivan said, edging John aside so she could see out the window. "Since when has he been only my son?"

"Since he attracted the attention of Don Antonio."

Sebastian Ferrer, one of the Franciscan lay brothers they were training at the clinic, joined the Sullivan's looking out the window. "Don Antonio is not angry. If he was angry, he would be leading the boy along by the ear."

"I wonder how Don Antonio met my son?"

"So now that he's not in any trouble, he's your son again."

John grinned at his wife. "Well, of course he is. My son would never get into trouble, whereas your son . . ." He knew who he was dealing with, so he had no trouble avoiding the expected retaliatory kick.

"Mom, Dad, Don Antonio says he can get me in to see the duke's airship," Jacob called as he charged into the clinic.

Annamarie caught her son and hugged him. "That's very good of Don Antonio. I hope you haven't been bothering him."

"Your son hasn't been bothering me. In fact, we've been having a most interesting discussion. Señor Sullivan, Jacob tells me you know something of parachuting?"

John felt a twinge in his hip just thinking about parachuting. The look in Annamarie's eyes told him she too remembered the incident that got him medically discharged and the long years of rehabilitation that followed. "I used to be parachute qualified."

"So Jacob said. Would it be possible to parachute from an airship?"

"Sure. You can jump from anything high enough. Back up-time, some silly daredevils were jumping off high cliffs, bridges and buildings."

"Could you teach people to parachute?" Antonio asked.

"No way!" Annamarie insisted, "You promised!"

John laid a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder. "What Annamarie means is I can't really afford to risk parachuting again. I was very badly injured in my last jump. Very badly. If you want to learn parachuting, your best bet is the new jump school Tracy Kubiak's started up in Magdeburg."

"If we could make parachutes, I'm sure you could teach some people to use them without putting yourself at risk. Jacob made a simple parachute." Don Antonio held up the handkerchief parachute he and Jacob had been playing with. "It doesn't look too difficult."

John tried to ignore the flaming daggers from his wife's eyes. "That's just a toy."

"Of course it is," Antonio agreed. "Jacob has already indicated that there should be a hole in the middle to let air through, to stop the parachute swinging. But surely, with a few modifications, it can be scaled up?"

Don Antonio has a one track mind that puts Annamarie to shame. John tried to deflect him, before Annamarie's daggers became too real. "It'd be a lot easier to work with Tracy Kubiak. She used to be a rigger, and she's already making her own parachutes, as well as teaching parachuting."

"That will take time. I was hoping for something a little more timely," Antonio said.

John swallowed. Annamarie's heels were digging into his toes, and he knew she was sending him a warning. If he wasn't careful, he could find himself medically unfit to teach anybody anything. "Is this just a matter of getting people out of an airship quickly, or is there some special purpose?"

"It's just a thought." Antonio sighed. "My son was involved in His Excellency's airship project before his accident. However, since his accident he has fallen out of favor. I thought a demonstration of parachuting from the Richard Peeke might be sufficiently impressive to bring my son to His Excellency's notice again."

"Ah, impressive." John nodded. "I can maybe give you impressive, without involving parachutes. We used to call it fast-roping. You get a thick rope and grab it, and slide down it from somewhere high. You can get a platoon on the ground pretty quickly that way, and you don't get blown every which-way on the way down like you would with parachutes."

"And you did this from airplanes?" Antonio asked.

"Heck, no, none of us were that crazy. We did it from helicopters. They're a flying machine that can hover in place, rather like an airship; only they're a lot smaller."

"Would you be able to teach this technique?" Antonio asked, casting a questioning eye in the direction of Annamarie.

"Just as long as he keeps both feet planted firmly on the ground. It'd put too much stress on his hip."

"I won't," John promised. "You'll need some suitable rope, but more importantly, if you want something impressive, we'll need a good vertical drop."

"We have plenty of rope, and there is the Richard Peeke's hangar. That is eighty feet high. Will that be sufficient?" Don Antonio asked.

"Eighty feet will be perfect," John said.

"You bet it'll be perfect. I can't see John getting eighty feet in the air without the help of an elevator," Annamarie said.

A few days later

The hangar was a barn on steroids. It looked to be about two hundred feet long, with a central span that looked nearly as wide as it was high. John Sullivan looked up to the apex of the roof, where a platform had been suspended alongside a length of five-inch rope that reached to the ground. It'd been a long time since he'd last done a rope climb. He just hoped he hadn't forgotten how to do it.

Eventually, he arrived at the top, where he was quickly joined by five scaffold workers who'd volunteered, for a small consideration, to participate in the demonstration. From nearly eighty feet up he looked down, to see and wave at the reason why he had made the climb. Jacob waved back. Annamarie would surely understand that a man couldn't ignore his son's expectations.

He pulled on a pair of the heavy leather gloves he'd insisted each man would need. "Right. Remember what we practiced. Grab the rope. Get a firm grip. Then swing free and let the rope slide through your gloves. Remember to tighten your grip to slow down before you hit the ground, and get clear as soon as you can, because the next guy down is right above you." He waited a moment, hoping that everyone understood. "First man, go!"

The first man went down fast. To be followed by the next person, and the next, until John was the last man. He grabbed the rope, and pushed off from the platform. It'd been a long time since he'd done this, and he relished the thrill of the rapid decent. With his feet free of the rope, he was easily able to land mainly on his good leg and walk away, although his landing was a little heavier than he would have liked.

On the ground, the six of them bowed politely toward the duke and his hangers-on. The scaffolders then hurried over to their friends while John joined his son, who was beaming with hero-worship, beside the de Aguilera's major-domo. He planted a hand gently on Jacob's shoulder. "Remember, what do we tell your mother?"

"That half a dozen scaffold workers did the demonstration and that it was real exciting seeing them sliding down the rope."

They shared a mutual smile. Father and son had grown closer since arriving in Spain. A lot of it had to do with the mutual agreement that what Annamarie didn't ask, she didn't have to be told.

"Can I see the Richard Peeke now?" Jacob asked.

Alfonso smiled. "Of course, follow me."

Jacob trotted alongside Alfonso. "How come it's called the Richard Peeke?"

"Richard Peeke was—actually, probably still is—a very courageous and gallant fighter," Alfonso said as they walked. "He was captured by His Excellency after the English attack on Cadiz a dozen years ago. The man made the reckless claim that, armed with just a quarterstaff, he could defeat any number of Spanish sword and buckler men fewer than six. His Excellency gave Señor Peeke the opportunity to prove his claim against three volunteers."

"One is left to assume he won?" John said.

"He killed one and incapacitated the other two. And all he had was the shaft of a halberd. His Excellency rewarded him for his fighting prowess and granted him his freedom. You will find that the quarterstaff is a respected weapon in His Excellency's domain."

"After Peeke won one against three in a fight to the death, I'm not surprised," John said.

June 1635

Doña Juana de Silva paced back and forth in the sitting room where Don Antonio was trying to do his accounts. "They were supposed to reconcile Juan to marriage, and what have they done?" She paused to dare her husband to comment.

Antonio paused with his pen held above the paper. "I understand the up-timers are doing their best."

"Well, their best isn't good enough. Anna María has warned me that others are interested in Catalina."

Antonio calmly entered some figures and blotted the ink. "Well, of course there are others interested in the girl. She's a Mendoza, after all. However, surely being a close confidant of His Excellency would make Juan a much more attractive prospect?"

Juana planted her hands on her hips and glared at the insensitive clod she was married to. She knew Catalina was a Mendoza. That was why getting her for Juan would be such an accomplishment. "His relationship with His Excellency is only relevant if he is interested in remarrying. But what is happening? He is back playing with his flying machines, and not thinking about more important things."

Meanwhile . . .

Annamarie had been holding a regular clinic session in the village, but the last patient had come and gone, and it was now time to head home for the siesta. Her nose twitched at the mixed smells of wood-smoke and cooking food, and her stomach rumbled its discontent while she waited for Jacob to bring around the horses.

The villagers were stopping what they were doing and looking into the sky, so Annamarie stepped out from her shaded corner and looked up to see what had caught their attention. It was the Pepino. The small airship, or blimp, as Jacob insisted on calling it, was slowly approaching the village and would soon fly over it. While she stared at it, Annamarie realized that something didn't look right. Surely the nose shouldn't be flat like that? She burrowed in her satchel for a small pair of binoculars and quickly focused them onto airship.

"What's wrong with the Pepino?"

Annamarie lowered the binoculars to see Jacob had joined her with the horses and pack animal. "What makes you think anything is wrong?"

"The nose is the wrong shape. It should be rounded."

Which could only mean one thing. "I think they are losing gas."

"Is it going to crash?"

Annamarie smiled. Boys, always looking for the worst to happen. "No, they should be able to land fairly easily. Look, they're getting ready to drop the handling lines."

"That means they're going to land." Jacob nodded knowledgably. "Can we stay and watch?"

"From a safe distance." Annamarie held out the binoculars.

Jacob grabbed them and ran off, leaving Annamarie to deal with the horses. She tied them up near the water trough and slowly followed. She could see the preparations for landing. The handling lines were dangling. Men were grabbing them, and taking control of the airship. Then the wind caught it.

The airship was shunted along, toward the village, dragging men behind. Then the gondola hit a house. The solid adobe structure ripped apart the lightly-built gondola. Annamarie could see fluid falling from the airship. She started running. "Jacob, stay right where you are!"

For the first time in recent memory, Jacob did as he was told. Annamarie reached him just as a fire engulfed the airship.

"But hydrogen shouldn't burn like that," Jacob said.

"The impact must have ruptured the fuel tank," she said, looking at the burning gas bag. "Gold beater's skin shouldn't burn like that."

"It's not gold beater's skin, Mom. Manuel says the original gas bag was, but they tore it badly putting the Pepino into its hangar one time, and it would have been too expensive to repair it, so they made the replacement out of cotton painted with a mixture of gelatine and latex."

"Latex? Where are they getting latex?" Annamarie asked.

There was a sigh, a real "how can you not know" sigh, from Jacob. "Don Antonio's duke's daughter is married to the Duke of Braganza."

Annamarie wasn't really paying attention to Jacob. She was looking at the airship. Cotton was among the most flammable of fabrics, and of course, they probably doped the fabric to waterproof it—with collodion, also known as nitrocellulose, or guncotton. She caught part of what Jacob was saying, and repeated the last name. "Braganza?"

"Yes. The duke of Braganza, the premier duke of Portugal. Apparently the duke of Medina Sidonia and the duke of Braganza have an agreement to import rubber from the Amazon into Cadiz."

Annamarie had barely been listening. She was watching the fire, and hoping that making explanations was keeping Jacob's attention away from the fire. Hopefully the adobe construction of the house would protect it, but she could see two of the crew struggling to free their colleague from under the burning gas bag. She didn't want Jacob exposed to the grisly sights she expected, so she turned him to face her. "Jacob, I need you to ride home as fast as you can to get your father. Tell him what we've seen. Tell him we need the burns kit."

She led Jacob to the horses and threw him up into the saddle. Then she grabbed the medical bags from the pack animal and hurried over to help.

****

She was holding a cup of hydration fluid for the most badly burnt of the Pepino's crew when she heard the drone in the sky. She looked up to see the second airship. This one was much bigger than the Pepino, and it seemed to be heading around the village. A moment's thought and Annamarie realized it was circling so it could approach the village heading into the wind.

She wasn't the only person watching as the Richard Peeke came to a halt above a field outside the village. Then a heavy rope unrolled from the gondola.

The tail of the rope had barely hit the ground before the first man swung out and slid down the rope.

Annamarie winced when the first man down failed to get clear in time. There was a pileup as the three men following him landed in quick succession. It appeared that no real damage had been done when the four men spread out and grabbed lighter landing lines and seemed to be tying down the airship. Then a familiar shape exited the airship.

What the hell is that crazy fool doing? Swear to God, I'm gonna kill him later. With his hip, John should know better than to fast-rope, let alone do it with a pack on his back.

"We were lucky they had the Richard Peeke nearly ready for a flight when Jacob arrived," John said when he ran over to her. "What's the situation?"

"What's the situation? Is that all you can say? What about explaining that damn fool stunt you just pulled?" Annamarie screamed.

"You asked for the burns pack."

"But why did you have to bring it down? Aren't there any suitable dumb young men willing to slide down a rope with a pack on their back?"

"Sure, but . . ."

"So why didn't you let one of them carry the pack?"

"Because the Richard Peeke doesn't have enough lift to carry an extra man, and the ground crew needed to secure the landing lines as quickly as possible."

That all sounded too sensible, and carefully thought out. Annamarie looked her husband in the eyes. Yes, he looked guilty. Her mother's instincts started screaming at her. Surely he hadn't . . . "Where's Jacob?" Annamarie asked, very, very slowly.

John pointed toward the front of the gondola. "He's still aboard."

She scanned the airship until she made out Jacob. She desperately wanted to climb that rope and reassure herself that her son was safe. "Why did you have to bring him back?"

"I couldn't make him miss maybe his only chance to fly in an airship, could I? Besides, someone needs to bring your horses back," John said.

Her husband was on thin ice. As far as she was concerned, there was no reason for Jacob to ever travel in something as dangerous as an airship. However, it was a done deal, and there wasn't anything she could do about it now, not when there were patients to deal with. "We'll talk about this later. Meanwhile, I have one dead crew member and the two other crew members have second-degree burns. They also have third-degree burns on their hands and where their clothes burnt. And six of the villagers suffered minor burns fighting the fire."

John indicated the two surviving crewmen, currently bundled up in blankets. "Is it safe to move them?"

"Yes, but it'll be rough getting them up to the gondola."

"Nah, take on some ballast, vent some gas, and they can bring her right down to the ground. It's one reason I suggested they should use the Richard Peeke."

"And getting a ride on an airship had nothing to do with it. Yeah, right. Leave me the burns kit and I'll start running fluids while you get the airship down to loading height."

****

Juan de Aguilera stood clear as the first casualty was carried aboard on the "rescue stretcher" that had been made to the up-timers' specifications soon after they discovered that there was plywood being produced for the duke's proposed rigid airship. It had slots for hand-holds cut into the wood, which made it a lot easier to move than the hurdle he'd been carried on when he broke his leg.

The woman, the doctor, passed an inverted bottle in a wicker basket connected by a string of something to the patient to her husband before returning for the next patient. Juan looked over John's shoulder, but he couldn't identify the man through the bandages that covered his face. He shuddered at the realization that the man was likely to be horribly scarred for life.

"Hold this," John said, passing Juan the wicker basket.

He was able to see that it was a tube that connected the bottle to the patient's forearm. "What is it?"

"It's an intravenous drip. We have to keep the patient's volume up; otherwise he'll go into shock." John got to his feet and held out a hand for the bottle.

Juan watched John tie it to a part of the gondola frame. That was barely done before the doctor returned with the next patient. While the up-timers dealt with him, the rest of the crew loaded the blanket wrapped body of the third crewman. He stared blankly at the wrapped figure, wondering which of the Pepino's crew it might be.

"Right. Don Juan, we're ready to go."

Juan throttled up the engines and waved to the ground team to let go the lines. The Richard Peeke started to drift, and then the thrust of the engines took control. Juan waved goodbye to the crew members who'd been left behind because they'd had to vent gas to get down to the ground, and set course for the clinic.

Two weeks later

Juan removed the special sterile coverings he'd been required to wear while visiting Fernando López de Pérez in a state of awe. Fernando and his colleague were recovering, and neither had scarring of the face. Sure, both of them had raw-looking faces that were leaking fluid, but the doctor had assured Juan that this was normal. She had even assured him that they should have full use of their hands.

"The Americans are amazing," Juan said to himself as he dropped the coverings onto the floor.

"Pick those up and put them in the basket where they are supposed to go."

Juan wasn't used to being spoken to in that tone. Actually, he wasn't used to being ordered around, period. However, the person giving orders was the midwife who'd attended Magdalida, and right now she appeared to be armed. He quickly picked up the coveralls and shoved them into the laundry basket she was gesturing toward. "What is that?" he asked, gesturing to her weapon.

The midwife went teary-eyed and drew the weapon against her chest. "This is a gift from God. It is a curette."

"And what is a curette?"

Her eyes shifted away from him.

"What is a curette, and why do you consider it a gift from God?" he demanded.

María backed away from Juan. "It is the tool I needed to save Magdalida."

The words hit Juan like a hammer blow. He reached out and grabbed María by the shoulders. "What do you mean, it is the tool you needed to save Magdalida?"

María tried to look away from Juan, but he was having none of that. He shook her. "What did you mean?"

"The doctor has taught me an up-time technique that could have stopped the bleeding."

Juan thrust María away. "You lie. Nothing could have saved Magdalida. Dr. Howard said so himself."

The midwife ran her hands over her shoulders where Juan had gripped them. "It's the truth. Magdalida died because I couldn't get her to deliver all of the afterbirth. Dr. Howard is Padua trained. He wouldn't have been aware of the new up-time medical knowledge. The up-time technique uses special tools to deliver the remaining afterbirth." She reached out a hand and rested it gently on Juan's shoulder. "I've just used the technique in a case similar to Magdalida's, and it stopped the bleeding."

Juan swallowed bile and stared at María. She had no reason to lie. A simple procedure—and surely it had to be simple if the up-timers could teach it to María—could have saved his wife. He could feel tears starting to run down his face.

A comforting arm went around his shoulders and directed his head into María's ample bosom, and he cried the tears that hadn't come three years ago.

****

Juana looked up when her eldest son entered the room. "Juan, you've met Anna María, haven't you?"

Juan approached to greet Anna María, and Juana saw his face clearly for the first time. "Is there something the matter?" Then she remembered he'd said he was going to visit the injured airmen at the clinic. "Has something happened to Don Fernando?"

Juan shook his head. "No. He and the student he was training are doing well."

She rose from her chair and reached up to touch the stains on her son's fashionable, wide, lace-edged collar. It was damp. There were smeared tear tracks running down his face—as if Juan had used his hands to wipe them away. Juana licked the end of her handkerchief and scrubbed at the tracks. "Then why have you been crying?"

"I ran into María the midwife at the clinic. She said . . ." Juan hiccupped and gently pushed Juana away, "that the up-timers have taught her a technique that could have saved Magdalida." The tears started flowing and Juan rushed off.

"Is everything all right?" Anna María asked after Juan left the room.

Juana stared after Juan. "I think that maybe everything is finally all right. Juan didn't cry after Magdalida died. I think he might have finally started to let her go."

Anna María perked up. "Do you think we should arrange for him to meet Catalina again?"

"She is still interested?" Juana asked, a little surprised, given the way Juan had run away from their first attempt to introduce them.

Anna María nodded. "Maybe next week . . ."

"No." Juana shook her head. "That is much too soon. No, we need to give Juan time."

"Catalina could lose interest if she has to wait too long."

"Give me a month, with Catalina accompanying you on visits. If during her visits she was to make friends with Isabel and Eduardo, then they will talk about their new friend."

"And then we arrange for Catalina to be at church when Juan takes the children, and they run to greet her after the service . . ."

"That would be a little too obvious," Juana said. "We need to be a little more subtle. The children need to talk to Juan about their new friend."

"And then we arrange for Catalina to be at church when Juan takes the children and they run to greet her after the service."

Juana grinned at her friend. Once she had an idea in her head she hung onto it like a dog with a bone. "Something like that."

****

As Ye Have Done It Unto One of the Least

Written by David W. Dove

Matthew 25:40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Amideutsch Lunch Counter

Grantville, Early December 1632

Johannes Vorkeuffer squirmed uncomfortably from the examining gaze of Louis Garrison, the restaurant owner. Why did the Americans from the future have to be so big? A man that size should be a blacksmith or laborer, not a tavern keeper.

"How old did you say you are?" the big man asked.

"I am sixteen, Herr Garrison."

The man frowned at him. "You should be in school then, not out trying to get a job. Do your parents know you're here?"

Johannes felt the grief rush through him. "My parents are dead, Herr Garrison."

The big man's expression instantly became compassionate. "I'm sorry. Do you have any family here?"

"I have an older sister and a younger brother and sister."

"Who takes care of you?" Garrison asked.

"My sister, she works at the laundry; but it does not pay enough. So, I look for work so I can help."

Johannes sat quietly; he could see the big man was considering him.

Finally, Garrison smiled. "I'll tell you what, Johannes; I think I can find some work for you."

Johannes felt both joy and relief. "Thank you, Herr Garrison; I will be a good worker; I promise."

"Hear me out first. I can only give you a few hours a week and it will be simple work to start, mostly labor around the building. I can't afford to pay you a lot, but it's the same starting wage I give everyone. You will also stay in school; your work hours will only be scheduled after school. Plus, I want to speak with your sister. I won't be hiring you unless it's cleared with her first. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Herr Garrison; I will tell her you want to speak with her."

Garrison smiled at him. "Good. I also provide a meal every time you work." He stopped and looked Johannes over. "When was the last time you ate, Johannes?"

"I had a small piece of bread this morning," he answered truthfully.

Garrison's smile turned into a frown. "Tell you what; some of the sidewalks around the store still have snow on them. Why don't you take a shovel and clean them off? Then you can come back in and get that meal."

Johannes felt his stomach rumble in anticipation. "Of course, Herr Garrison; I will get it done very quickly."

****

Andreas Muller watched as his partner, Louis, handed the shovel to the boy before turning back to the counter. "Another foundling you're taking in, Louis?" he asked.

"You saw him, Andreas, how thin he is. I'll bet he hasn't had a decent meal in months, maybe longer."

Andreas acknowledged the question with a nod. "Yes, that is probably true, just as it is true for half the people you have hired here. The world is full of hungry people, Louis. I think it is a very charitable thing you do for them, but this is a business, not a charity. You cannot afford to feed everyone who comes through the door with a sad story."

"No, I can't Andreas, but I will help those I can."

Andreas examined his partner for a moment. "Louis, you are a good man, but why do you do this? You know that many of them only come in for the free meal; they only want to take advantage of your generosity."

"Yes, Andreas, I know; but at least I get a few minutes or hours of work from them first. Besides, I guess you could call what I do a family tradition."

"Your family did the same thing?"

"As far back as I can remember," Louis answered. "My father and his sister and brothers all did it. I asked my father about it and he said it was because of what his father had done."

"Did your grandfather own a restaurant as well?"

Louis shook his head and smiled. "No, Andreas. My grandfather was a farmer and not a very prosperous one either, especially during the Great Depression."

"Great Depression?"

"It was a terrible time in my country's history. At its worst, one of every four Americans was out of work and many had trouble feeding their families. My father grew up during that time and he told me stories of only having watered-down soup to eat at times. But he also told me of how my grandfather never turned anyone away from his table. People would come by his farm looking for work, but, of course, my grandfather could not afford to pay them. What he did was offer to trade a meal for work. Sometimes the person would chop wood, fix a fence, or even just sweep off the porch, but my grandfather would always find a job for them so they could have a meal."

"Your grandfather was a good man."

"Yes he was, a great man. And he did all that while raising a family and putting them through school. Every one of his children finished high school and was successful. I wish I had known him better, but he died when I was very young."

Andreas could tell his friend was feeling the sadness of lost family. "So, it is because of your grandfather that you take in those in need?"

Louis shook his head slowly. "He sparked the tradition in my family, but that's not the real reason I do it. The reason I do it is because of something that happened to my father."

"Your father took in the less fortunate as well?"

Louis nodded again. "In a way. He often let people work for a few hours to earn a little money. Sure, many of them were only looking for a few dollars so they could buy their next drink, but my father never judged them. He told me he got honest work for honest pay; what they did with the money wasn't his business.

"But there was one time in particular that will always stick out in my mind," he continued. "It happened not long after I was out of high school and starting to make my own way. A young man named Bobby Washington, came into my father's furniture store looking for a job. Now Bobby was pretty well known in the area. Although he was only eighteen, he had been in trouble with the law for years. He was a known gang member and had committed many crimes."

Andreas interrupted. "If the boy was so bad, why was he not in prison?"

Louis shook his head. "That's not the way our justice system worked. Bobby had been underage when the crimes were committed, so he was treated differently. He had been in jail a few times, but as a minor his punishments were not as severe. Besides, although he committed many crimes, none of them were very serious, mostly breaking into buildings, vandalizing cars, that sort of thing. Anyway, when Bobby applied for a job, everyone tried to tell my father not to hire him."

Andreas nodded. "That makes sense. It is wise not to trust a dishonest man."

"That's basically what we all tried to tell my father. But my father told me something about Bobby. Bobby had a younger brother, only about ten years old. One night while Bobby was running with his gang, his little brother followed him. Bobby didn't realize it. The gang was going to rob a store in another gang's territory, to prove they were stronger. Just as they got to the store, the rival gang appeared and a gunfight started. Bobby was at least smart enough to find cover and he was unharmed. But a stray bullet found his little brother. The boy died in Bobby's arms."

After a moment Louis continued. "My father had known Bobby for some time and he told me that something had changed in the young man after that. Before that, Bobby had always been an angry young man who blamed the world for his problems. But when Bobby watched his brother die, it seemed he began to direct the anger inward, that he was angry with himself for what he had done. My father believed that Bobby blamed himself for his brother's death, that Bobby felt it was his fault that his brother had been there that night."

"The death of someone close can change a man," Andreas said.

"Indeed it can, and my father believed that Bobby had changed. He hired Bobby to help move furniture and to load vehicles. It turned out that Bobby was a good worker, so my father gave him more hours and more responsibility."

"Did he keep working for your father?"

"For a while," Louis answered, "but while he worked for my father during the day, he went back to school in the evenings. Bobby had dropped out and my father encouraged him to go back. It wasn't long before Bobby had earned his GED."

"So this Bobby got his education and became a good worker; that is a good story of redemption Louis," Andreas said.

"Yes, it is, but that's not the end of the story."

Andreas was intrigued. "What else happened?"

"After Bobby got his GED, he seemed to want to work even more. He told my father he was saving up for more school. After a few more years, he quit working at the store so he could pursue more education."

"He became a scholar then?"

Louis shook his head. "No, although he did become a serious student; he had another goal in mind."

"What was that?"

"In a moment, my friend. There is another chapter in the story. Several years later, my father was working late in his store one evening when he had a heart attack." Louis shook his head sadly. "We kept telling him he needed to quit smoking and working so hard, but he never listened to us."

"Did he die?" Andreas asked.

"No. I'm happy to say he didn't, but it was close. The clerk he was working with at the store called for an ambulance and they got there in time. I didn't find out for a few hours what had happened, but I rushed to the hospital as soon as I found out so I could be there for my mother. When I talked with the doctor, he told me that my father had almost died, that he would have died if not for the efforts of the EMT."

"EMT?" Andreas interrupted.

"Emergency Medical Technician," Louis explained. "They have specialized training to help a person until that person can be taken to a full doctor. As I said, my dad was saved by the efforts of the EMT. The doctor said this EMT never gave up and didn't stop until my father was under a doctor's care. I later found out that EMT's name. It was Robert Washington."

"Bobby."

Louis nodded. "Yes, Bobby. The young man I had advised my father not to trust had just saved his life. Bobby, the former delinquent and gang member, took the money he saved from working at my father's store and used it to study to become an EMT. He was now helping people instead of hurting them. It was at that moment that I realized my father was doing more than just being charitable; he was actually giving the people he helped a chance. That's why I do what I do, Andreas. If I can help just one person the way my father helped Bobby, it will all be worth it."

"Has anyone you helped ever turned out like Bobby?" Andreas asked.

"Nothing as drastic as Bobby's story, but I have managed to talk a few kids into staying in school. And I'm sure I've helped a few people through a tough time until they got back on their feet."

Andreas sat for a few moments, taking in the message from his friend's story. As he thought, he realized that Louis had given him, a former mercenary, a chance as well. He placed his hand on Louis's shoulder. "Louis, what you are doing is a good thing. I'm sorry I questioned you."

Louis shook his head. "No, Andreas. It's your place to question me. You're my partner and my friend; I trust your advice."

"Just promise you won't bankrupt us."

Louis laughed. "Not to worry, my friend, I like to eat too much. But, as long as I'm in a position to do it, I will help all that I can. Like you said, many will just be taking advantage of my good nature to get a few dollars or a meal. But sometimes . . ." He paused while pointing to the front door.

Andreas looked where his friend was pointing. Young Johannes was holding the door for two elderly women as he helped them across a slick patch on the walkway. He made sure each was safely inside the restaurant before he closed the door and went back to shoveling snow.

"Sometimes," Louis continued, "you're giving a chance to someone who deserves it."

****

Jacob's Ladder

Written by John Zeek

Martin Meurer was hanging by his fingers from the eaves, with his feet braced over the shuttered window below, when the shutters crashed open. Martin had a good view—too good a view—of the bald spot on the head of the man who leaned out of the window. Martin silently wished . . . Don't look up. Look at the church. Look at the street. Look at the house across the street, but don't look up . . .

Martin's wish was granted as the man's head withdrew into the room below and the shutters were pulled closed. But he waited. Sure enough, four long heartbeats later, the shutters crashed open again. "Watchmen, call the watch I've been robbed." The man's voice echoed in the empty street.

Martin waited until the head withdrew a second time and he could hear the clatter of steps through the still open shutters. Only then did he pull himself onto the roof and make his escape. Three roofs and an alley away, he was finally able to stop. Braced against a chimney, he examined his new possession.

Who would have expected a table in the middle of a dark room? Who would have expected the owner to awaken so fast? He had grabbed the first thing that came to hand, stuffed it in his pouch and bolted for the window. Now he had time to see what he had. A cup, too small to be called a goblet. It was a metal cup. Silver, he hoped. Silver would buy food for a week, and a new jacket. With winter coming on he could use a new jacket. Not bad for his first try at house creeping. Not bad at all.

Martin's breath froze when a voice came out of the chimney's shadow. "Young Meurer, you'll make a fair creeper, if you survive. You take too many chances."

Martin braced himself to run, but where? The owner of the voice blocked his escape route. Still the man was just talking, and on the roof at night, he had to be a thief. Another thief, he reminded himself. "Well, I got a nice silver cup. Not bad for an hour's work."

"It's pewter. Where would a tanner get a silver cup? And even if it is silver, which I doubt, was it worth your life?"

Martin moved a bit to the right to try to get a look at the voice's face. "Who are you to ask that question? You're a creeper like me."

The owner of the voice moved his face into the moonlight. "Not quite like you, Young Meurer, and I am not a creeper." Martin recognized Jorg Hennel, spokesman for the Committee of Correspondence in Suhl. "What would happen if you were caught by Watchman Meusser? As easy as I caught you, even an oaf could manage to find you."

With no place to go, Martin answered. "Meusser would break through any roof he tried to walk, but if he caught me it would mean the cells."

Hennel chuckled. "The cells at night and working for the city collecting offal during the day. After you were branded. You do remember they brand thieves on the forehead? No one likes thieves. Now, here's the real question. What will my fellow Committee members do when they catch you? You know that you made your escape over Gary Reardon's roof? He is protected by the Committee of Correspondence."

Martin was surprised. He hadn't known Reardon lived in this part of town. "Turn me over to the watch?" he asked hopefully. He knew he was caught. Hennel hadn't touched him, but he was caught.

Hennel laughed. "Yes, they would turn you over to the watch . . . after they dropped you off the roof." Hennel made a whistling sound followed with a slap to his knee. "Splat. Two broken legs, you'd have to crawl the rest of your life."

Hennel got to his feet. "It's cold. Follow me, or leave town. Your choice, but your nights creeping roofs in Suhl are done. Only one warning is given, this is yours."

Hennel moved off, over the peak of the roof away from Martin's planned route. Martin took a moment to think. If an old man like Hennel has caught me, I must be past it. Maybe I should look for another line of work. He moved to follow the Committee man.

Two roofs to the west he caught up to Hennel. "Where are we going?"

"To church. Careful here," was the brief answer as Hennel swung down to catch the edge of a protruding window. Then, using the exposed wooden corner beams, he climbed down to the street where he waited for Martin. He has to be joking. Church? Where are the handholds?

When Martin finally succeeded in joining him in the dark street, Hennel led the way to the side door of a small church. "In you go, Young Meurer. Drop your cup in the poor box. If it's silver, it will feed the poor for a week."

Martin was stunned. The man was serious. A church? Putting the cup in the poor box?

Hennel marked his hesitation. "You're not a good enough thief to put it back. And you can't start a new life with stolen property. Of course, you could go out the front door and head for the city gate. It will be open in an hour."

Martin shook his head. Hennel was crazy. But he walked into the church and found the poor box. He thought about running but ended up leaving the cup. His curiosity was aroused. What was Hennel going to do?

When he exited through the side door, he found Hennel sitting on the steps. The man nodded. "Martin, join me in a late supper, my treat. We'll talk about your future."

****

After a quick meal in a nearby tavern, Martin was even more curious. Hennel had refused to talk about anything besides the food.

Finally they were standing outside and Hennel appeared lost in watching the sun rise over the city gate in the distance. "Herr Hennel?" It never hurt to be polite. "What do I do now?"

Hennel pointed as he answered. "There is the north gate. You could be out and on your way to some other city. Not many opportunities for creepers in villages. Or you could ask yourself why you want to become a thief?"

"Because I'm poor and the rich have what I want. And I'm too healthy to be a successful beggar," Marin answered.

"Yet I found you stealing from a poor man. That tanner was just a journeyman; I would bet that cup was his prize possession. So you were making his life worse. And a pewter cup wouldn't bring enough to pay for the meal you just ate."

Martin thought. "The rich have better latches on their shutters, Herr Hennel. They're harder to steal from." He couldn't tell Hennel that the tanner was his third try tonight.

Hennel laughed. "And better locks on their doors, and bars on their windows and dogs! Don't forget the dogs."

Martin realized that Hennel knew what he was talking about. The man had to have been a thief some time in his life; from his clothing a successful thief. Was he a man to watch and copy?

"Herr Hennel . . ."

The older man waved his hand. "Jorg, call me Jorg. I'm not a gentleman you can impress and trick with your manners."

"Jorg, what did you mean when you said my future? I am not going to leave Suhl; I was born here and have never gone out of the city. If you won't let me be a thief, what is this future? This new life?"

Jorg smiled, the first real smile Martin had seen on his face. "Ah, Martin, that is the question."

Jorg reached into his belt pouch. When his hand emerged it held two coins and a pamphlet. "Here is something I want you to read, and enough to live on for two days. I expect to see you here on Friday morning and we'll talk." He walked off and Martin looked at the title of the pamphlet. Common Sense by Thomas Paine.

****

Sunrise Friday morning found Martin pacing in front of the tavern. Where was Jorg? Had he forgotten? Was it all an elaborate joke? Martin was tempted by the unattended handcart resting in the street across from the tavern. Its owner had just gone in the tavern carrying two hams. There had to be more hams in the cart. A quick snatch and he would have breakfast. Jorg had been clear, no more stealing from the poor. Does a butcher count as poor? Besides, there were too many people in the street. No, I am no longer a thief.

Reading Jorg's pamphlet hadn't answered his question about his future. In fact it had raised more questions. What was this "Natural Liberty"? The man who wrote it had to be mad? All Englishmen were mad. But the descriptions of kings and nobles rang true. Why had Jorg given it to him?

He was lost in contemplation when Jorg tapped him on the shoulder. "You're early. Come with me."

When he turned, Jorg was already walking down the street. Walking and waving his arm. Soon three young men came out of the shadows. When the three greeted Jorg, Martin was glad he had not indulged himself by lifting a ham.

Jorg was soon passing out strips of paper and stacks of pamphlets.

"Here you go. Five Common Sense and ten of the new ones from Jena. You're working the landing, unloading barges.

"Friedrich, head over to the bolt factory. They're looking for a sweeper, full time. Tell Herr Reardon I sent you. Here are twenty of the new pamphlets; get them to the machinists.

"Günter, I found you an all day one, loading hides for Josef Boyer, the butcher and unloading the hides at Schwengfeld's tannery. Take twenty of the new pamphlets to pass out in the street. I'm sorry I couldn't find you anything cleaner."

Martin realized that Jorg had found work for these men and was sending them out to spread Committee of Correspondence pamphlets. And taking their reports.

"Casper Amberger raised the wages of his journeymen. Do you think the other gun makers will follow?"

"Your friend Hatfield is hiring more Jaegers, and is looking for two more men for driver training. Think you could put in a good word for Henrich Bohl?"

"Bauer, the printer, has printed thirty-five copies of that book; the one written by the Frenchman, Arouet. The one you had us read."

Soon the three men were gone, only to be replaced by four more. The same scene was repeated five more times as men came and went.

Finally the men stopped coming. Jorg waved Martin over. "That's a good start to the morning. Let's go have breakfast. We have a busy day ahead of us."

"Jorg, I read that pamphlet and I have some questions."

"No more politics until after we eat; definitely none at our meal."

Martin was curious. What did Hennel have in mind? Why did he need a skilled thief? No. A skilled almost thief. "What are we going to be doing? I hope it involves getting some money. My pouch is empty."

"Well, first we'll eat. Then we'll see about making some money," Jorg answered as they walked down the street.

They were soon in the more prosperous part of the city. The buildings weren't as run down and the taverns had brightly painted signs. Jorg pointed to a busy tavern. "How about the Laughing Boar for breakfast? Since it's next to a bakery, they should have fresh bread."

Martin was taken aback. "Jorg, it's also next to the city watch headquarters. There are always watchmen stopping in."

"So? Have you forgotten that you're no longer a would-be thief? The watch has better things to do than to chase honest men."

Martin was unsure. The watchman might not know I am not a thief. Besides they do chase beggars. But he followed Jorg into the tavern.

Jorg surprised him by walking directly to the table where a watchman was seated. And not just any watchman. Martin recognized Captain Johan Frey, the commander of the watch.

Jorg seated himself on an unoccupied bench and waved for Martin to take a seat beside him. "Good morning, Captain Frey. I hope you are enjoying your well-earned breakfast. I'd like to introduce Meurer, my new associate."

Martin could see that Captain Frey was studying his face. Was the man memorizing his looks, or just thinking? Finally he responded. "Hello, Martin. You look better than when I last saw you in the market. I see you lost your limp. Given up begging, have you?"

Before Martin could stumble through an answer, Jorg commented. "Martin has decided that there was no future in being a beggar and is too honest to be a thief."

The captain smiled. "So now he is another of your projects, Jorg?"

Jorg shrugged. "He shows promise. What I wanted to ask you was if you were done with that book I loaned you? I want Martin to read it."

Martin could feel the captain's eyes still studying him. Then the watch commander nodded, "Certainly I'm finished with it. It's over in the watch office. I think Watchman Weiss is reading it, though."

Jorg said, "No, let him finish it. I'll get another copy. Tell Weiss to pass that copy on. Now breakfast. How is the porridge this morning?"

****

Breakfast with the commander of the watch! Martin couldn't believe it, but it happened. The man even paid for Jorg and Martin!

Jorg's rule about no politics while eating held through out the meal. The only conversation was about Martin's life. What was there to tell? His mother had been a prostitute. She died and left him an orphan who never knew his father. Passed from relative to relative and some who weren't relatives. Small for his age, so there was no hope for work as a day laborer. Money for an apprenticeship hadn't even been a dream. His one try at being a cut-purse had failed. The roofs had been his way out of boredom. Then they had looked like his future. Now he was a failed thief.

But Jorg kept asking questions. It was a long meal; Martin wondered if he should go find Captain Frey and confess so he could be arrested.

Finally it was over. Jorg shoved his bowl away and nibbled a last crust of bread. "Now, Martin, ask your questions."

Martin laid the pamphlet on the table. "What does it mean? What are you working for?"

Jorg looked at him directly. "I am working for a dream; a dream of a perfect world. A world I don't expect to see, but one I see coming."

He touched Martin's shoulder. "I see a world where a poor man has the same standing before the law as a king. But in our world, the poor man is in chains of laws made by kings and nobles. I am working to make my dream become real; a world where all men are equal."

Martin picked up the pamphlet, "Is that what Paine meant by 'Natural Liberty'?"

"Of course. You notice that Paine said one honest man is worth more to society and in the sight of God, than all the crowned ruffians that ever lived. He could have been talking about our German nobles."

Martin thought for a moment. "You want to replace the nobles?"

"Not the good ones. Some nobles are even members of the committees. Not many, true. Most are more interested in their privileges than the lives of the people."

"So that is why you don't want me to steal from the poor?"

"Martin, I don't want you to steal from anyone, rich or poor. If you could steal from anyone's house in Suhl, who would it be?"

Martin thought. Who was the richest man in the city? "Rudolph Amberger. He's a councilman and rich."

Jorg smiled. "But he employs twenty-five apprentices and journeymen, not counting the teamsters and carters in his trade caravans. So, you would still be stealing from the poor. Besides, Amberger is working to improve conditions. He did favor allowing all residents, not just citizens, to vote in city elections. He lost, but he was in favor."

Jorg stood up. "Come on. We can talk while we walk. We're going to see Anton Bauer, the printer, and we can't be late."

"For more pamphlets?"

"That too, but mostly we need to earn some eating money. Anton's journeyman has left to open his own shop and the apprentices are too small to work the press. So you are going to help unload paper for the shop and I am going to apply some muscle to the press handle. Three days of meals if we get there on time."

****

The work wasn't the hardest thing Martin had ever done. Try hand-walking a house's eaves three stories above the street! But it did stretch muscles he didn't know he had. The pay wasn't the three days' meals that Jorg had promised either, only two, but the printer had given him his first real book. Jorg had said it was worth reading.

Besides, he had seen the inside of a print shop for the first time. He wondered if fourteen was too old to become an apprentice printer. Who would take him? How would he pay the fee?

Martin stopped and studied the title of the book again. The Social Contract or Principles of Political Right, written by some Frenchman named Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

Maybe there were some answers in it.

Two weeks later

Martin sat on the roof peak over the attic room where Jorg was meeting with his fellow committee members. The sun was just setting behind the house across the street. He was no longer running the roofs as a thief, but he still did his best thinking high above the stink and noise of the street. The ideas from the books and pamphlets he had been given to read were going round and round in his head. The Rousseau book had pride of place in his collection, but it was hard reading; someday he would finish it.

The idea that all men are by nature equally free and have certain inherent rights was easy to understand. All the writers said that. Of course, putting it into practice would be a problem. No noble or wealthy burger was going to give up their privileges or even believe that the poor were equal to them in the courts. And the concept that all power comes from the people was foreign to those same nobles. They thought God had given them their place in society. The very idea that the common people, even people like him, could have a voice in choosing a government would give them fits.

The voices from the room below caught Martin's attention. Jorg's meeting was breaking up. Martin's thoughts were pulled away from politics and back to his condition. Soon he and Jorg would go to dinner. Martin was hungry; he had spent the day in the hard physical labor of unloading charcoal at Johann Will's gun works. Working at a gun shop had been interesting, despite the labor involved. Between trips to the wagon for charcoal, Will had shown him how a master shaped metal and how to hammer rough parts into a finished weapon. Martin thought maybe he might like to become a gun maker instead of a printer.

As he swung down from the roof peak to the window of Jorg's room, all the political ideas were brought crashing back by a comment by one of the departing committee members and Jorg's answer. The member asked, "But do we have right to change the government? Not can we? We know we have the power, but do we have the right?"

Jorg's answer was straight and to the point. "Heinrich, we are agreed that government is instituted for the common benefit and security of the people. If the acts of the government are contrary to that purpose, the people have the right to reform, alter or abolish it. So, yes, I think we have the right."

Heinrich seemed satisfied as he left, but Martin's head was suddenly full of all the political arguments he had overheard in the past weeks. All the ideas from the books and pamphlets were there and Martin decided they were worth working for. But were they worth fighting for? He knew it would come to fighting, the news from other parts of Germany were full of the events of Operation Krystallnacht. No, the so-called leaders of society wouldn't give up their privileges without a fight.

Jorg turned toward him and asked, "Martin, ready for dinner?"

Martin was more than ready, but this was more important. "Jorg, what does it take to join the Committee of Correspondence? Not just follow you around as a hanger-on, but to be a real member? I think I want to join."

Jorg smiled an odd smile and stated, "Nothing and everything. No amount of money can buy your way into our trust and fellowship, but you will give everything to our cause if you become a member. Some Americans in a future that never will be said it best. Our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor. You know we can still lose and if we do we will be hunted down like all people in a city hunt rats. Think hard, Martin, before you ask to join."

"But . . ."

"Plus, you are younger than most of our members like for a recruit. So, no, I will not suggest you as a full member."

Martin was not too disappointed; he had never expected to be accepted as a full member. But there had to be a way. He spoke formally. "Herr Hennel, I wish to apply for the position as your apprentice. I have been your shadow for the past month and I am ready for more duties."

****

Credit Where It's Due

Written by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett

October 1633

"Marie is a member of the radio guild!" Johan Kreger said with surprising heat. Well, shocking heat really, at least to Marie. The fact that he had said it at all left her a bit stunned. They were in a village to install a new radio with a selenium photo-resistor amplifier and a speaker. As had happened a few times before, the village council wanted her to stay right here till it was demonstrated that all the bells and whistles worked. This was the first time Johan had come with her rather than one of her parents or Peter Kreger.

"It's all right. I don't mind staying the night," she said, trying to smooth things over. The whole situation with her old archenemy Johan had gotten really confusing. He had started being nice to her and she hadn't a clue how to deal with it. Having him stick up for her and brag about her skill was freaking her out.

Herr Schmidt grunted acknowledgment then looked at Johan. "And how am I supposed to know that?"

"Ah . . ."

"It's good of you to stand up for your friend, son. But the last guy we had through here selling us up-timer products almost killed Gretchen Kauffman with whatever was in those little blue pills. He said he was an accredited supplier and a personal friend of Herr Doctor Gribbleflotz. We found out later that the one time he had been to the Ring of Fire, he had been arrested for trying to pass bad money. They took his picture and everything. Which is how we found out about it. He's wanted for aggravated fraud this time. That's what they call it when the fraud endangers someone's life.

"So, now we check. Got a free box of the little blue pills, the real ones, when Herr Doctor Gribbleflotz found out about it."

Johan didn't much like it, but they spent the night. And the radio, as they almost always did, worked like a charm.

****

"You're serious?" Peter Kreger looked at Greta Schultz doubtfully. "What good would that do?"

"If we use the freezer to store fresh peas, then we can take them to market in the middle of winter and get a better price," Greta pointed out. "It's what the up-timers did. Grew in-demand crops, stored them, then sold them at a higher price once they were out of season. And you know that fresh peas taste better than dried."

"And have more vitamins," Eva Katharina pointed out. "The nutrition program is always talking about vitamins. And using less salt. And using less fat, for that matter. Not that anyone here gets that much fat. But we could also make butter and save it for winter, too. There are all sorts of fresh foods that we could freeze, if we have enough space. It would bring a higher price come about, oh, January."

"So you want the village to buy one of these refrigeration units and build a place to put it. That's a considerable investment." Peter didn't have all that much choice. All the women of the village were dead set on the freezer. Of course, it didn't just mean the refrigeration unit. They had to buy a generator to power it. They needed a Fresno scraper to dig out the space for the freezing unit to cool. And concrete to line it. And . . . well, the list got pretty long. It added up to quite a sum, but the village was flush from the sale of wheat that year. It was the first time in a long time that the village had been that cash rich. Peter would admit later that it had gone to his head as much as anybody else. He'd even bought his son Johan a camera, in spite of the fact that Johan couldn't develop the pictures himself.

All in all, the six months delay before they would receive the freezer unit was a good thing. It gave them time to prepare for it.

Early Spring, 1635

"Oh, stand still, Joseph. You're going to tear my tape measure!" Greta really couldn't help snapping. She'd been trying to measure the child for half an hour and it wasn't like she didn't already have plenty to do.

Eight-year-old Joseph tried not to wiggle. He didn't succeed particularly well, but Greta could tell he was trying. Mostly trying her patience, but that was the nature of boys, after all.

"Thirty-five inches, Marie. From his heel to his shoulder."

"Yes, Mama." Marie looked at the sizing chart in the 1635 Burke Wish Book. "He's a size eight, then."

"And we'll order a size nine, then," Greta said. "Maybe even a size ten. Because every time I turn around, this child is wearing rags. Rags that are too short. They claim that those Torberts will last and last. They'd better."

"Can I go now?"

"Try to stay out of the mud," Greta said. "Not that you can, not at this time of year." She folded the tape measure, then stepped to the table. "I hope I get a chance to look at that catalog, Marie. It seems like every extra cent we have left from harvest is going to clothe Joseph and your father this year. But there are some things I want, too. Like a cloth tape measure."

"I've got a bit saved," Marie admitted. Most of Marie's earnings from building crystal sets was supposed to go into her dowry fund. It didn't always get to the dowry fund, though. Not that she was in any hurry to marry or had anyone she was interested in marrying. Well, there was Johan Kreger . . . but, well, he was Johan. She'd known him all her life.

A year and a half since that first trip with Johan to a village and Marie still wasn't sure how to deal with him. She had grown quite fond of him, but she still didn't have a dowry of any size and it was looking like she was going to have to sell her business to save Papa's half-farm.

The village had bought a lot of stuff from Grantville and Magdeburg in the last two years. A generator system that was her charge was one of the first purchases. It was 3,500 watts which ran the freezer in the summer, electric lights for the village and, of course, the radios. They used the lights sparingly; they were expensive and didn't last that long. It also ran the water pump and a router and other tools in Johan's wood shop. Johan was making the cases for her radios now.

Her family owed the village for their part of the generator use, as well as owing for their part of the rent. As it was, Marie was working constantly on building radios and their accessories just to keep her income up with the outgo.

In spite of all Marie and her mother could do, Papa tended to be a bit, well, extravagant. It was a worry. And a worry that was getting bigger each day.

****

Peter Kreger was worried, too. The price of wheat was down. Again. The village was producing twice as much as it ever had by using the proper fertilizer, but wasn't quite covering the debts they'd agreed to assume. The villagers held the debt for the generator in common, as well as the debt for the new plows. Then there was the thresher, the damned thing. Always breaking, it was. And new parts—those the blacksmith couldn't build himself—cost plenty.

Then there was the great idea of frozen vegetables that the women had. But no one thought of freezer burn. They should have; they had all seen the effects of freezing on plants and animals caught out in a blizzard. About half of the food the women had preserved had been freezer burnt and unsuitable for sale. Naturally, the village ate it, freezer burnt or not. In fact they ate an awful lot of fruits and vegetables that winter. Peter hadn't thought that you could get tired of fresh peas, but people were getting pretty sick of them by spring and there were still a lot in the freezer.

Still, if John George had left the borders open like he had in most of 1634, things wouldn't be too bad. But the major market for their wheat was Magdeburg and John George did not want his people dealing in American dollars. He wanted them to use his Saxony thalers, period. They could sell their wheat in Dresden, but that would mean going down the Schwarze Elster to the Elbe then back up the Elbe to Dresden, where they'd get a lousy price. In spite of Herr Berger's new steam barges, it was still more expensive to go upriver. Actually, that was the reason that the Elbe had been closed. Altogether too many people had shipped their crops down to Magdeburg last year. The village had made their second payments on the stuff they had bought, but just barely. It didn't look like they would be able to make the next one.

****

"They're lovely, dear." Greta tried to hide the worry. Karl was so proud of the dishes he'd ordered to surprise her. God only knew how they'd pay for them.

"Civilized, they are," Karl said. "Very up-time."

Greta was beginning to hate that term.

****

Marie wasn't blaming the up-timers She wasn't really blaming anyone. Aside from a few extravagances, they had mostly bought things that would—in the long run—pay for themselves. In the long run. They shouldn't have bought so much so soon. But everyone had been so happy about the good year in 1633. They had gotten almost twice what they got most years and their costs had been the same. The profit had been almost three times what it was in a normal year. They had seemed rich. They had been rich. It had seemed like a perfect time to be alive.

****

"I'm getting worried."

Anna Katherine Schuster didn't really want to hear this. Her brother Heinrich was close to impossible to live with in the first place. When he got worried he gnawed at problems like a dog with a bone. A little dog with a big bone, meaning he never got beyond scratching the surface of whatever he was worried about. "What about," she asked.

"Th-that fucking John George, is what. Things were going fine until he closed the border. We can't pay our debt in Saxony thalers! Have you heard what they're trading for in the Magdeburg market? It's-it's . . . they're worthless!"

That was only the truth, Anna Katherine knew. She and Heinrich—Schuster Finance Company, as they called their business—had made a lot of loans to villages in Saxony in 1633. Only the wealthiest and most productive villages had been offered credit, of course. It wasn't like there was any lack of productive villages that didn't have the cash to buy the new products.

Because Schuster Finance was arranging the sales—in effect buying the stuff and reselling it—they got volume discounts from the catalog stores, Burke's Wish Book, as well as the Gerber Bargain Book and others.

They hadn't passed those discounts on to their customers. After all, they were doing a lot of work and travel and deserved a fair profit. And it wasn't like they were short on customers. There might not be enough cash out there to pay for all the goods that the new factories were producing, but ten times what those factories were producing wouldn't make a dent in the demand.

They had taken the orders, offering "rent with an option to buy" contracts to the villages, in order to sell the stuff up the Elbe and its tributaries. They had had an inheritance, the rents on several villages in Saxony and had sold them for the startup money. They used that money to buy the goods from the catalog stores and have them sent to the customers. They had done their research before going into the business, and had learned that small loans were almost always paid back. It had seemed like a great business to get into—revolving credit with an initial interest rate of only eight percent . . . but as soon as the customer fell behind on payments, the interest jumped to twenty-five percent. It would give them a better income than the rents, they were sure.

With the first loans secured by the stuff being bought and subsequent loans secured by not only the new purchases but the old ones as well, business had boomed. Boomed to the extent that Anna Katherine wasn't sure where Heinrich had gotten the money for the later loans.

What they hadn't counted on was the closing of the Elbe. That had affected over seventy percent of their customers. It also meant that they couldn't repossess much—not with John George's troops in the way.

"We should be fine," Heinrich insisted, clearly trying to convince himself. "As long as we get paid. I used the collateral of the loans to leverage our investment. Got one heck of a good rate, too."

Anna Katherine felt her face pale. "Oh? You didn't mention you were doing that." This was a disaster. If they didn't get paid then the bank would foreclose, taking their paper and checking the books. Heinrich was in charge of getting the money and Anna of making the loans. There were some minor irregularities in their bookkeeping. Well, minor as long as most of the people made their payments. And it wasn't like they were the only company doing it. It was just that some of the customers didn't actually, literally, exist. Some products sold according to the books hadn't actually been bought or delivered.

Not to mention that the irregularities were minor, so long as Heinrich didn't pay any attention to her books. Which he usually didn't. Until now. She'd had a fairly free hand with the accounting and payments that came in. And there were things a girl wanted that her brother didn't really need to know about.

****

"I mean, it isn't all that different than what the Grameen banks did up-time. At least mostly, and the late fees would cover the rest. There would be no problem at all if my idiot brother Heinrich hadn't leveraged us so much."

Rodger Rude's hearing was fairly acute. It had to be. Of course, he didn't call himself Rodger Rude in real life. That was his pen name. He leaned back a bit in the booth, partly to hear better and partly to keep the woman in the next booth from noticing him. And especially to keep the man she was with from noticing him.

"Now, Anna," the man rumbled. "Don't worry. I did exactly what you said. The money is perfectly safe."

Rodger wasn't about to bet on that. This sounded like a real nifty little story. Betrayal of kin, cheating, lying, financial shenanigans—maybe even stealing.

But, darn it, Rodger didn't really have a handle on money. Which meant he was going to have to share the byline with someone. Probably that twit, Karl Gottliebe, who'd been freelancing for The Street. And all over the radio. Any program that mentioned money or markets, there Gottliebe was, giving out advice. Ah, well. Rodger would share the byline for a story that sounded as juicy as this one.

****

"I'll say," Rodger muttered. "This contract is downright punitive once you miss that first payment."

"Worse than that," Gottliebe pointed out. "Take a look a subparagraph J. If you can read it without a magnifying glass, that is."

Rodger shook his head and picked up another contract. "I'll take your word for it. SFC is bad enough. It's almost honest, sort of. Not illegal, at any rate. The big bad guys are Heileman Finance. They're the sort the usury laws were designed for."

"I've blocked out a program time. The article hits The Street tomorrow, then tomorrow afternoon I'll announce my consumer report on credit," Gottliebe said. "There are more good companies than bad. But HFC is certainly going down. And SFC is going to lose a lot of business."

"Six weeks it's taken," Rodger said. "But we've got them.

****

"This is Hans Günther, reporting for The Street. As anyone who has read the paper knows, our own Karl Gottliebe has been involved in an investigative report on consumer credit. While most of the companies were on the up and up, we want to warn you about Heileman Finance and a couple of other companies. Schuster Finance Company, for instance, has some very irregular contracts. Karl, tell our listeners more, please."

Rodger fairly hated listening to Karl speak over the radio, but it was impossible to do it himself. It would blow his cover sky high and he got too much dirt by being unidentifiable by the Grantvillers. Pity, though. Karl's voice was so nerdy-sounding.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a great deal of 'rent with an option to buy' going on all over the place. And, over all, that has been a good thing. It's gotten a lot of products into the hands of people and businesses that needed to have the product in hand to make the money to pay for it. Farmers and craftsmen have benefited and so have their customers, as they have produced more. But it seems every silver-lining has to have a cloud. It's become rather easy to get in over your head. And worse, some of the people offering 'rent with an option to buy' contracts are dishonest. You need to read the contracts before you sign them. If you didn't do that, you still need to read them. Because not everything we have learned from the up-timers is good. Scoundrels and cheats have learned new techniques to take advantage of us. As if they didn't have enough already.

"We urge everyone in range of our broadcast who has signed a contract with any of the finance companies that have proliferated in the last few years to review their contracts very carefully. Pay particular attention to any fine print. Take them to a lawyer if they seem confusing—or even if they don't. I'm afraid, Hans, that there are going to be some very sorry customers out there. Some companies have perpetrated outright fraud, some others are skating on very thin ethical ice. I want to stress that most of them have proven to be excellent companies that provide excellent service. As usual, though, a few bad apples are rotting the entire barrel."

"What about the report that Anna Katherina Schuster was seen leaving Grantville early this morning? Do you think that's in indication of wrong-doing?"

Rodger cursed. He'd missed that.

Gottliebe went on. "While what the Schusters have done isn't illegal, it is certainly unethical. But it is not a crime in Saxony. Arguably, it's not even a crime here. It seems to me that Anna has left her brother Heinrich holding the bag for whatever they may have done. I'll have more on this in half an hour on our new program, which is called Consumer Reports."

****

Greta Schultz listened to the market reports almost religiously. And it was a darn good thing, too. She pulled out the family's contract with SFC, then had to sit down with her hand pressed against her chest. "Marie. Marie. Go get Peter Kreger. Right now."

Marie didn't think to argue, even though her mother had interrupted a delicate piece of soldering.

****

"This won't affect us," Eva Katharina said. "Hans and I didn't buy anything for ourselves. We've been waiting until we had some cash."

"You don't understand, Eva," Peter said. "I didn't either, not until I read the fine print. I commend Greta for bringing this to my attention once she found out. And I have to point out that it isn't just the Schultz family that has been buying with village credit." He looked around the room. "About half the families here have been signing contracts that obligate the whole village to a much higher interest rate if even one payment is missed. Among other things that are even worse."

"What?" "Not us!" "We haven't bought anything!" The uproar in the room was furious.

Peter waved them all down. "Subparagraph J on the SFC contracts is the culprit. And we won't even go into the HFC contracts, since we were lucky enough that we didn't sign up with them. What that little clause says is that if someone misses two annual payments, the debt is transferred to the village as a whole. Plus, they can repossess everything that has been bought. Everything. We all agreed to the main contract that let the village buy the plows, the reaper, the fridge unit, and all the common purchases."

That meant that if Greta's new tableware wasn't paid for, SFC could take the plow, the thresher, the refrigeration unit . . . everything that they had bought. That all the payments went into one common fund. Greta's flatware, Anna's bolt of fine wool cloth—all went into the same pot as the plow and thresher—so nothing was paid for till everything was.

They all started talking at once, blaming anyone who had bought anything on their own. Which just about everyone had.

Pastor Althus stood up and looked around the room. The uproar lessened in intensity. "I note that while you're all fussing, you're doing it in a warm room with good lighting and with full bellies." He walked over to a shelf that was full of how-to books. He picked up one that everyone in the village recognized. It had a big red cross on the front and covered such things as how to set a broken bone and the effects of vitamins on health. "Do you happen to remember the winter of 1628? There were no frozen vegetables that year. No raspberries frozen in August to be eaten in February. The insulation wasn't all that great, either. I particularly remember that, because three children died that year. All three from pneumonia. Have we had a case of pneumonia this year? I must have missed it. All the children that were in the village last fall are still here and a new one besides. A happy, healthy little fellow he is too, little Robin. Is there a lack of grain for the village to eat? A lack of vegetables?"

That got a laugh. People were eating rather more vegetables then they might have preferred in the winter of 1635. Pastor Althus put the book back in the shelf.

"Is anyone suffering from frostbite because they have no gloves or holes in their shoes? You all know that we really are living much less precarious lives than we used to. And what are we doing with the Lord's gifts? Arguing, fussing and fighting over who bought what that they shouldn't have. That they wouldn't have, I am quite sure, if they had known what it might mean.

"No one has accused me yet so it falls to me to accuse myself. I bought a new cassock and several books that weren’t, strictly speaking, necessary. What we have to do is make sure that no one defaults on their loan. Whatever their intent, the people of SFC have facilitated our gaining of the tools we need to pay the debt. We will use those tools. We will find new things to make and sell. We will work together as a community in God, as we always have."

"I'm sorry, Pastor, but we need to be careful," Johan Keller said. He didn't sound particularly apologetic, but then he never did. "We have wasted a lot of time, energy and money on harebrained schemes. Like the giant vegetable garden. We've more vegetables than we can eat and we can't sell them because putting them in the freezer ruined them. We could have increased the number of chickens instead. Eggs always sell. So does meat, so we could raise more goats."

Greta Schultz looked at Johan's rather ample belly and sneered. Johan Keller liked meat, bread and butter. He didn't like cabbage, squash, pumpkin, snap peas . . . the list went on. "We made mistakes last year," Greta pointed out. "We were figuring out what worked and what didn't. It takes an extra layer of waxed paper around the little box. That we didn't want to use because of the extra expense, but we learned. We should have very little freezer burn this year. Granted, the waxed paper costs, but if we use it properly, we can expect to sell all of the garden that we don't want for ourselves. We should grow more fruits and vegetables this year, not less."

The upshot of the meeting was that everyone in the village was put on a strict budget. Everyone, even those few who hadn't given in to the urge to buy on credit.

****

"Shh," Peter said. "It's time for Consumer Reports, again."

"Well, Herr Gottliebe, what's the latest on the credit scandal?"

"The big news today is that Anna Katharina Schuster appears to have left her, ah, friend in Halle and taken off for parts unknown. Meanwhile, Heinrich Schuster denies all knowledge of his sister's whereabouts. He has turned over all of the company's paperwork for audit and hired the firm of Hardegg, Selfisch and Krapp to represent him in the suit that Hermann Weisel filed this morning."

"Is there some legal action that victims of HFC and SFC are able to take?" the reporter asked.

"There may be," Gottliebe said. "In the case of HFC, where there was extortion involved and often the goods weren’t delivered, there are a number of options. However, in the case of SFC, it's going to be more difficult. Certainly, the customers can't just stop paying. Whoever ends up owning SFC will own the debts owed to them and effectively that means that they will own the products sold. Still, I certainly urge anyone with one of these punitive contracts to seek legal advice. There is another option that may be available to customers of SFC, and this is going to sound weird. Get another loan. A consolidation loan, then pay the entire value of the products you bought."

****

"What are you planting, Mama?" Marie asked.

"I'm not sure what all of it is," Greta admitted. "These big beans are pretty, though. We ordered several packets of seeds from The Plant Ladies, out of the Burke Wish Book. And seed potatoes from the Grange, since they store well. Those green beans that are supposed to be so good for you and that you can eat really soon after planting, and those little orange carrots. A different cabbage, just to see how it did. Anyway, they included this 'bonus summer surprise' packet, it's called. It's a bunch of different looking seeds, anyway. I figure it can't hurt to plant them. We might get something useful and we've got to weed the garden anyway."

"I'll say." Marie looked around. The fields dedicated to vegetables were much more extensive than usual.

"We've got to produce a lot this year," Greta said. "We've just got to. I know the frozen vegetables will be a success this time."

"I hope so, Mama. Right now, I've got to go see Johan. I've got more radio guts ready for cases."

****

"Here you go, Johan." Marie placed the four crystal sets on the work bench. "These are rea . . . what are you building?"

"A really fancy radio case," Johan said. "Inlaid with different woods, all that stuff. Value added, like they talk about on the radio. It ought to sell for more than the usual radios do. Every pfennig helps."

****

"Well, sigh, it's that time of year again, isn't it, ladies? You all know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Greta had no idea what the woman was talking about, but Fanny Farmer was her favorite cooking show, so she kept listening.

"Yes, that's right. The zucchini and summer squash are coming in, aren't they? Now, don't groan. I know, I know. It won't be long before your co-workers and neighbors are bringing in piles and piles of it!"

What the devil was the woman talking about, Greta wondered. Nothing really grew in 'piles and piles' in her experience. Well, cucumbers could be pretty prolific, yes. But you could always pickle cucumbers.

"Well, don't despair. There's all sorts of things you can do with those baseball bat-sized zucchini. Pickle them, fry them, grate them up and make zucchini bread. Cover it with cheese sauce, slice it up for the freezer. One thing about it, you can never run out of zucchini. Remember Cora's zucchini quesadillas?"

Greta went out to look at that plot of surprise plant seeds. Just in case.

****

"Maybe we were better off in the old days," Karl grumped.

Greta gave him a very old-fashioned look. Then she pointed to the dish he was eating from, the Torberts Joseph was wearing, Marie's work table with its soldering iron and even to his shoes. "I don't think so, dear. Now, just eat your supper and hush."

Karl stared down at the green and white mess in his plate. "But what is it?"

"Zucchini au gratin is what Fanny Farmer calls it."

****

"We're not going to make it," Peter said. Then, at the look from Greta, he added, "Yes, I know there is much less freezer burn this year and you will be able to sell frozen fruits and vegetables all though the winter. That's all well and good. But the debt isn't due in March of next year. It's due in October of this year. And that's when the penalty rate will kick in."

"What about the consolidation loan that Herr Gottliebe talked about?"

"I sent a letter to a money lender in Dresden." Peter shook his head. "He wants twenty percent."

"What about Grantville?"

"Wouldn't work. By the time our letters got there and their answers got back and we sent someone there to sign the papers or whatever you do, it would be October."

"Then just go," Pastor Althus said. "Take the forms and receipts. Go try to get one of the consolidation loans if you can. If you can't, we aren’t much worse off. And if you can, you will be right there, so you can pay off the receivers for SFC."

"I can't go. I have to be here for the harvest." Then Peter looked at him. "I think you just volunteered, Pastor Althus."

****

"They're both better with English than I am," Pastor Althus explained. "And they'll be company. As well, if we're stopped, I can always explain that I'm escorting them to the University at Jena. Johan is a bit old for it, but I'm told that all sorts of younger and not-so-younger people are attending Jena these days."

Traveling through what might become a battle zone at any moment was nervous-making for Greta and Karl, but Marie's face had lit up at the thought of actually seeing Grantville. Peter's son Johan was practically jiggling on his stool in excitement.

"Oh, please, Papa," Johan said. "I can take the camera and have the pictures developed. Probably learn a lot more about it, too." He paused a moment. "And I'll bet that Marie can get some really good ideas for new products, too."

As an apparent afterthought, he added, "I bet the prices are cheaper there. We could pick up more seeds and stuff. Books. We're going anyway, so we might as well bring stuff back with us. If we can afford it, of course."

The upshot of it was that Marie and Johan would go with Pastor Althus, walking to Grantville, then possibly buying a small wagon to bring back as much as they could with them. The pastor was authorized to ask for a bit more money than was needed, in order to buy more seeds.

Just before they left, Johan Keller approached Marie privately. He pressed a few coins in her hand. "I want chicks. I want to start a real chicken operation, now that we've got the freezer. Buy me as many chicks as you can find. The White Leghorns. They're good egg producers."

How they were going to transport live chicks—and keep them alive—for a hundred and fifty miles through a war zone wasn't addressed. But Marie promised she'd try.

****

Greta looked at the giant zucchinis and sighed. There was no way that Karl and Joseph were going to put up with yet another squash dish. She didn't want to freeze any more of the things, either. Listening to Johan Keller complain all winter wasn't something she cared to do.

Then she looked at the family's sow and her litter. Well, why not? So she chopped the thing up and placed it in the trough.

The pigs didn't seem to mind it at all. Greta grinned, then went off to tend the garden. The peppers were ripe and she intended to pickle as many as she could. That little bright orange pepper looked really good. Pickled whole they would make a bright addition to winter meals.

****

Pastor Althus sat in a comfortable chair in the tavern in Riesa to listen to tonight's VOA broadcast. It was illegal to listen to the radio in Saxony these days, but that didn't stop anyone. "Ladies and gentlemen, forces under General Lenart Torstensson are massing near Dessau for the liberation of Saxony." What? how? Until they reached Riesa, Pastor Althus had not been worried. While they were nominally traveling through a war zone, the truth was that most of the time the army was over the horizon somewhere. Armies are pretty small things compared to whole countries. Besides, hostilities hadn't actually started yet and Pastor Althus hadn't really expected them for at least another month. Also armies moved slowly.

Now this general's forces were on the Elbe, which meant that he, Marie and Johann were right in their path as long as they stayed in Riesa. And, as the report continued, it became clear that the enemy army was moving fast. The plan, from the radio reports, seemed to be pretty straightforward, precisely what you would expect. And the counter was equally obvious, at least according to the military commentator. The forces in Dresden would proceed down the Elbe to meet General Torstensson. They had to. If they stayed in Dresden they would be effectively ceding control of Saxony to the USE. If John George did that, he might as well abdicate.

The problem was that one of the most likely places for the two armies to meet was Riesa.

****

The next day found Pastor Althus, Marie and Johan going west from Riesa to Grimma. They had considered turning around and going back but two things had stopped them. First, they really needed that consolidation loan and they need it quickly. Second, they wouldn't be much safer back home on the Schwarze Elster, a tributary of the Elbe than they would be on the road.

The next day they walked twelve miles to Osthatz. There was no word on what the armies were doing. Pastor Althus presumed they were staying on the river, which meant that by now the armies ought to be approaching Tordau. That was where Pastor Althus guessed the battle would take place. He wished, heartily, that this town had a radio. They did hear, through village gossip, that General von Arnim had had troops in Leipzig. They would bypass Leipzig. The next night they camped in the woods north of Wermsdorf. The next night, in Brandis, they heard that the USE Army was still several days away but wasn't, as they had thought, staying with the Elbe. It was going overland. The good news was that two more days would get them to the Saale river and the railroad.

****

"Don't forget the tablets, Marie," Johan said. He reached into his pouch and plopped two water purification tablets into the bucket she'd drawn from the stream and carried to their campsite. They had shifted a good ten miles south of Leipzig and were camped by a little stream near the village of Zwenkau. "We don't have any idea how good the water is here."

"Nag, nag, nag," Marie muttered. "Yes, Johan. I fully intended not to purify the water because I'm such an idiot."

"Children," Pastor Althus warned. They both blushed. "That's better," he said. "Getting along together is important. I know Johan didn't mean to treat you badly, Marie, and you know perfectly well that he doesn't think you're an idiot."

Marie waved her hand at him. "I know. I'm just grumpy today."

When Marie stood up and walked to the bushes, Pastor Althus took the opportunity to speak to Johan. "Back off a bit, boy. She doesn't need you mother-henning her right now."

"But what did I do?"

It turned out that Johan hadn't paid much attention to the women and girls back home. As well, his mother had died when he was about five and his father hadn't remarried. There were lots of things about the female of the species that Johan didn't know. Pastor Althus enlightened him as best he could. It was not an easy task.

Besides, they were all tired from the trip so far. Pastor Althus shook his head and left Johan to contemplate female necessities while he went to visit the necessary.

****

Pastor Althus was digging the hole when his foot slipped on a damp rock and his ankle twisted. He called out and both children came running. Trying to put his weight on the foot simply demonstrated that he couldn’t support himself on that foot. By morning the ankle was swollen and multicolored, mostly purple and blue. The pastor wouldn't be walking any distance for several days. They discussed going back to Zwenkau but the reason they were camping by the creek in the first place was that the people of Zwenkau had an exorbitant notion of the proper rent on a piece of floor in the barn.

****

Two days later and Johan had constructed a crutch out of some limbs and twine using his eating knife. They were discussing when they should leave when they heard the noises. The children wanted to go see but Pastor Althus had a bad feeling. "Stay in the trees, Johan. Don't let yourself be seen. Pretend you're hunting with your papa.

"Why ca-" Marie started.

"Enough." Pastor Althus wasn't having any rivalry right at the moment. He didn't like the tenor of the sounds he was hearing. "Johan will go and be careful. You will stay with me."

A few minutes later Johan was back. "There's an army forming up on the far side of the creek." The creek, as they would learn later, was named the Pleisser River. Where they were camped the Pleisser was about ten feet wide and a foot and a half deep. And, precisely where they were camped, the Pleisser had few trees on either bank. Just a clump of trees suitable for gathering firewood, which no doubt the good people of Zwenkau were charging considerable rent on. Which was why they had made their camp inconspicuously within the clump of trees, rather than beside it.

Now Pastor Althus wished they had paid the rent for the floor of Zwenkau hay barn. They couldn't move. There was an army just across the river and if they popped out of their little clump of trees, they were just likely to get shot on the assumption that they were enemy scouts. Laboriously, the pastor made his way to the edge of the creek where he could see the army—no, armies—forming up into lines of battle. It had taken awhile. By the time he got to where he could see, the armies were a confused mass of pennants and marching men, with bugles and cavalry thrown in. It wasn't quite as bad as he had feared. The battle looked like it was going to take place perhaps a quarter mile away. Which meant no one should notice them unless they called attention to themselves. Then he noticed Johan running off back to the campsite.

"Johan, what are you doing?" Pastor Althus hissed.

****

"I'm getting my Brownie," Johan said. Unlike the time he'd tried to build a radio, Johan had read the instructions that came with the Brownie camera. It used chemically-treated paper on a roll. Twenty-four exposures per roll and then you sent the roll back to the factory to be developed. And they sent you the pictures. The camera cost twenty-five dollars, the rolls two dollars each and the developing ten dollars a roll.

It was really weird what went through your head when you were scared. Johan had buck fever and he knew it. He had a number of exposed but undeveloped rolls, and two precious un-exposed rolls. They could afford the rolls, but not the developing. He had realized that they were stuck on the edge of a battle and it occurred to him that he might actually be able to sell pictures of the battle.

"What!" Pastor Althus hissed again.

"I'll be with you in just a minute." Johan slipped back to the camp and grabbed his pack. Then rushed back to the river. "I can take pictures of the battle and maybe we can sell them!"

The pastor was hissing again, but Johan ignored him as he made his way across the creek and snuggled down behind a tree with a good view of the battlefield. He was just in time to see what looked to be about a third of one of the armies change direction and head what seemed right for them. They would learn later that it was General Stearns' Third Division.

Battles take a long time. It took a while for the Third Division to march out ahead of the rest of the USE Army, and even longer for the Saxon army to respond. Long before the Saxon army had started to move, Marie had joined him behind the tree and was hissing at him

Pastor Althus was annoyed with him, she informed him and apparently Marie was royally pissed. Johan wasn't sure why but, oddly, it seemed a good sign. He pointed the camera at a group of officers riding out ahead of the troops that had moved toward them. He waited for the officers to stop riding around in front of the army, and then snapped a couple of shots, figuring that they must be important.

"Pastor Althus wants you to come back where it's safe," Marie insisted.

"You go. I'm getting some really good shots here."

"You come back right now!"

"All right. All right."

They crawled back into the trees then waded across the little creek.

It took Johan several minutes to explain to Pastor Althus what he was doing and more time to convince the pastor that he was just as safe in the trees on the far side of the river as in these trees. Then Marie had to jump in and claim that if he was just as safe on the other side of the river, so was she.

He tried to argue that Pastor Althus needed her to take care of him and for a moment it looked like that might work. But Pastor Althus said that if it was really just as safe, then he would be fine here by himself.

That brought Johan up short. Was it really as safe if Marie was with him? He almost gave up on the whole deal then. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that it really was as safe there as here. Not that either place was safe but, really, a stray round was as likely here as there.

Johan and Marie got back into position in time for the charge of the Polish hussars. Actually, it was the charge of the Saxon cavalry including a small contingent of Polish hussars. But Polish hussars are . . . extravagant. The wings on their horses are attention-getting. Johan took three pictures of the Saxon cavalry charge, all of them centered on the Polish hussars even though they were nowhere near the middle of the cavalry. They had missed the advance of the Count of Narnia's flying artillery and wouldn't have recognized it even if they had seen it. The sound of the volley guns came as a shock. The Saxon cavalry and the Polish hussars were still moving slowly when Johan and Marie heard the unusual sound and looked back at the USE Army.

There they were, fronted with white smoke but still quite visible from their angle. Johan snapped a shot centered on the horseman commanding the guns. Then another as the billowing smoke started to obscure them a little, adding an unreal, ghostly tinge to the scene. When he finally saw that picture he would be amazed because, by some trick of fate, the only truly clear bit of the image was Thorsten Engler pointing at the Polish hussars, surrounded by mist and shadowy volley guns. Johan turned back and snapped another shot of the hussars. That one would prove to be so blurred as to be useless.

They stayed at their little nest though the battle. They saw the infantry under Captain Jeff Higgins, the famous husband of the even more famous Gretchen Richter. But, though they took several pictures of the infantry firing, they never got a recognizable shot of Jeff. Which was a shame. It would have brought a pretty price. They got a couple of shots of the APCs bringing the Saxon cavalry to rout, and used up every bit of film Johan had left, but every picture of the APCs came out blurry. Two of them sold because the APCs were still recognizable, but they didn't get paid nearly as much for them.

****

The battle was over. Johan and Marie had retreated back across the little creek and were talking about what they had seen, the horror and glory of a battle, when the soldiers arrived. The USE Army had left a part of its supply train to police up the battlefield. The wounded needed treatment. Dead bodies had to be buried, dropped equipment and supplies had to be collected. And in the process of doing that, troops that hadn't had time to look for them during the battle, now saw them and wondered what they were doing there.

"Ahem."

They spun.

"And what brings you folks to the battlefield?"

Pastor Althus explained their situation. The soldiers in USE uniform listened politely but took them into custody. Just in case.

"Well, Pastor, I think we can help you out. Considering you were going to Grantville anyway."

That was how they ended up taking river barges upriver to the TacRail head and were given a free ride on TacRail from Penig to Gera. Where they caught a train to Jena and on to Grantville.

At least they let Pastor Althus ride on one of the wounded wagons. They were taken to Tollwitz, which took till after dark, even though it was high summer. The next day they were ferried across the Saale River to Wengelsdorf, where they caught the train for Grantville. All while under the eye of a polite young soldier whose job, as best Johan could tell, was to make sure they really were who they said they were.

****

"Well, all right, the houses are different," Marie said. "The buildings don't look as sturdy, though."

Grantville was a bit of a disappointment in some ways. Marie had imagined tall buildings, gleaming metal, golden streets.

That wasn't what she got. Instead, there were gray and black streets and, good grief, the place was crowded. There were some buildings that were tall, but not so tall as the cathedral in Dresden. And plain. Many of the buildings were hopelessly plain.

But the people were nice, mostly. The prices were outrageous, and they had no idea of where to stay. The Higgins Hotel was a bit intimidating.

"There it is," Pastor Althus said. "The Abrabanel Bank. Just where we should go, as near as I can tell. They're down-timers, just like us. Even if they are Jews."

****

"That's where I need to go," Johan said. He pointed to the sign, which said Grantville Free Press, then to another that said Grantville Times. "I wonder if I can get a bidding war going?"

"Or at least get them to develop all the pictures," Marie said. "Or sell some photos to each of them."

It worked out very nicely, actually. Johan got a very nice price for the photos of the battle from both newspapers, since they could both have different photos. There was an article on the battle that discussed the tactics and along with the pictures they sold their eyewitness account. The Count of Narnia picture made the cover of the Free Press and a blown-up, blurry, and touched up picture of General Stearns and his staff made the cover of the Times.

****

The interior of the bank was about as plain as anywhere Marie had ever been. But it was sparkling clean, with polished wood desks and counters, as well as with some kind of floor covering she'd never seen. It wasn't a rug, since it was too big. How would you ever take it out to beat it clean? Still, it was kind of pretty, with its grey and faded-purple swirls. And the glass walls were amazing. Everywhere she looked, people were sitting at desks behind glass walls.

"May I help you?" someone asked.

"We are here to discuss a problem," Pastor Althus said. "And perhaps find a solution."

"SFC or HFC?" the dark-haired man asked. "We can't really help you with HFC. For that you'll need to get in touch with Hardegg, Selfisch and Krapp. But we are buying out SFC, or so I'm told."

It turned out that Pastor Althus didn't really have to explain very much. The Abrabanel Bank was on top of it all and even had SFC's records. There was one mismatch, but Pastor Althus was able to prove with the parish records that there wasn't a Hermann Smittel living in their village. Just as well, since if he had been, the village would never have approved the purchase of a gold-cased pocket watch.

"Our terms are ten percent," the clerk told them. "Compounded annually, of course. And you have several years to pay it off. Which gives you a smaller payment, yes. You will wind up paying more over the long run, but that's only if you take all the time to pay off the loan. There's no penalty for early payment."

The Full Disclosure part of the contract was in print large enough for someone with the worst of middle-aged eyesight to read. And because the payments were so much lower, Pastor Althus felt that he could—very conservatively—request additional funds for additional tools. That, plus Johan's windfall, would let them buy quite a bit.

****

"I visited the Grange Headquarters today," Johan said. "After I went to the photography shop and bought more film. They suggested some new seeds for us to try. Soy beans, they called them. And some corn. Along with many others, but they claim that those two will sell particularly well. And I've got brochures and pamphlets. Lots of them."

Pastor Althus nodded. "Good, good. And you, Marie?"

"Lots and lots of brochures and pamphlets," she said. "Some more equipment, small stuff. And I did find a bargain on chicks for Herr Keller. They'll be a real mess to transport, but he was very earnest about them. And besides, I like eggs, too."

Lightweight carts for people visiting Grantville were common these days. So many people came and bought so much stuff that some enterprising soul had figured out a way to supplement his income by building them rapidly. He even bought them back, if the owner decided he didn't need it.

****

"So, none of that zucchini today, right?" Papa muttered.

"No, dear," Mama said. "You may not like it, but the pigs are getting fatter than ever. So stop complaining and eat your dinner."

That sounded like good news to Joseph, because he loved pork sausage with lots of pepper.

Papa sniffed. He did that a lot these days, since Mama had started listening to Fanny Farmer. "What are those?" He pointed to the bright orange fruit that filled a small dish.

"I'm not sure," Mama admitted. "I'm hoping that Marie brings more information about them. But you can pickle almost anything. So I did."

"Go ahead, Papa," Joseph said. Some of the Fanny Farmer recipes were really good, but some of them were yucky, like the squash which had almost no flavor. Still, Joseph liked trying new things. How else were you going to find out if something was good?

"I'm not sure I want to."

Joseph tried to hide his snicker, but Papa saw it anyway.

Papa took a deep breath and picked up one of the little orange fruits. Joseph wondered what they would taste like. Carrots? They were orange, like the up-time carrots, after all. Joseph liked the carrots.

"Aieeeee!"

Joseph's eyes widened as his father jumped out of his chair and danced around the room.

"Aieeee!"

Papa grabbed his mug and gulped down his beer. Then he reached over and grabbed Mama's beer and gulped it down, too.

"Good heavens, Karl! What's wrong?" Mama asked.

"What are those things!" he screeched. "I've never tasted anything so vile!"

Joseph was a bit worried, but really, really curious. How could something so pretty be bad? He took one of the fruits, and sniffed it. It smelled like pickles. With a shrug, he plopped it in his mouth and started chewing. Joseph's mouth was filled with fire. But that was all right. At least it tasted better than the squash. He kept chewing, then swallowed.

He looked at Mama. "Mama, can I have some milk? These fruits are kind of hot."

Papa sat back down, his eyes as big as the new dishes. "You like those!"

"Well, at least it's not bland and mushy, like the squash."

****

Pastor Althus, Johan and Marie were greeted like they were returning heroes. Which, in a way, they were.

Johan Keller was thrilled with the chicks, Greta figured out that the bright orange peppers were called habaneros (she'd already discovered that they were an acquired taste), and the cooks were pleased with the Grantville Extra Fine Sorghum Sugar that their travelers brought back.

It made the zucchini bread taste so much better.

****

Pipe Line

Written by Terry Howard

Kymi Mills, Winter 1636

Ari was complaining again. Or perhaps the correct phrase should be "still complaining." It was claimed Ari complained all day, every day. There was some truth to the accusation.

"Man, I really hate it when we're downwind of the glue works. That stuff stinks to high heaven. I wish we didn't use it," Ari said.

There was nothing to do while the borer turned besides clean up the shavings. Ari seemed to complain just to pass the time. When they backed the borer out and loosened the clamps, Ari lifted the ten-foot section of bored water pipe out of the jig.

Normally two men, one on each end, would handle the stock going into and coming out of the jig. The first day they worked together Ari scoffed when Kaapo tried to help. "Look," Ari told him, "you stay at the head end. Just get the clamp open when the borer is out, and closed when the next log is in the jig, then start the borer. I'll move the logs and clamp the tail end. If you muck around helping me move the stock, it will slow things down. And I don't need any help."

Working hard was about the only thing Ari didn't complain about.

Kaapo and Ari consistently bored more wooden pipe in a shift than any other team. The stock was turned on a lathe to a six-inch diameter. Ari took it off of the pile on a four-wheeled cart and put it in the jig. Kaapo clamped it down and engaged the borer.

An overhead power shaft, powered by a water wheel, drove the leather belts which turned the borer. As it was coming back out, Kaapo had to make sure the shavings were blown off of the threads, since they could jam up the worm drive. If they had to shut down and free it up, Ari would complain about it for the rest of the shift, and all of the next day too. The last thing Kaapo did before he freed the bored water pipe from the clamp was blow it out, using a leather hose connected to a compressed air line made out of the same pipe stock they were boring.

As soon as the clamp was loosened Ari lifted the pipe over his head, and put it on the second cart. Then he stepped through the empty space in the middle of the jig to grab the next log. He expected his partner to secure the clamp the second the log was in place, and to have the borer head in place to start cutting a second later. If Kaapo didn't hit the reverse within two or three seconds of the bit clearing the tail end of the stock, Ari, of course, complained about it. He always had the tail clamp opened before the borer was clear of the pipe.

Kaapo, a little annoyed at Ari's complaining, replied sharply, "Yes, it does stink. And, yes, the waterproof stuff stinks more than the other. But both hold the plies together to make the plywood. And the stinkier glue doesn't come apart when wet. They had the plywood mill before they had the paper mill and they've got to have the glue to make the plywood. Without the mills, they wouldn't be putting in housing and wouldn't need water pipes. So be happy it stinks, because without the mills we wouldn't have a job."

"We don't use all of what we make."

"So? Some of it gets shipped out. They tell me Germany doesn't have more trees than they know what to do with, like we do. Just be happy we only smell it when the wind is blowing this way," Kaapo said. "Can you imagine what it smells like in the glue plant? I am not knowing how it is those people go to work there every day, boiling down fish heads."

Ari continued to complain. He either did not catch the sharpness of Kaapo's reply or he didn't care. The first, just not listening, was a character flaw. The second was an egregious character flaw. Other than his habit of turning complaining into a high art, Ari was a fine fellow and a hard worker. "Adding the milk curds to make the waterproof glue is a waste and a shame. It could be made into cheese."

Kaapo explained again, patiently. "They only use the curds from the flocks grazed on cut pine greens."

"It could make cheese."

"Have you ever tasted goat cheese made from goats being fed on pine needles? I'd have to be mighty hungry before I'd eat it. Pine-flavored goat cheese is horrible."

"People are going hungry."

"Not as many as before. The mill girls are eating. The charcoal burners are eating, the goatherds and dairymaids are eating. The loggers and the mill workers are eating. Lots of people have work they didn't have before the countess opened the mills. Like you, for instance."

This didn't stop Ari from complaining. "I wish we didn't have a glue shop."

"If they stopped making glue, they would shut down the plywood mill and put people out of work. How are people who are not working going to buy cheese? So making cheese will cause people to go hungry."

Ari tried to follow the twisted logic. Somehow making more food would cause more people to go hungry. "Can you run that by me again?" Ari asked.

Kaapo ignored the request. "Why am I explaining things you already know? Why are you complaining about things that must be? I think you just enjoy complaining."

"Hey," Ari replied, defensive, "I'm just making conversation."

"Well," Kaapo complained right back. "If you can't do it without complaining, then just shut up, work in silence, and let me enjoy the quiet."

"You call this quiet? The only time it's quiet is when the borer is not turning and then we are too busy to talk."

"Okay then. Shut up and let me enjoy the noise."

Ari snorted. "And who is complaining now? And it's still not right to be making glue when you could be making food."

"Did you not hear me about shutting up? Did you not hear me about what pine cheese tastes like? Do you not know we could use ten times as much waterproof glue, and would make more if there were more curds than they can get off of the new flocks? Have you not heard the countess refuses to buy more curds because it should be made into cheese, which she does buy, by the way. Where do you think the smelly white cheese in the company store comes from?"

Ari countered, "They could feed the goats elsewhere."

"No, they could not!" Kaapo's knew his voice was louder in annoyance. "Goats are already being grazed anywhere goats can graze other than in the old forests where grazing is poor. The new flocks are eating the pine needles off of the trees that have been felled. Now shut up and sweep up the shavings."

Ari set the broom and dust pan down and loosened the clamp in the tail end as the shaft was backed out. Working with Ari was easy, as long as you stayed on top of things, and the production bonus was nice. Ari had the strength of two men and he would be the perfect partner, except he complained all the time.

****

Kaapo went home to his wife Sanna. She had a cup of hot broth waiting for him to warm him up after the cold walk home from the pipe shop. Kaapo took a sip of the broth and listened to his wife. She was speaking Finnish and it sounded a whole lot better to his ear than the German, Finnish, English mongrel tongue he used and heard used every day in the mill.

Sanna took one look at him and said, "You had a bad day. Did things go wrong again?"

Kaapo took a sip of the broth, "No, everything went right. Ari sees to that. But he just won't shut up. I think I will ask for a new partner."

"What if they put you back with Ville, or someone like him? You had to work a lot harder because Ville is lazy and you never got a bonus."

"True. But at least he'd shut up. Ari doesn't just talk constantly. He's either complaining or he's asking the same questions over again."

Sanna looked at him. "Seems to me you complained about every partner you've ever had. You've gotten a bonus every month since you started working with Ari."

"There is that. The money is nice. I just wish he'd shut up."

"Kaapo, we need the money. I could go back to working the bag line, but they'd make me stop in a few months."

"They would? Wh . . . You don't mean you're pregnant?"

Sanna smiled a radiant smile which only an expecting mother can smile.

Kaapo smiled back. "You're right. We will need the money. I will just have to put up with his chatter."

****

It was Saturday. The foreman announced it would be a short day. "We're making bowls today."

Ari, his tone of voice making it a complaint asked, "Why?"

The foreman, who put up with him because he brought up the production rate for the shift, answered, "Hey, it's your fault. We're ahead of orders."

"I hate doing those dinky little bowls," Ari complained.

"Tough," the foreman answered. "It's what we've got for the day."

"Why are we making bowls anyway?”

Ari was not the only one asking that question.

****

Countess Anna Marketta Bielke asked her business manager, Kristiina von Houwaldt, “Kristiina, I have been reviewing the production reports. Why are we making more wooden bowls when we have a warehouse full and we aren’t making money on them?”

“Anna—” The countess encouraged a casual attitude with her employees, such as she had observed while staying in Grantville. “The pipeline does not have enough orders to keep it in operation full time. The orders are coming in slowly and they are increasing. In time we will go to three shifts, but for now we run bowls to keep the men busy. It’s a break-even project. Most people carve their own bowls or buy them from someone in the village who does it as a winter job. Our main buyer is the army.

“It is just like the paper bag line. We don’t make much if anything on it but it keeps people working which keeps them from going hungry. It is in keeping with policy.”

“Could we make something else? Cups, maybe?”

“We couldn’t sell cups any better than we do bowls. The bowls will sell eventually. And eventually we will be exporting enough pipe that we won’t have time to make more bowls. We’d have to retool to make cups and we can’t justify the expense.”

****

"Sanna," Kaapo called. But his wife did not answer. The pot on the stove was boiling over. Kaapo rushed to set aside the pot boiling over on the stove. "Sanna," he called again. He heard a noise which might be his name coming from the bathroom they shared with the three other apartments in the log building. It was so much nicer to share a two-hole flush-plumbing indoor bathroom with showers than to share a two-hole outhouse. The door to the washroom opened. Sanna, looking very pale came in. She looked immediately at the cook stove, turned around and ran back to the toilet. Kaapo followed to the sound of retching.

When she came up for air, she said, "I'm sorry, Kaapo. I hope dinner isn't ruined, but the smell of cooking made me sick." She went to one of the four copper-covered sinks and splashed water on her face.

"I'm sure dinner will be all right. Should we go to the clinic?" The countess had hired a doctor and then two Grantville-trained nurses to look after the mill town.

"No," Sanna said. "It is like morning sickness. It will pass."

She started toward the stove and Kaapo said, "No, you sit down. I will see to it." Which he did, including the cleanup afterwards.

"How did your day go?"

"Fine. We made bowls. I brought another one home." They already had a stack of them. The bowls were turned out of hardwood like the pipes were, and any bowls which were not perfect were thrown out. Anyone could take them if they wanted. Sanna and Kaapo had already taken a large stack home when they went to visit their families in the village where they were raised.

"Ari didn't complain too badly?"

"Just typical. I can put up with it. The bonuses are good to have."

****

On Monday they were back to making pipe. This time they were running an eight-inch exterior diameter blank with a four-inch bore. Ari let Kaapo help move the four-inch pipe; pipe being measured to the inside diameter. Ari moved with a passion, as if to make up for Saturday on the bowl production and Sunday off. Kaapo had to hustle to keep up.

At lunch Kaapo raced through the provided meal of rich stew, good bread and a short beer. Then he went to where they cut the pipe stock to ten foot lengths before they turned them on a lathe. There he picked up a piece of scrap.

Ari, coming back to work—early as usual—asked, "What are you doing?"

Kaapo put the side job aside, "Making a stop."

Ari looked puzzled. "A stop for what?"

"Sanna and I bought one of those new chests of drawers they're making in the furniture shop." The wood shop was designed to make exportable furniture, after it met the domestic needs. So far, exporting furniture looked like it would be a long time coming. "Now she's expecting. Buying a cradle is out. Back home I would borrow one or make one, but there's no one to borrow from here and I don't have the tools, so we'll make do with one of the drawers. I just want to make sure it doesn't open all the way and fall out or shut with the baby in it. So I'm making a stop to keep it mostly open."

"Oh," Ari said, while getting back to work. “If you can afford a chest of drawers, why can’t you afford a cradle?”

“That’s the point. We couldn’t afford the chest. I bought it on time. When I brought it home, Sanna hit the roof. I wanted to go ahead and get a cradle too. But Sanna absolutely forbade it. She doesn’t like being in debt. She’s right. We can get by without it.”

Kaapo thought it odd when Ari didn't complain about the side job.

****

The next day Ari asked, "Do you want a part-time job?"

"How many hours and doing what?"

"The shipper who runs his boats up the coast making deliveries and picking up fish has one boat coming in every afternoon. After work I help unload. One of his regulars just got a job in the boatyard. So he can use another man. I told him you would come."

"How long does it take?"

"Depends on what he has. Barrels of fish heads, and salted or dried fish roll off pretty easy. The front of the boat lowers like a ramp. Boxes of fresh fish have to be carried off. It's the loading for the next morning which can take longer. The expediter has it ready, but you never know what you'll be putting on."

Kaapo said, "Give me some idea. I don't want to work another nine hours."

Ari laughed. "I don't want to either. Rarely less than two or more than four hours. The worst of the job is loading the fish heads for the glue shop on the wagon. The rest of the barrels get rolled into the warehouse. The boxes of fresh fish get put on another wagon for the store, but they are so light, it's easy."

"I'll have to stop home and tell Sanna."

****

Winter passed. The ice melted. Ships came for some of the pipe in the warehouse, along with paper, plywood and cut lumber. Some of the pipe went in the ground once it thawed and dried out. Summer also passed, as summers do.

September saw them taking a turn sanding and waxing bowls.

"I hate making bowls," Ari complained. "They do not sell!"

Kaapo replied, "If the countess wants us to make bowls she cannot sell, what does it matter? It all pays the same. Even if she is losing money on it, it is all the same."

"The difference is that making pipe is a job fit for a man and it makes money, not like making bowls. If the countess isn't making money, how long can she keep it up?"

Kaapo laughed. "Just as long as she wants. Do you have any idea how much she's making off of everything else? Did you know they were looking for something to do with the sawdust they weren't using to make garden soil so now they are going to cut ice, store it for the summer and ship it out packed in sawdust."

"That is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Who is going to buy ice?"

"The Ayrabs in Ayraby."

"I don't care if it is packed in sawdust. It will melt before it gets there."

"They don't think so. They're building a big ice house and another dock."

"I still think it's dumb."

The foreman came around. "Kaapo, they want you at the clinic. Your wife's water broke and she's in labor."

Kaapo left so fast that Ari and the foreman laughed.

When Kaapo arrived at the clinic the baby rested in Sanna's arms. The delivery had been quick and incredibly easy, especially for a first pregnancy. Sanna looked fine as she smiled and cooed at the tiny, wrinkled, red baby.

Kaapo, being concerned, asked, "Is he all right?"

"Don't be silly, Kaapo, and he is a she. She's beautiful. This is what all babies look like when they first come out."

They named their daughter Klara.

****

That evening Ari stopped by Kaapo and Sanna's apartment. He knocked on the door, and when Kaapo opened it Ari said, "Help me get this inside before it gets rained on." The "this" he needed help with was a new cradle from the furniture shop.

Kaapo looked at it. Before he could say anything Ari complained, "I just couldn't stand the idea of your kid sleeping in an open drawer. Don't worry. It's a gift. If you feel bad about accepting it, you can plan on loaning it out when you're through with it."

The next week he knocked on the door with a half bolt of good linen cloth. "You will need some more diapers."

Sanna invited him in and he spent a half-hour making faces and odd noises over the cradle.

****

"Kaapo," Sanna asked as they walked home from church on a day when the sun bounced and sparkled off of the fresh November snow, "why don't you invite Ari to dinner next Sunday? I know one of the girls who works the bag line who would make him the perfect wife. The way he loves our daughter, he will make a truly good husband and father."

"Sanna . . ." Kaapo breathed deeply before he continued. "I am sure when Ari is interested in getting married, he can find his own bag girl."

"Nonsense. He's just shy."

This caused Kaapo to snort. "Shy? Ari? Are we talking about the same man?"

"Yes, he's shy. Now you listen to me, Kaapo. Ari will be much happier when he is married and has children of his own. You ask him to Sunday dinner."

On Monday, near the end of the shift, Kaapo screwed his courage up and broached a topic he was not completely comfortable with. "Ari, Sanna told me to ask you to come to our house after church for dinner this Sunday."

Ari seemed to sense Kaapo's discomfort. "Sure. Why not?"

"Why not? Because. She is going to invite one of her friends from when she worked the bag line. She's trying to match you up with a wife, Ari. That's why not."

"Oh. Yes. I see your point. Still, if Sanna asked I don't see how I can say no. I don't want to get her mad at me."

When he came to dinner, he brought a fine sheepskin to line the cradle with. "It's to keep the little one warm," he said. "She's such a small thing she can't make enough heat to be happy."

****

"Did you hear?" Kaapo asked Ari. "They have a warehouse full of sawdust and now they're going to turn some of it into charcoal and press it into little bricks."

"That's even dumber than sending ice to Africa."

****

Early in July Kaapo came home to find his home in a mess. "What is going on?" he asked, looking around.

"A building supervisor stopped by this morning and asked when it would be all right for them to do some work on the apartment. I said any time and he said, 'how about today.' Since there are now three of us, they are putting a loft over part of the washroom."

"We can't put a cradle up in a loft."

"No, but Klara won't be a baby forever. They're looking to the future."

****

The seasons turned. October claimed its turn on the calendar's front page.

"Kaapo, you look like someone just kic—" Ari stopped in mid-word. "What's wrong?"

"The baby has the measles. The clinic says to keep her warm and feed her often and to get a wet nurse if Sanna can't feed her enough to keep her wetting her diapers. They said there is nothing else they can do. But she's not keeping anything down. The nurse said it doesn't look good."

"Damn it!" Ari said. "It's not fair. She's just a year old. I thought with the sewer system and running water, the kids weren't suppose to get sick."

Kaapo shrugged.

For the next three days, Ari worked without uttering a word beyond those absolutely needed to do the job. Tears ran down his quiet face at the funeral.

All the next week, after the funeral, Ari said only what had to be said, and truth be told not even half of that. Kaapo began to find it oppressive. The following week the silence continued until Kaapo broke down and screamed. "Damn it, Ari, say something. You're scaring the life out of me."

At the sound of someone screaming, the foreman came running, expecting to find either an accident or a fight, either one being bad news. When he got there he found both men working away in complete silence with tears running down their faces. There was no blood and they were still working, so it wasn't an accident. There were no red patches which would be bruises later. Ari could have twisted Kaapo into knots as easily as he lifted a two inch pipe over his head, so it wasn't a fight. "What's going on? Is everything all right?" the foreman demanded.

At first neither man said a word. Then Ari started to a shake exactly like a man who was swallowing too much grief.

"We'll work it out," Kaapo said. "It just needs some time."

The foreman looked at the blank in the jigs. "Listen, offload this one and get out of here. You're already over quota for the day. Go get drunk and come back tomorrow, ready to work without screaming at each other." The foreman looked at Ari. "Forget finishing this one. I'll do it. Just get him out of here and go get him drunk."

Kaapo led Ari out of the shop. The man had his eyes closed and his jaw clamped.

In the nearest tavern, Ari poured his first beer down his throat almost as fast as you could say the words. Kaapo pushed his beer across the table and it followed the first one just as quickly. The barmaid saw the first empty, and knowing the symptoms, had two more beers there about the time there was a second empty mug on the table. This time Ari gulped a solid portion of his beer but did not guzzle it all in one lift.

When the mug was sitting on the table Ari said, "I had a wife." Tears ran down his face. "We had three children. Each died before their first birthday. Then Anna died giving birth to the fourth child." Both men were crying again. "It's not fair," Ari said quietly. "Anna was a sweet little thing. All of the children had her eyes and looked like they would have my size. The first three were boys, the fourth a girl." Ari kept talking about his wife and children as tears streamed down his face. "When the girl died a few days after I lost her mother, I walked away, leaving everything I had for my family to split up. I walked for three months. When my money ran out, I found work or walked hungry." Tears started to dry up. "When I tried to get a job on a boat to work my way across the sea, the captain said no, but he would give me a ride to where I could find a good job if I agreed to pay him later. What he wanted was three times what the passage normally costs. I didn't care. When we got here he took me to a tavern and introduced me to Aappo and told him I was a good worker and I was looking for a job." Ari chuckled a bit. "How he knew I was a good worker, I have no idea. But he didn't care if I had an Orthodox name instead of a Lutheran one and so I might be Rus. Aappo didn't care, either. I think giving me a job was the captain calling in a favor Aappo owed him. Anyway, Aappo walked me over to the mill and turned me over to the office there, and here I am." The tears had pretty much stopped flowing.

"Then the priest threw a fit when he learned my name. Aristarkhos is Orthodox, after all. If I have an Orthodox name then I might be Rus. I'm not. But I might be, and people around here have no use for Russians. I'm from LakeLadoga, and we're Karelian. The priest, no, the pastor, made sure I knew my catechism. I think he was more concerned about making sure I was paying my tithes." At this both Ari and Kaapo laughed.

"Well, that's how I got here. What's your story?" Ari asked.

"The farm had a bad harvest. There wasn't enough food to see us all through the winter. Sanna wanted to come work the bag line. We left my half of the farm in my brother's care and keeping, and came here. Sanna went to work on the bag line until I got on at the mill. We were only going to stay through the winter. Now it looks like we will never go back except to visit."

The barmaid kept the beers coming right up to the time they left for three hours. When they came back after offloading and loading a boat, she kept the beers coming until she decided they had had enough and cut them off.

The next day the two of them showed up at work with hangovers. The foreman looked at them and nodded. He pulled them off of their regular job and sent them to sand and wax bowls. It was a boring, miserable, job which was sometimes used as punishment. Or you might end up on the detail if your partner didn't show up. But, in this case, it was easier to check on the work when it was done than to risk having someone hurt around the powered machinery.

****

The seasons changed yet again. One Saturday Kaapo said, "Sanna wants you to come to Sunday dinner tomorrow."

"She does? Is she playing matchmaker again?" Ari asked.

"I think the word is 'still.' Yeah, she will have a bag girl there to balance the table. But the real reason is she's pregnant and she wants you to stand godfather to the child."

Ari got quiet. "Yes, I can do that."

"Well, she wants to ask you so I didn't tell you about it. Okay?"

"Yes."

****

When dinner was over Ari offered to walk Anna, the bag girl friend of Sanna's who was there to balance the table, back to the dorms.

"Well, that's a first," Kaapo said. "Ari never walked home with any of the other girls you set him up with. Maybe, after what—four or five tries—just maybe you got it right this time."

"Kaapo, I gave up. Anna is completely wrong for Ari. I just invited her to dinner because she is a friend."

"Well, it looks like he likes your friend."

****

The next day, when the tool head bit the wood and started to eat its way to the end, Kaapo, asked Ari, “How did the walk to the dorms go?”

“Fine. We’re having dinner at the diner tomorrow.”

“So you like Anna.”

“She’s sweet, she’s got a solid head on her shoulders. She wants a family and would like to go back to farming, just like I would. But when she stops and thinks about it, the long hours, the backbreaking work, the weather and all the other things that can go wrong, she changes her mind, just like I do. We’ve got it good here, Kaapo.”

“That we do, Ari. That we do.”

****

“So,” Kaapo asked, “How was dinner at the diner?”

“Anna likes pizza. So do I, but not like she does.”

“And?”

“I brought the topic of marriage up. After all, I’ve got a good job and better prospects. It would get us both out of the dorms. We’d have to wait to get married until more married housing is finished, but so far we’re just talking about it. It seems strange talking to her about it. Back home, I knew who I was going to marry from when I first knew what marriage was. If I hadn’t left when my wife died, I know exactly who I would have married next. But here I’ve got to ask and she might say no. It’s not at all like asking her father.”

****

"Kaapo, I've been thinking," Ari said one day out of the blue.

"Yeah?" Kaapo asked, only half-listening, which was pretty much the only way to work with Ari.

"Anything over a four-inch pipe they make out of a dozen wooden staves held together with iron hoops like a barrel."

"Yes."

"Kaapo, the sky is falling?"

"Yes."

"Kaapo!"

The sharpness of the tone caught Kaapo's attention. He looked up and made eye contact. "Yes?"

"You're not listening. I said, I've been thinking."

"Did it hurt?" Kaapo asked.

"No," Ari replied, "but if I have to start this over one more time, I promise it is going to hurt you more than it hurts me. Why aren't they boring out the six-inch pipe instead of making it out of staves and hoops?'

"Because," Kaapo said, "if they did, it would be a ten-inch exterior diameter. No one would want to work with a log that size the same way we work the two- and four-inch pipes. You would want a block and tackle."

"I'd do it."

"No ordinary, sane, person would." Kaapo said.

"You would."

"I would? Why would I?"

"Because it would pay more?" Ari reasoned.

"Okay. But, there would be a lot of waste, boring it out to six inches. Why would they?"

"For the same reason they bore four-inch pipe instead of making it out of staves."

"Why's that?" Kaapo asked.

Ari shrugged. "I don't know. Save on iron strapping maybe? Leaks less, maybe? I've never asked. But if it is better for four-inch, why isn't it better for six-inch?"

"Hm." Kaapo did not have answer. "I don't know, either. So, write it up and put it in the suggestion box."

"You know I can't write," Ari complained.

"So? Do what I did. Sign up for the classes and learn."

"The classes are in Finnish. I mostly use the German I picked up from the aunt who raised me. My uncle brought her with him when he came back from running off to be a soldier. You write it up for us," Ari said.

"For us? It's your idea. Your bonus, if it works."

"I could use the bonus to set up housekeeping with Anna. But I still can’t write. If you write it up, it's our idea."

****

Two weeks later Ari and Kaapo were told, "If you fellows want to try running six-inch pipe through a boring machine, the company has decided to let you try, since they already have the tooling for it to run the joints."

Ari started to ask something but the foreman cut him off. "Yes, Ari they will pay a premium."

A week later a smiling foreman facetiously asked if they wanted to try their hand at running eight-inch pipe.

Kaapo, not realizing the man was joking, looked at the foreman, cross-eyed in disbelief.

Ari looked at the foreman and said, "I don't think so. First, you'd have to build a special rig for it. These stays were made to hold the cradles for two- and four-inch pipes. They are too high to center an eight-inch bore. The stays which aren't too high, aren't set up for stock ten feet long. I don't know if these stays would hold up to the weight and stress of boring an eight-inch bore. So if you do it, you would have to have new, special-built stays. Second, we had to get the mechanic to put a smaller drive wheel on the overhead shaft to slow things down.

"So . . ." Ari ticked the points off on his fingers. "One, the stays won't hold a cradle for eight-inch pipe. Two, the drive probably would not be up to it, and three, are you crazy? You must be. No sane person would want to handle twelve-inch logs at ten feet without a block and tackle. No crazy person would either. Not even Kaapo, no matter how much you paid him."

The smiling foreman turned to Kaapo. "Does he always tell you things you already know?"

****

Second Chance Bird, Episode Five

Written by Garrett W. Vance

Chapter Twenty-Four: Aftermath

Captured Oriental Junk, South Coast of Mauritius

Pam watched while the sailors cleaned the blood from the decks of their prize. The flickering light of the torches made their shadows leap and dance, lending the scene an eerie, otherworldly quality. An hour had passed since their success in capturing the junk, its original, presumably Chinese, merchants having perished at the hands of an organized gang of what she thought must be Arab pirates. She based that guess on their clothing and behavior, but most of the denizens of the seventeenth-century Indian Ocean were still a mystery to her. She had a hunch that she would be learning a lot more about this part of the world in the days to come and, based on what she had experienced so far, doubted it would be pleasant.

Just twenty minutes ago she had watched her men cut down the severed heads of the junk's former owners from where they had been hung as trophies, a gruesome display courtesy of the pirates of the Indian Ocean. It was a grisly task. Pam felt pity that they had died in such a horrible way. She had asked that they be wrapped in a sack and given a Christian burial at sea. No one had any idea what their religion in life might have been, so Lutheran would have to do. Having borne witness to that brief but dignified ritual, she now waited to be returned to their beach refuge.

The uncomfortable feeling that none of this was real that sometimes swept over her came again. She felt as if she had wandered into some live-action period drama, a terrible tale of fighting seamen and ruthless brigands of days gone by and that any minute the lights would come up and the actors would shed their costumes. She closed her eyes hard for a moment, wishing with all her might that she would wake up back in the future age she had been born in. But when she opened her eyes, she was still there on the blood-splattered deck. Damn! Forcing herself to stay calm and make the panic subside she thought This is not "days gone by." This is now days! These are new days, these are my days and I must live them, like it or not! Gritting her teeth, she felt her head begin to clear. The scene came back into focus. Although lacking somewhat in sophistication, the current age certainly brimmed with action.

A watch of what she thought of as "the Marines," under the command of LöjtnantLundkvist was assembling on deck. All the sailors could fight, and fight well as she had seen, but these men specialized in it. They would stay aboard to guard their new ship, a bizarre and brightly-painted three-masted vessel that dwarfed lost Redbird in size and complexity, while the rest of the tired crew and Pam's personal staff returned to the beach camp. There was a lot of clean up left to do, but once the gory decks had been swabbed, the rest could wait for morning. The slain pirates were to be thrown as they were into the sea with no wrapping or ceremony.

"Those poor Chinamen are one thing but these lot don't deserve any better," the bosun said, his voice surprisingly cold. "Let the crabs have them, the murdering sons of dogs."

Pam nodded, trying not to look at the sheet-wrapped body of their friend Fritjof lying nearby. Fritjof and the bosun had been close, sailing together for many long years. The injured look on the normally gruff but cheerful bosun's face was enough to make Pam cry. She briefly considered weeping again, but the tears wouldn't come. She was all cried out for this night. Maybe in the morning. Meanwhile, dark thoughts like "I've killed men with my own hands!" and "More good men have died for my cause!" tried to push themselves into her consciousness, but she was too tired and ignored them until their shrill accusations fell away. She knew they would return, demanding to be heard in the early hours of the morning when she would stare at the shadow-filled ceiling of her hut and remember. But not just now.

Looking around the deck, she saw that not all the men's faces were grim. Some were beginning to admire their prize and clap each other on their backs in celebration of a hard-fought victory. Pam made herself smile for them. She knew that for some reason they looked to her, so she allowed herself to share some of their pleasure. They had won, they had a ship, it was foreign and weird but definitely seaworthy. Now they were free and able to take action! Pam turned her gaze away from the orange glow of the torch-lit deck to peer at the dark mass of the coastline. Her colonists were out there, somewhere, and they were certainly in trouble.

"We'll come for you," she spoke into the night in a voice beneath a whisper. "We're ready now, hold on!"

A few minutes later Pam sat in the back of the pinnace as the exhausted sailors rowed through the tranquility of a wind-less night. She was heading back to the simple comforts of her bamboo hut with her most trusted friends, Gerbald and Dore, as well as young Pers, injured Rask and the earthly remains of Mård and Fritjof. Mård had been a shy fellow. Pam hadn't gotten to know him very well but she recalled that he had always spoken gently to Pers, even when the lad was being a teen-age idiot, and so she thought highly of the man for that. She would miss his face, and dear old Fritjof's. Their places would be empty at breakfast. These fallen heroes would be given a proper burial on the grassy mound beside the first mate in the morning.

Dore turned to see Pam looking at the shrouded corpses with an expression that held all the world's cares. She reached for Pam's hand and squeezed it. Pam returned the squeeze gratefully and the two of them looked back at their captured ship. The vivid colors of her lacquered woodwork and fanciful carvings in the flickering torchlight made her seem like something come sailing out of a dream, a phantasmagorical craft from beyond the edge of the world.

"What a day." Pam said, while Dore solemnly nodded in agreement.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Breakfast of Champions

Beach Camp of the Redbird Castaways, South Coast of Mauritius

Pam slept like a stone. The marvelous aroma of coffee brewing wafted through her little window and summoned her from slumber just half an hour after dawn, bringing her forth to blink at an already too-bright sky filled with enormous cotton clouds. She managed to stagger down to the cook-fire to join the men waiting for breakfast. The Swedish crew always treated her with deference but this morning they all leaped to their feet, except Rask who was still nursing his injuries but who looked much better as he smiled widely at her, and then made much fuss about finding her the most comfortable seat next to the fire. She leaned over to Gerbald and quietly asked him in German, "What's up with these guys? Since when do I get the star treatment?"

Gerbald smiled his best "You have asked the Fount of Wisdom" smile at her. "Pam, you really don't know? Think about what you did yesterday! It was you who lead them to victory! You even killed a number of the enemy yourself! You are their hero!"

Pam blinked at this revelation and then smiled, though her brow remained furrowed.

"Well, Howdy Doody," she muttered in English. "Now I'm a hero. I just wish I felt like one." Dore handed Pam her coffee but she just stared into its steaming darkness for a while, savoring the aroma along with a growing feeling of pride.

Dore seemed completely unfazed by the wild events of the day before and was going about her tasks with her usual efficiency. As Pam began to sip the wonderful native coffee from her coconut-shell mug, she was pleased to see that her friend had concocted some kind of culinary miracle from the final remnants of Redbird's food stores, ingredients Dore had been jealously guarding and doling out slowly over the months of their isolation.

"No point in saving all this now! Much longer and it all would have gone bad anyway," she said brightly, stirring a rich broth of salt pork, beans, dried onions, and butter, all thickened with the last of the flour and seasoned with a variety of herbs and spices. Everyone was beginning to crowd around the cook-pot, staring at it with hungry eyes.

"Stay back now, you fellows. There's enough for everyone and we need to save some for the men on the ship!" Dore chided them, but in a tone set at a less stern pitch than usual.

Pam, beginning to achieve caffeinated consciousness, now noticed that Dore hadn't put her beautiful burnished brass and silver streaked hair up in its usual severe bun this morning. Instead she wore it in a loose braid over her shoulder, tied with a string to keep strays out of her eyes. Pam smiled to see this development. Dore was definitely wound a bit less tight today. Evidently a little "harlot dancing" had been just the thing for her ever-serious friend.

After filling themselves with the delicious and hearty soup, they all stood up, stretched and made ready for the solemn duty they had to perform this morning. Singing a Christian hymn that was ancient even in the seventeenth century, many of the words of which Pam couldn't catch, the Swedes carried their dead down the beach with all the respect one might have afforded the kings of old.

The dodos followed along behind the procession, forming a peculiar kind of honor guard, cooing and chuckling softly but keeping a polite distance instead of engaging in their usual snack begging. Pam thought they must be able to sense the somber mood and once again was surprised at their intelligence. The dodos really were not dummies. They had just evolved in a place where there was no need to fear bands of roving carnivorous apes. The sight of what to Pam was almost a mythical creature, alive and thriving right before her wondering eyes, made her heart race yet again, and brought a modicum of good cheer to her heavy heart. All this fuss, all this trouble is really for you, funny birds! she thought at the exquisitely odd creatures.

At their lonely little seaside cemetery, Pam saw that two graves had been dug already. Getting up early for hard work was nothing new to sailors and Pam respected them all the more for it.

There were four grave markers now, all made of sturdy boards salvaged from Redbird, their epitaphs painted on with Pam's waterproof acrylics and further protected by a coating of amber-tinted tree pitch. Each bore the name and rank of their fallen and, if known, their birth date and birthplace, followed by their country, Sverige, the date and, lastly, the name of their ill-fated ship.

The fourth marker had gone up this morning along with Fritjof's and Mård's but there was no grave at its feet. It was a memorial to their captain, Pam had been putting off looking at it for a while and finally decided it was the right thing to do and she would have to face it. The marker read: Torbjörn, Captain of the Redbird. After the official names and dates Pam had added, "He stayed behind to save us all. Lost at sea, we pray this brave man yet lives." She had done the work alone in her hut, not wanting the others to see her tears as she painted this memorial to their lost friend, a man who, if he was still with them, maybe, just maybe, would have become something more to her. Now, standing among her band of castaways all gathered for a funeral yet again, she sent a brief thought across the rolling waves. Torbjörn, if you are out there somewhere please know we haven't forgotten you! I haven't forgotten you! Please be alive!

The burial ceremony was brief but emotional. The bosun spoke the Lord's Prayer and the twenty-third Psalm in Swedish, his voice cracking, the loss of his long time friends and shipmates having hurt him deeply. Pers stood beside him, lending his quiet support. The bosun then asked Pam to recite Tennyson's Crossing the Bar as she had for First Mate Janvik. She managed to get through it in a calm, clear voice despite the great sense of loss within her. Pam had brought along the photo of Kristina that Fritjof had prized so much. She considered burying it with him but decided the fine old gentleman would have been more pleased to have it hanging proudly in a place of honor on their next ship. Holding it to her breast she spoke quietly to her fallen friend as he was gently lowered into the sandy grave.

"I won't ever forget you, Fritjof. I will do as I promised and tell the princess of your bravery in battle and your dedication to her cause. I will tell her of the great love you felt for her and how you served her so well, just as soon as I see her again." An unwelcome thought intruded. If. If you see her again. Pam looked out at the captured Oriental junk floating in their lonely bay, its vivid colors glowing ethereally in the morning light. Our chances have improved by a lot. She left a small bouquet of wildflowers beneath each of the four markers, whispering "thank you" to each. Then she walked back down the beach, trying hard not to think too much on all they had lost and concentrating instead on what they might now hope to gain.

Gerbald caught up to her and gave her the look that said "Is this a good time?" He knew Pam's emotions ran deep and that sometimes she just needed to be alone. She saw his cautious approach, smiled and took his arm, something she rarely did. He patted her hand in an awkward, big brotherly way, glad that she wasn't taking things too hard. They walked together in silence for a few minutes then Gerbald said, "Pam, this morning the bosun told me it will take a day or two to make this junk ready to sail. They 'need to figure out if this fancy painted contraption can be sailed by Christian men.' I believe those were his words." They both laughed. Pam had watched the bosun studying the junk from the shore during breakfast and couldn't tell from his expression if it was love or loathing he was feeling for the strange new ship he would be responsible for.

"He's a smart guy. They all are. They'll figure it out."

"Indeed, I have the highest confidence. In any event, it seems we have a little more time to spend here and I thought of something you might like to do."

Pam's eyebrow's arched up at him, her gray eyes sparking with curiosity. "Ooh, what, do tell! Do you have a box of chocolate cherry bonbons and a bottle of kirschwasser hidden away for me?"

"Nothing so immediately gratifying." He laughed. "We are getting low on coffee and who knows when we might come across it again? I thought we might hike back up the mountain and resupply ourselves, perhaps even bring back some live specimens. That is, if you feel up to it." Gerbald's face was perfectly straight but she detected the tiny wrinkle around the corner of his mouth that revealed he was terribly pleased with his idea.

"I take back everything I said about you, Gerbald. You are a real stand-up guy, a real pal." Pam kidded him, slapping him on his sturdy bicep with her free hand. They both grinned, Gerbald knowing the teasing praise was really sincere.

Pam noticed that the dodos had fallen in around them, cooing contentedly, spread out around their path in search of sand fleas and bits of seaweed.

"I have an idea that will go well with yours," she said, nodding at their avian companions "Let's take them with us."

"I'll get some nuts and dried fruit from Dore for the bait. I'm sure she will be happy to provide. She won't be missing what she has come to refer to as 'those flightless pests!' It is only her deep respect for your wishes that has kept them out of her stew pot." Gerbald grinned.

Chapter Twenty-Six: Ups and Downs

A while later, as Pam gathered supplies for their day trip, she found a rather depressed looking Pers carrying odds and ends from the sailor's longhouse down to the beach for transfer to the ship. He was still bruised from his encounter with the pirate captain, but had been deemed fit enough for light duty. Pam stopped him as he hurried by without so much as a greeting for her.

"Hey, Pers, are you all right?" Pam asked him, first checking to make sure they were out of earshot of his boss, the bosun.

"Oh, yes, Pam, I'm fine." The boy managed to give her a small smile but still didn't look fine. Pam figured he was just tired and feeling bad about losing two more comrades, as they all were. Pers was a real good kid and had been very brave, not to mention a good sport, dressing up for their friendly natives act and Pam wanted to do something to cheer him up.

"Well, maybe so, but you look like you could use some fun anyway. Gerbald and I are going to hike up to the mountain to get more coffee today. Would you like to join us? We could use your help carrying the beans back. That is, if you're up to it. You took a pretty good beating last night!"

Immediately Pers face lit up. "Oh yes, I feel a lot better this morning! I'd like to come with you very much!"

"Great! It will be a good chance for you to work on your English, and your German, too. We haven't had much time for your lessons lately. Let's go talk to the bosun."

Pam led Pers straight to the very busy gentlemen who was just about to board the pinnace to be rowed out to their gaudy new vessel.

"Herr Bosun, I wonder if you can spare me Pers for the day. Gerbald and I are going for a resupply of coffee and could use some help carrying it back."

The bosun smiled, having become an aficionado of the bitter drink himself. "We are likely going to be all day figuring out how that floating fancy is sailed and I think we can spare the lad." He turned to Pers, who was looking brighter by the minute, and told him "Now, you mind Frau Pam, young fellow, and stay out of trouble!"

"Yes, sir!" Pers looked like his usual happy-go-lucky self again.

"Thanks! We'll be back by sundown," Pam told the bosun. He gave her a salute and stepped into the pinnace which immediately pulled out into the gentle surf. Pam was sure it was the first time the bosun had ever used that particular gesture with her. and it made her feel a bit uncomfortable.

A few minutes later she, Gerbald and a much cheered-up Pers were heading down the beach to collect the flock of dodos that had decided to become their permanent neighbors. The problem was that their current humans were leaving and future visitors were not likely to be as gentle.

"I just can't leave them here on the beach," Pam said as they handed out treats to the now nearly tame animals. "The next people who land here might put them on the menu. We have to lead them back up into the forests where we found them and then throw them off our trail."

"No problem," Gerbald said confidently.

The dodos, having determined that these three humans were today's most promising food source, followed them as they left the shore for the interior, encouraged along the way by frequent treats.

"I have heard these dodos are supposed to be quite foolish," Pers mused. "But they don't really seem so to me. They always seem to know who has food and who is likely to give them some!" He chuckled as a dodo gingerly took the nut he offered with its massive beak, its yellow eyes bright with what Pam took for pleasure.

"We have made them into terrible beggars," Gerbald added. "I wonder if it was situations such as this that helped lead to their extinction back in that other world you came from, Pam. The dodos getting used to people and coming around for handouts until one day they find themselves in the stew pot."

"Well, based on what we have observed, it all fits. It was very selfish of me to give them food just so they would sit still for a portrait. No true wildlife scientist ever baits their subjects. I feel awful that here I am trying to save them and put this flock in more danger instead." Pam's face drew down in a deep frown.

"Now, now Pam, you mustn't think that way!" Gerbald told her, knowing that it would be best for them all if he could improve her mood quickly. "No one else on the planet cares about these creatures as much as you do and ultimately it will be you who prevent their loss in this world. I am confident in your abilities."

"As am I!" Pers chimed in "You will save the dodos Pam, it is your destiny!" Pers' exuberant sureness in her made Pam laugh, the frowns forgotten for now.

"Well, it feels like we're making progress again. Maybe we can still give the dodos their second chance."

"Come along you, second chance birds!" Pers called happily, starting to walk up the trail with the dodos in tow, waving a banana in his hand like a parade baton. Several of the larger birds crowded around in front of him, stretching their necks up after the banana and blocking his way up the path. Pers eventually had to push past them and scowled at the insistent birds. "Argh, you stupid creatures! I take back the nice things I said. You are too greedy!" Pam and Gerbald enjoyed a silent smirk at the youth's expense, they had both had the same thing happen to them after all.

Soon enough they were sorted out and on their way again. After conferring with their most experienced woodsman, Gerbald, they decided to lead the dodos to a similar, but different part of the forest than they had found them in. Hopefully the dodos would be disoriented by the purposefully convoluted journey. Better yet, if the same kind of foraging were available in the new territory, the ever-hungry birds would be distracted enough to make finding the beach again not worth the bother. Reaching the top of the first rise a couple of miles from camp, they looked back to see the junk sailing around in a tight circle out in the bay, the small forms of the sailors running about her decks like angry ants beneath the red sails.

"Shhhh, listen!" Pam told her companions as she leaned on her walking stick and pointed toward the obviously misbehaving ship. The wind was blowing inland and even at that distance it carried a faint stream of curses from the bosun. She put a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing.

"Sounds like they are having a wonderful time," Gerbald whispered, unable to keep from chuckling at the foul language. "The bosun could make a career of the opera. His voice certainly carries well."

Pers gazed at the humorous scene with a wistful expression on his face even though he chuckled along with Gerbald. Pam saw this and knew something was still eating the kid, she vowed to find out before the day was done.

****

The temperature grew uncomfortably hot as noon approached. The near-daily rains seemed to have spilled themselves dry for a spell but Pam suspected they would be back. Today it felt like high West Virginia summer here in the Tropic of Capricorn and they were grateful when they finally entered the moist depths of the forest. The shade of the great trees was a cooling balm. The dodos became excited, scuttling through the underbrush and squawking in what sounded like happy tones to Pam. She sighed despite the pleasure at escaping the too bright sun, remembering that back in her original century Mauritius had lost nearly all of its original vegetation through rampant logging and uncontrolled agriculture. Not this time,shevowed. The colonists agreed to follow the modern sustainability practices I researched. We can't let that happen again! then another darker possibility entered her mind. It will only work if my colonists are still alive. She pushed the thought away. She knew better than to start stacking up her cares too high; it just made her feel overwhelmed. One step at a time she reminded herself and breathed deeply to help keep herself calm.

To further distract herself from her endless list of cares, Pam set about identifying what trees that she could. While Grantville had by no means contained a plethora of information on such a remote place, Pam had found out quite a bit about the Mascarenes in her studies, surprisingly more than she had thought she would. She spoke aloud as she led them across the forest floor, sharing the knowledge with her companions.

"Let's see, what tree have we here! I think this is Foetidia mauritiana. It's named for the strong smell of its oil. Straight trunk, gray bark, a bit of red in the leaves. I'm pretty sure that's it. This fellow over here must be Diospyros tessellaria, one of the ebony trees. It's nearly twenty meters high, black bark, long glossy leaves. If we are careful and harvest its wood wisely, we can make a lot of money for the colony. It's perfect for piano keys and from what I've seen there's going to be a booming business in those things back in the USE."

"It's beautiful," Pers commented, gently running his fingers across the bark. "I've always hated cutting down trees, but I know we must sometimes."

Pam favored the youth with a beatific smile. "A necessary evil. If things go our way we will protect a great many trees, such as these here, and those that we do harvest, we will replace with new. That way we can have wood for generations to come instead of just lopping them all down and leaving nothing for later, as so many fools have. That's what happened in my other history, here and a lot of other places before people wised up to the concept of sustainability. Even once we knew better, far too many people continued clear cutting, only interested in what they could get for themselves, not about the future. It was awful. We made our world ugly and sick."

Gerbald nodded his solemn agreement. "There are many hunters in the Germanies such as myself who would see it done in your way. But every year the forests shrink. Unfortunately, greed usually wins and the trees come down. There will be no animals left to hunt if it continues."

"Well," Pam said with a sigh, "and I do hate to say this, it's probably already too late to save much of what's left of Germany's old growth forests. In an ideal world, the arrival of Grantville might have slowed things like uncontrolled logging down. But from what I see, most of us Americans are dancing around the fires of industry as if they were the Golden Calf. The people concerned with the ecological impact of our early-industrial revolution I can count on one hand, starting with me."

"Well, that's a start," Gerbald said. "If you add me, you will have six. As a hunter, I'd like to see the Thüringerwald preserved. Surely we can do better."

"And I seven!" Pers chimed in. "I don't believe that when God gave man dominion over the Earth He intended for us to destroy all in our path, yet I have seen such in every port. It is shameful."

Pam's eyebrows rose high on her forehead at such an erudite statement from their young Gilligan. Pers, though still in many ways a carefree youth, was paying attention to the world around him. Her fondness for the boy deepened and she allowed herself a bit of pride in knowing that she had played a significant role in his education. She gave them both a big smile as she sat down on a large round rock to take a breather.

"Well, looks like I've made two converts to the Pam Miller Tree Hugging Society. A good start indeed." After taking a quick look around to make sure the dodos weren't close by, she reached into her pocket to pull out the shaved coconut, dried fruit and nut gorp trail mix she had brought along and carefully unwrapped its banana leaf container so as not to spill it.

"Here, help yourselves!" she invited her companions, lifting her open hand up in offering. Pers and Gerbald both took a step forward but then stopped, eyes wide. Even though neither of them were anywhere near her palm she felt a pressure there and heard what could only be a chewing sound. Shifting her eyes to her hand she was stunned to see a very strange face; a wide beak of a nose shaped like a rounded ship's prow with two holes for nostrils beneath which a wide, lip-less mouth was chewing gorp. Dark, liquid eyes regarded her calmly from behind droopy lids set in thick, scaly gray skin. This startling visage was at the end of a very long neck that snaked down into a horn-like saddle.

To her credit Pam didn't panic, successfully conquering her first instinct to flee screaming. If she had been in any real danger Gerbald would have taken care of it by now anyway with his warrior's reflexes, long before she could react. The creature was obviously harmless.

"What is it?" Pers asked in a hushed tone.

"It must be a dinosaur!" Gerbald answered, laughing with delight.

Pam felt the large "rock" beneath her shift slightly as the long-necked creature took another gentle mouthful of trail mix. Looking down she could see that she sat on the smooth, green-gray plates of its wide shell.

"Gentlemen," she announced with some bravado, "meet the giant Mascarene tortoise. I remember reading about them and wondering why they weren't as well known as the Galapagos version. The answer was, of course, that they had become extinct along with the dodo, but the dodo got the starring role in the tragedy."

"The dodo is a most engaging creature," Gerbald said. "But this fellow has personality as well. I am a hunter by nature but I confess I wouldn't be able to kill such a soulful-eyed beast unless I was in great need of food."

"Yeah, he's pretty cute, huh?" Pam carefully slid off her living seat to kneel beside the placid creature, offering it more gorp which it took daintily from her palm with a wide, blueish-hued tongue. "Unfortunately a lot of hungry people who aren't as kind as you will end up here in the years to come, unless we get in control of things first." Pam gently stroked the tortoise's shell. "This must be the saddle-backed version. They were . . . or, I'm pleased to say . . . are inhabitants of the forests, adapted to stretch their necks up in search of leaves and fruit. There's another closely-related type with a shorter neck and rounder shell that live in the grasslands." Pam gave the tortoise the last of her gorp as she rubbed it gently on its scaly skull, which it seemed to like. Its heavy-lidded eyes half closed in delight.

After a long minute of deep thought, Pam stood up and looked at her friends. Her face was pale in the arboreal shadows and filled with cares.

"Ya know, guys, sometimes it just seems like too much. This island is so complex, we are barely scratching the surface of understanding how these ecologies work and now we are introducing human settlers even earlier than they came here in my other history. I hope I've made the right decisions. I hope I can make all this work. It's really a lot on my plate. Sometimes I just feel overwhelmed." Her shoulders were slumped and she looked at the tortoise with a helpless expression.

"Pam, you must not forget that we are with you in this. You do not face these burdens alone," Gerbald told her. "Can you not see that myself and Dore, this fine lad Pers, the bosun, and all the men of the Redbird support you? You carry too much on your shoulders. We lend you our strength. Please, take it."

Pam took a deep breath before speaking in a low, but controlled tone. "I know you do. I'm stupid for forgetting it. It's just that sometimes I get scared by my new life here. If you had seen me back up-time in Grantville you wouldn't have recognized me. I was a failure as a wife, as a mother . . . it seemed like no matter how hard I tried nothing worked. The only thing I ever got right was science, so I got some education and went to work, and that helped, but now I'm not a lab tech. I'm the lead scientist. I'm the one who has to make the big decisions and it's freaking me out! I feel like I hold the lives of all these living creatures, the lives of all these people who came here with me, in my hands. And so far I've sucked at it." She had started calmly but by the end of her words her voice was freighted with emotion.

Pers had a good grasp of up-time American English vernacular, thanks more to Gerbald's wise-cracks than Pam's lessons and knew what "sucked"' meant.

"Pam, you do not suck. I can assure you none of we Swedes think that. We admire you. We think of you as the brave lady, our wise woman, a warrior! You must not think of yourself in such a bad way, please. Listen to Herr Gerbald! We will all help you succeed!" There was no mistaking the deep concern and sincerity in Pers' young voice.

Pam visibly pulled herself together, rubbing her flushed face and clearing flyaway locks from her brow. She nodded, favored them each with a tiny but sweet smile, gave the giant tortoise a final pat on the head, then turned and started walking. Pers and Gerbald watched her go, giving her the time and space she had silently asked them for. After a minute Gerbald clapped a still worried Pers companionably on the back. "Well done, my boy."

Pers stood tall, feeling as if he had just been knighted.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Farewells and Beginnings

Pam's mood improved as they left the gloom of the forest behind and began the ascent into higher country. The sun was still bright but there was a cool breeze dancing across the rocks and shrubs that made the afternoon light bearable. Gerbald and Pers picked their own paths nearby. They traveled in a silence that would be up to her to break, but not just yet. She paused, looking back to see that the dodos had stopped at the edge of the forest. Apparently the open hillsides were not to their liking or maybe the long walk had tuckered out their stocky legs.

This was good-bye to the flock that Pam had gotten to know so well. They would return by a different path so the birds wouldn't follow them back to the perils of the beach. She took a long, last look, a kind of mental photograph she was sure she would never forget. In her heart she had a comforting feeling that it wouldn't really be the last time she would see these birds. Satisfied, Pam gave the dodos a smile and a farewell wave then turned away to continue her climb up the gentle slopes of Coffee Mountain. A mile or so later she looked back once more and the dodos were gone, returned to their former life hunting for nuts and grubs amongst the great trees of this innocent island paradise. Pam envied them.

Upon reaching the top, Pam opened the picnic lunch she and Dore had concocted, which included a small flask of rum to celebrate with.

"Come and get it, fellas!" she called as she lay the offerings out on a broad, flat boulder conveniently placed near the summit. They would enjoy their meal with a fabulous view. Somehow Dore had managed to bake a simple bread in her stone oven. They filled each loaf with crab meat, thinly sliced Barbel palm hearts, bamboo shoots, and a generous helping of spices and melted butter from Dore's larder. The results were delicious and Pers liked his so much that Pam gave him half of hers. The portions were more generous than she could handle anyway.

Around them the lush, green mountains of the island's interior marched away into mists in the north. To the south they could see the sapphire sparkle of the sea. They passed the flask around while enjoying the spectacular view and then lay down in the soft grass to take a short nap before gathering their coffee beans. After an hour passed, Gerbald estimated it was around three in the afternoon. It would take them at least an hour to gather their beans as well as some young trees, then they would begin the long walk home, reaching camp at dusk. Time to get back to work.

First, Pam gave Pers a lesson in coffee-bean picking. The trees bore a variety of ripe and unripe fruits, making it a bit tricky, but the youth was a quick study and was soon filling his sacks with the purple-yellow coffee beans faster than Pam and Gerbald could. Seeing his rapid progress, they turned their attention to bringing some young trees back alive. Gerbald had brought along a short spade from the Redbird's tool-chest, which made the work go fairly fast. They placed the roots in moist canvas sacks surrounded by their native soil then wrapped the leaves in sailcloth to make the bundle easy to carry down the narrow forest trails.

With all their bags and pockets once again bulging with beans they began the walk home.

"Ugh. This stuff is heavier than I remember it." Pam groaned. Her shoulders already ached from the unaccustomed weight in her rucksack.

"Well, you were about out of your mind with joy last time," Gerbald reminded her. "That must have made the burden feel lighter."

"Now I think I'm just out of my mind," Pam muttered darkly.

"Yes, I recall you pranced down the mountain like an alpine goat in spring." Gerbald chuckled, stifling a groan of his own at his heavy share of the burden. "I'm sure you will find it all worthwhile again, months from now when you still have coffee to drink," he added, trying to sound encouraging.

"Here, Frau Pam, allow me to take some of this." Pers came beside her, reaching for the extra sacks she carried draped over her shoulders.

"Naw, come on, I loaded you up like a pack mule, Pers. You're already carrying a lot more than your share, even taking the age difference into account. I know how strong you are but I don't want you to get injured."

Pers grinned and took the sacks from her anyway, ignoring her protests. "Nonsense! This is nothing compared to the tortures the bosun has put me through. Believe me, as far as I am concerned, this is still a 'light duty'!"

Pam gave him a grateful smile. "Well, at least it's all downhill from here," she said as brightly as she could manage. Pers stepped into the lead, walking with a spring in his stride that belied the many pounds of coffee he carried.

Gerbald and Pam looked at each other, silently admitting that they were both already tired and had a long way to go yet.

"Youth. If only there was a way to steal it from the young," Gerbald said as they watched Pers scamper down the trail. With a tandem sigh they followed, placing one well-worn boot in front of the other.

Just before sunset they were back on the familiar trails near the beach camp with less than half a mile to go. They paused again at the rise they had observed the ship from that morning to watch the sun go down. The junk now lay at anchor on the high tide, once again resembling a fanciful toy more than a real ship, its bright colors darkened to deeper eldritch hues in the evening glow. Lanterns were lit one by one. Pam thought she could hear the quiet murmur of the men on deck in the evening hush. As twilight surrounded them, Gerbald started walking again and Pam began to follow. After a minute she realized that Pers was still standing on the rise, his head hanging low and his face long in the dim purple light.

Pam tapped Gerbald on the back, speaking to him in a low whisper. "Hey, something's wrong with the kid. I knew something was bugging him this morning, he put on a brave face all day but now . . . I'm going to stay and talk with him. Do you want to join me?"

"Hmmm. I know he looks up to me, which is very flattering, but I also know sometimes a young man needs the comfort of a woman instead of a man. Lord knows when last he saw his mother, or if he ever has. Go see what's troubling him, Pam. It would be good for him." He carefully didn't add and for you, but he certainly thought it as he started walking again. The last mile was easy even in the dark, but he would wait in the brush below the rise until they passed, then follow them back, just in case. The bodyguard's job is never done. He smiled with satisfaction despite his earnest wish to be back to camp and put to bed.

Pam walked back up the rise and over to Pers. He saw her and started to walk again but she motioned for him to stop. He was trying to look cheerful for her, but she could see plainly even in the remaining light that he was troubled. "All right, you can't kid a kidder, pal, so tell me what's wrong." Pam gave him her best sympathetic smile.

Pers smiled back, but his brow was still downcast. "Well, it's nothing really . . ." Pam waited, continuing to smile encouragingly. Seeing that there was no escape, the young man continued.

"Well, I shall have to tell you a little about me. My parents were poor farmers on the coast near Norway and, already having several sons, they sent me off to sea when I was but nine."

"Just nine! Jesus!" Pam was appalled but had heard far worse since her arrival in the 1630s.

"Please don't think badly of them. They could barely feed us all. Besides, I was glad to go. I wanted to leave that stupid village and see the world! The work turned out to be harder than I thought, but the men usually treated me kindly. It's just that life on a ship, well, the faces change and once you get to know someone they die, like old Fritjof, or move on to another ship . . ." He stalled for a moment but Pam nodded her understanding, signaling for him to go on.

"My dreams have changed. I've seen a lot of the world. You may be surprised how much. I want a home now, to stop traveling, to get to know a place. And the truth is, even though we got stuck here against our will, this is the first time since I was that boy of nine that I've lived in a home instead of a ship, here on this island with all of you. And now we are all leaving . . ."

Pers was struggling to keep smiling but Pam could see he was very upset. She took his hand carefully, afraid the simple act might make him lose his composure and start crying, a terrible thing to have happen when you were a proud youth becoming a man.

"Pers, I'm sorry. I didn't know you felt this way. I want you to know I completely understand. When Grantville came through time I was all alone. Like I told you earlier, I was divorced, so no husband. I still had my son but he doesn't like me much anymore. If I hadn't met Gerbald and Dore, I don't know what would have become of me. Well, I'd probably be living as a shut-in and weigh fifty pounds more than I do! At least until my supply of bonbons ran out. Anyway, everybody needs a home sometimes, and they gave me that."

She paused, trying to gauge the young man, trying to see if what she wanted to say would be the right thing, the thing Pers needed and wanted. She had all his attention, and knew that he looked up to her far more than she had realized. Well, you have never been Miss Congeniality, that's for sure. She took a deep breath and placed a hand on Pers' wide shoulder.

"Pers, I'm sorry I didn't see how strongly you felt sooner. I want you to know that you will always have a home with me if you wish it. You have been my very special friend all through this voyage, proving your love and loyalty a hundred times over. I have already come to think of you as another son. I swear to you it's true! When that pirate was beating you, that was what made me mad enough to shoot. He was hurting my boy! In my heart you are my boy, you've earned your place! Whatever you want, I will make it happen for you. If you want to go to school, I will see to it. If you want to work with me, I will have a place for you. If you were to think of me as family, why, it would make me very proud." Now it was Pam who was in danger of tears. The hope dawning on Pers' face, still a boy as much as a man, made her heart beat double time.

Pers stuttered a bit and then in a small child's voice said, "I'd like that very much, if you will have me. I would very much like to have a mother again."

"Awww, come here, kid." With that she grabbed Pers, who was a good two feet taller than her, and gave him a bear hug. "Let old Pam be your momma. I'll try my best, but I'll warn you I'm not always too good at it. I'm not sure where all this is going from here but you just stick with me, we'll figure it out together, all right, son?"

Pam could feel Pers shaking. He was weeping now, but she could tell from the vibration that these were good tears, the tears of relief and discovered joy. She joined right in and they stood there for a while, a mother and son, which to Pam's great pride she knew they had become, not by blood but in all the ways that really mattered. After a time Pam stepped gently back from the embrace to look at the bright, lovely youth who had entered her life. She patted him gently on the cheek.

"Don't worry, Pers. I won't tell anybody what a sweet kid you are. They already know anyway. Now, let's go home. I'm so hungry I could eat coconut crab curry, heigh-ho!"

"Yes, ma'am . . . er . . . Mom!" He gave her a snappy salute, his usual grin back in place and grown a size bigger.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Last Day Of Camp

It was to be their last day at the beach camp. By evening they intended to dine on the ship and spend the night aboard before sailing with the dawn. The bosun, despite an initial raft of complaints about the many oddities of their new vessel, had deemed her seaworthy and ready to go. Toward the end of their discussion around last night's dinner fire he had began to wax so poetic on the junk's capabilities that Pam suspected he was beginning to fall in love with the thing, and thought that might happen between all sailors and their ships eventually.

After an early breakfast, Pam sat on the porch of her hut, sipping her third cup of coffee. Pers had been drafted by the bosun first thing. She had given him a wave and a wink as he set off for the beach, which made him blush. Looks like I'm a mom again, well good for me. The thought filled her with a deep, comfortable warmth. Pers had come to think of their beach camp as home and she realized so had she. She would miss this funny little bamboo shack and wondered if she would ever come this way again. They had been very lucky to make a safe landing here when the Redbird went down. All in all, they had enjoyed a much higher level of comfort than could be expected, thanks to the island's natural bounty and the many skills of her companions. At times it had felt more like she was on summer holiday than marooned, especially during the heady days that followed her finding of the dodo flock. Those were good times and she wouldn't forget them.

"Maybe someday we can make this a research station and spend some time here again," she said to herself, a habit that she was careful not to let others overhear. "I would like that. Yes, we shall." The sailors had built to last and she thought the buildings could survive a few seasons without human care. Finishing her coffee with a gulp, she went inside and put the coconut-shell cup on a shelf, in place for that possible someday. The tiny room was mostly empty. She had already sent her baggage out to the ship and only a few island gewgaws remained; a shell collection along the window sill and some sketches she had hung on the walls that weren't important enough to take with her.

One piece of art, placed in a prominent place over her cot, was a message to any who might take shelter here in the future, a painting of a dodo with the words "Please do not kill this bird! Bad luck follows those who do!" written in English, German and Swedish. "Can't hurt," she said. Assuming they could read, sailors were by nature superstitious and she had no bones against using a bit of psychological warfare in her cause. In fact, I should probably do that more. She brushed against some of the shell necklaces hanging from a peg beside the window. She and Dore had worn these with their native getup. On a whim she took one and put it on, a bit of beach-camp style to remember the place by. Pam took one last look around, backed out onto the porch, then closed and latched the door shut against the wind. It was time to get going.

She found that Gerbald and the men had already moved the heavy carronade from its log mount and were now loading it onto the pinnace with a complicated affair of poles, ropes, and pulleys. Gerbald seemed to have a knack for that kind of thing, even impressing the sailors who worked with such tools on a daily basis. They had made him the foreman for the task and he was basking in the glory of leadership, one of his few foibles.

"Show off," she teased as she sauntered by the proceedings. Gerbald just grinned, as pleased with a ribbing as he was with any kind of attention. Pam thanked the Lord she had found such a good-natured friend. She knew that he had become expert in deflecting the worst of her moods and usually allowed him to do so with silent gratitude.

Pam wandered up to the kitchen to see if she could help Dore with her cooking things. Not too surprisingly, the incredibly efficient woman was already packed up and had drafted Pers and another sailor, dark-haired Lind, into hauling the boxes and bags down to the pinnace. Pam was given a fairly light basket to carry and returned to the beach. The pinnace had already left on its mission to deliver their special gun to the new vessel, so Pam put her basket down on the pile of goods waiting the next trip and decided to take a walk. She didn't want to go by way of the cemetery. Her good-byes had been said and the pain was still too fresh, so she went the opposite direction, ending up on the high cliff lookout she and Gerbald had sighted the junk from just two days ago. It felt like weeks! Pam sat down with her back against a gnarled, wind tortured tree to watch the proceedings. The job of getting the carronade onto the junk and mounted looked like it was going to take a good long while, so she let herself drift off into a nap.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: An Unexpected Promotion

After an hour of dozing filled with dreams featuring swords and blood and screams of the dying, Pam shook herself awake with a sour taste in her mouth, feeling unrested and anxious. She hurried down to rejoin those at the beach, comforted by their dependable presence.

The bosun approached her with what was plainly deference. He and two of the sailors, Vilfrid and Lind, awaited her on the shore along with Gerbald and Dore. They would make the trip in the Redbird's pinnace, which the sailors would then haul up onto the junk's wide deck. The modest little craft was quite dear to them, having proven its worth time and again. It took her a while to realize it, but the sailors were again being especially polite to her. Of course, they always had been, but there had been some kind of a change since they had captured the Oriental junk.

"The big gun has been mounted on the new ship. Are you ready to board?" the bosun asked.

"Yes, just let me make one last look." Pam scanned their home for these long months, the realization that her stay in this remote place was at an end finally sinking in. A fierce joy filled her. We did it. We are getting out of here. She climbed into the pinnace and was ushered to a seat in the prow. She watched their beach recede until they began to draw in close to the junk. After one last, long, look she turned her back to the shore, ready to begin her journey again.

Pam looked up to see all the sailors and marines were lined along the gaily painted rails. As the pinnace drew close the men sent up a cheer, whooping and hollering with a gusto rarely seen in the cool-tempered, well-mannered Swedes. Pam saw Gerbald on the bench down from hers waving back at the sailors like some teen-age state fair princess in a parade, full of winning smiles and gracious bows. This made Pam and Dore both burst into laughter. They joined in with the merriment and waved and shouted greetings back to the cheering crew.

Soon they had clambered aboard with the help of many friendly hands, accompanied by the high, keening tune of the bosun's whistle. Now, for the first time, their entire company stood assembled on the deck of the fanciful junk they had acquired at such bloody cost. The men opened a space around Pam and her staff, all the while clapping and cheering. After a while, the bosun raised his hands and brought the men down to a hush. Pam smiled warmly at all of her Swedish friends, the men who had brought her to the far side of the world, the men who had worked so hard to make her safe and comfortable during their castaway days, the men who had become as brothers to her.

"Herr Bosun, you fellows shouldn't put up such a fuss!" Pam said, her West Virginia twang creeping into her Swedish. She was beginning to feel shy and a bit overwhelmed as she always did when finding herself in the public eye.

"It is from our hearts that we do. We have been delivered from our sojourn on that wretched shore and are in possession of a fine craft. All of this is because of the great courage and many skills you, Herr Gerbald, and Frau Dore have lent to us. We never would have been able to live as well as we have while lost, or to have captured this prize without your help, and especially your leadership, Pam."

The men broke out into a cheer again, clapping their hands for Pam, who felt as if she wanted to dissolve into the deck.

The bosun nodded and fixed a toothy grin on her. Before she could make a break for it, he said, "In the tradition of the sea, a captured vessel becomes the property of the victors, in particular the leader of the victors, their captain. Pam, you made the plan which ensured our success. You led the attack like some warrior queen from out of the old tales!" He paused to dramatically sweep his arm across the decks in a gesture that included all the grinning men standing at attention. "This is your ship, we are your crew and you are our captain. We await your orders, Captain Pam!" He gave her a long salute, his eyes meeting hers with what Pam thought could only be admiration. Ending the salute, he gave her a polite bow and took a step back to join his men silently at attention.

Somewhere a seagull cried and the sound of gentle waves lapping became intensely loud in the silence. Pam's eyes were as wide as porcelain plates, their steely gray having attained a glazed cast. After a while Gerbald reached out and poked her in the arm, a deep chuckle coming from beneath the shade of his ridiculous mustard hat's floppy brim. Pam looked back at the men, her men, and managed a kind of stunned half-smile. She nodded slowly a few times, taking it all in. Somewhere inside the turmoil of emotions whirling through her brain she heard a calm, clear voice, the one that always came when she really needed it: You have earned this honor, Pamela Grace Miller. Now acknowledge their faith in you. It is yours by right! Suddenly her eyes came into focus, she drew back her shoulders and in an unexpectedly loud and commanding voice bawled, "Make ready to sail!" The men jumped at her order, spreading out through the ship, led by Pers who was the fastest. With the exception perhaps of Pers, these men were eager to be back to their profession. They had tired of life on the shore and bent to their tasks with relish. The bosun stepped forward to pump Pam's hand in the American-style Gerbald had showed him.

"Was that the right thing to say?" she asked, relieved that the show was over and reeling from the ramifications.

"Absolutely! Well done, Captain Pam. I knew you had it in you!" The bosun beamed at her.

"Look, I'm not so sure about this captain thing, Herr Bosun. Isn't it a job that's better suited for you? The extent of my maritime experience is rowing a boat around a lake as a kid. I have only a vague idea how to sail a ship, much less captain one."

"No, ma'am, I wouldn't have it. This ship is squarely yours and you command her. There's a lot more to it than the sailing, you can leave that to us! In a situation like this, far from home and moving into danger, we need a leader we can get behind and that's you. Besides, we already chose you for our captain in all but name months ago back on the island. We liked the way you ran things there and will follow you wherever you go next. We don't fear danger."

Pam's eyes were moist, she was supremely touched by the confidence these brave men had shown in her. The bosun saw that she needed time to let it all sink in and motioned toward the aft cabins.

"If I may be so bold, Captain, might I suggest you and Frau Dore have a look around the ship?" He started to go but then stopped, with a bemused expression on his face. "Perhaps I have grown a bit rusty. You ordered us to make sail but what is our destination?"

Pam looked out at the sparkling azure sea to think for a moment. "Well, the plan was to anchor here tonight. We know its a safe harbor. Why don't you just take us for a spin up and down the beach, just give me a little demonstration of what we feel like under way. Then let's anchor back here and give everyone a rest. I think the men need one before we go off chasing French warships and the like."

The bosun beamed. "Very wise, Captain, very wise. Now, leave it all to me and make yourselves at home. What I believe serves as the captain's cabin is just up those stairs, and meaning no offense, ma'am, but you might find more comfortable clothing there, although it will likely be of a heathen cut."

Pam looked down at what was left of the clothes they had landed in, barely rags and held together with grass stitching in places.

"I think that's the best idea I've ever heard, Herr Bosun! We look a mess. We'll try to find some new clothes and some for you and the men as well. We are all a bit worse for wear."

"Well, then, I'll get back to work. May I ask Herr Gerbald here to come help with raising the pinnace? He has an eye for rope work and is the only one of us who can make some sense of this foreign tackle." Then he and Gerbald just stood there looking at her. After a long moment it dawned on her. Oh good Lord! He's waiting for you to say yes, dummy!

Pam quickly muttered her captainly assent.

"I would be delighted, Captain Pam!" Gerbald answered enthusiastically. "I have always loved a good puzzle." Gerbald had been in Pam's service for a number of years and knew the high quality of her leadership well, even if she herself didn't see it. Even so, as he left he didn't neglect to give his friend and employer a smirk, pleased at her discomfiture. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Ever hear of walking the plank, buster? Yeah, you in the funny hat!" she called menacingly after him. She turned to see that Dore was smiling broadly at her, face flushed with excitement. This rare sight filled Pam's heart with a shiny kind of joy and she grabbed her friend's hand.

"We need new clothes, sister. Let's go find some booty!" Pam said to her.

"Yes, ma'am, Captain Pam!" Dore replied in English with her thick German accent, coming to comical straight as a board attention and adding a snappy salute. This made them both start laughing and so they began their exploration of the exotic and alluring foreign ship.

Chapter Thirty: Galley of Celestial Delight

They began their tour below decks, deciding to save the captain's cabin for last. No point in putting on something new and then getting it all dirty down in the holds. The junk was certainly unusual-looking on the outside, but a ship was a ship and below decks offered a layout not too terribly different from those built in Europe. In Pam's opinion, it was more spacious and well-thought out in its design. The cabins were larger and the hallways surprisingly higher. None but the tallest of the men would have to crouch as they moved about. Everything was clean and dry, the wood well-caulked and painted with some kind of preservative stain. They found a large storage bay with its deck doors open to let in the bright southern sunlight. Pam walked around its shadowy recesses, lifting tarps and poking at oddly-shaped barrels marked with the wispy brush strokes of strange languages.

"We should find out what all this cargo is," Dore said, peering into the shadows at a plethora of crates and sacks neatly made fast to the walls and floors. "We may have something of value here. It's likely we will need to trade for supplies sometime in the voyage to come."

Pam made a slow turn, the light from above catching her hair and bringing out flashes of gold amongst the dishwater blond locks. She was smiling and Dore thought she looked like an angel. Dore was greatly pleased to see her friend happy after such a long ordeal.

"There's enough room here to make a pen for a flock of dodos." Pam said brightly, "They would have fresh air and light when the weather is good and be well-protected when its not." Her voice was filled with a hope she had not felt in a very long time. "We have another chance now. Maybe I can still save the dodos, bring a breeding population back to Europe, if we accomplish nothing else."

"Of course you can, Pam. We will help as always," Dore encouraged her.

They left the cargo hold to continue aft. After climbing some stairs that could have passed for ladders they arrived in a room that made Dore emit a gasp of delight. It was the ship's galley and it was . . . wonderful. There was a pipe built into the wall from which either stored or freshly-caught rain water in barrels on the deck could be drawn with ease over a deep porcelain sink. Next to this was an open window, its square panes made of a thick, ivory-colored laminated paper that would let in plenty of light to work by even when closed. There were fat candles placed here and there for after dark. Pam and Dore entered the seemingly cluttered, yet actually highly-organized space, not sure where to begin their exploration.

Hundreds of small drawers and cabinets dotted the walls and filled the spaces under the wide, wooden counters. A peek into some of these revealed dry goods, what might be flour, sugar and many dried herbs and spices. A variety of unusually shaped pots and pans hung from a rack above an iron wood-stove. Pam recognized a wok and a steamer. Even though their shape's were strange, she knew Dore would be able to put them to use. Latched drawers held a dazzling array of cooking implements and tools, including ladles, skewers, meat forks and many items less easy to ascertain the purpose of. The room was filled with a delicious aroma of woodsmoke, strong scented herbs and fresh salt air. Immediately adjacent lay a pantry chock-full of dried meats, fish, fruits, vegetables, and many more as yet unidentified items. There was even a row of pots with live herbs growing on a shelf beneath a window. Dore and Pam both clucked over these and immediately watered them with a teapot. They had obviously suffered under the ship's pirate occupation.

"Good gawd, Dore, it's like a modern kitchen! More like a restaurant kitchen than something you'd have at home. It has everything but an electric dishwasher!" Pam exclaimed, overwhelmed after months of coconut-shell soup bowls and clamshell spoons. She didn't say it to Dore but vowed to herself that she never, ever wanted to eat coconut and crab curry again. Ever!

The galley of the Redbird, despite being built with several up-time style conveniences, was a greasy hole in the wall compared to this. Pam noticed a cylindrical ceramic pot filled with what must certainly be chopsticks. She pulled two of them out to study them; they were about eleven inches long, one quarter of which was squared and the rest rounded, cut flat at the ends, made of a smooth, yellowish wood that had been stained darker on the rounded, food grabbing end, presumably by use.

"Hey, Dore, I think I know what country this boat is from—China!" Dore looked at her friend with eyebrows raised in interest. "These are called chopsticks and they're used for eating. When my son Walt got old enough to behave reasonably well for an hour or two, we started going out to eat once a month and tried a lot of different kinds of restaurants. There were lots of Chinese places around and even a couple of Japanese over in Morgantown. Once we tried Korean food up in Pittsburg, but it was a bit too spicy for the guys. Anyway, I'm pretty sure these are Chinese-style chopsticks. The Japanese versions are shorter with pointy ends and the Koreans make theirs from metal. I have no idea why, because they sure were tricky to use. The metal was slippery!"

Dore looked on with a certain amount of amazement. "It's sometimes hard to believe that you lived in such a world, Pam. You make food from the Far East sound commonplace, available just down the road, when in our time most know little about the world beyond a few miles!" She reached over to the holder and pulled out two of the slender wooden rods herself. "I don't see how these could be used to eat," she remarked after giving them a careful study. She ended up holding one in each hand like drumsticks with a mystified expression on her face.

"I'll show you!" Pam began to demonstrate. "You put them both in one hand like this and pick up the food between the ends. It's tricky at first but you get the hang of it pretty fast. Especially when you're hungry!" She opened a few drawers until she found what must certainly be dried peas. "Here, watch!" Pam deftly picked up one pea at a time and made a row of six across the counter as Dore looked on, wide-eyed. "I guess I'll have to teach everybody how to use these. I think we left all the clamshell spoons back at the beach. My ex-husband never could get the hang of it. He always had to ask for a fork." With several flicks of her wrist she put the peas back into their drawer and slid the chopsticks back into their container with a satisfying wooden click. "Yup. Must be Chinese. They like their food all right, pretty fancy stuff! I'm not too surprised they had this nice a setup even in these times. Well, lucky us!"

****

To be continued . . .

Equal Rights, Part One

Written by Jack Carroll and Edith Wild

June 3, 1631

The phone stopped ringing before Olivia Villareal could snap the spring into place and reach for a rag to wipe her hands. Then it started again. Four quick strides and she was out of the kitchen and across the front room.

"Hello?"

"Mom, you gotta get down here! The Wildman is raising hell. He's in the alley banging his piece-of-shit truck into the dumpster and the fence trying to turn around. He's hollering 'There's no business like show business' over and over! Jeez!"

"Did you call the cops?"

"They said they'll come when they can. I think something's going on downtown. His mother won't come, and Linda said she'd serve him on toast if she came at all. Hurry, Mom!"

"All right, try to keep the customers from getting upset. We'll get there as quick as we can. Carlos! Leanna needs us down at the laundromat, right away! Jimmy Wild's raising a ruckus."

Olivia's green pickup was the closest to the end of the driveway. She was already cranking the starter when her husband slid in carrying a baseball bat. If the cops weren't even coming, to heck with the driving ban.

When they jumped out two minutes later, the first thing she heard was violent retching. Jimmy had left his truck half on the sidewalk and was busy throwing up the entire contents of his gut, spewing all over the sidewalk almost in front of the Mi Casa Laundromat’s front door; it stunk like cheap liquor and old blood.

Jimmy caught his breath and looked up. "Jeez! Mary! What the fuck! Carlos! Livia!" He pointed at the alley that ran behind the building, and hollered, "Git back there, you lazy-ass bastards, and look-see!" Then he puked again. "Look in the god-danged damned shed! Monkeys! You domesticated turkeys! Idiots!" Jimmy's eyes shut tight; his knees went out from under him and he dropped onto the blacktop, hard. Blood spewed out from somewhere.

Leanna stammered, "Oh, crap! Maybe I should call an ambulance? Serve the creep right to drown in his own puke!"

Carlos was already around the corner of the building, with his bat up and ready for God-knows-what. Olivia, rooting in the glove compartment for her revolver, called out over her shoulder, "Yes, call the ambulance! He looks like he could die right there, you want that on your conscience? Whatever's going on, he's the only one who noticed it, so show some gratitude." She slid out of the truck and ran across the parking lot, to follow her husband.

There wasn't any noise coming from behind the place, so at least there wasn't a fight going on. Before she could catch up, Carlos appeared around the far corner, with the bat hanging loose in his hand and a half-stunned look on his face.

"What is it?"

"Take a look, Livie. Just take a look." He turned and pointed.

The gate in the chain link fence was hanging open, and the shed door was splintered where the lock had been. Even at first glance, she could see there was a whole lot missing. But whoever had done it was long gone. Carlos let loose for half a minute in Spanish, but there wasn't a thing they could do about it now. They went back around to the front.

Their sons, David and Jon, arrived on their bicycles from different directions. They were staring at Jimmy. Still acting like fool teen-agers, full of testosterone, and they didn't even have the excuse of being that young any more. The run-ins they’d had with Jimmy Wild since the Ring of Fire were just nasty. Pointless, too.

Leanna looked like she was about to speak, then stopped with her mouth half-open when she saw her father slump against the storefront. "It's bad, Le. Whoever busted in there knew his rocks. Everything that was worth anything is gone. The worst is that big South American cathedral geode—the jewelry and ornaments I could have made out of that would have carried us for a long time. Just as it was, it cost us a pile."

"Oh, Jeez, Dad, you think there's any chance of getting any of it back?"

His lips went hard. "It's been at least a month since the last time we were in that shed. Where we are here and now, yeah, there's thieves and robbers everyplace, but would any of them even know what those minerals were? And the chain on the gate was nipped with a bolt cutter. So what d'you think? Damn. That was half our business. What the hell are we gonna do for cash now? What the hell are we gonna do?"

Olivia laid her hand on her husband's forearm, the hand that wasn't carrying the pistol. "Carlos, bebé, hold yourself together. We've been through trouble before, we'll get through this. We still have the laundromat, we've got my writing, maybe you can get some commissions from Roth or get the mariachi band going again. We have our health, and we haven't even started rockhounding outside the Ring. We'll make it."

"The laundromat? My God, look how often we have to fix those old machines. Where are we going to get parts now?"

David got a blank look for a second, then he focused. "The machine shops?"

The ambulance siren sounded in the distance.

Padua

September

William Oughtred raised his eyes from the cards turned up on the table. Sir Thomas Howard, Earl of Arundel, was looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. "Alas, William. Shall you make good, now? Can you face the gates of Hell, should they stand open in this fabulous prodigy Grantville?"

"Gates of Hell, milord? For all the exaggeration and embroidery there likely is in the tales we've heard of the place, I deeply doubt that anyone less than the Almighty could have done such a work as to thrust an entire town from parts unknown into the heart of the Germanies. In truth, it's a place I would desire to see for myself, were it not for the expense of the journey."

Arundel's mouth pursed; he gazed at the candle light coming through the rich wine in his glass for a few moments, obviously considering something. "If you mean that, Master Oughtred, expense can be dealt with. Something of great consequence has happened; if we know nothing else, we know that. In place of garbled rumors, I would greatly value first-hand reports of the place and what it may mean to us, from a sober and clear-headed scholar. Such as yourself. If you wish to go, I shall meet the expense."

Oughtred's partner in the game just concluded, Arundel's foster son, James Rothrock, was flicking his eyes back and forth between them. The young man evidently had much yet to learn about the turn of a card. Well, he had much to learn about a great many things, though he was no laggard at the learning. "If Master Oughtred goes . . ."

The earl favored him with a slight smile. "Perhaps, James, but let us see what his letters tell us before we consider sending you as well. But this brings us to another thought: a man should not travel those roads alone, he should go with companions skilled at arms. And I know just who of this household has been showing signs of wanderlust of late." He turned his gaze toward the footman by the door. "Send for Tim Morton. And his son Jack."

Grantville High School

October

The office was full of warm colors and bright sunlight. The drawn-back yellow curtains framed a trickle of leaves falling onto the garden outside. The pictures on the wall portrayed not frowning men of power, but large groups of young people, mostly smiling. Graduating classes? Will had perhaps three seconds to take it all in, before the man behind the desk rose and extended his hand to be shaken. He was quite tall. "Doctor Oughtred? Thank you for coming." He waved toward a comfortable-looking armchair.

"You do me too much honor. The degree I hold is Master of Arts. From Cambridge."

"Oh, sorry about the mistake. You are William Oughtred, though, the mathematician? The inventor of the slide rule?"

"One of the contributors, at least. Is that what you wish to discuss?"

"Not exactly. I just wanted to be sure of who I was talking to. Look, my name's Len Trout. I'm the principal of this madhouse. When the school secretary spotted your name on the list of research center license holders, I got excited. I'll get right to the point. How'd you like to teach here?"

Will couldn't have been more surprised if the chair he was sitting in had spun thrice around and deposited a stein of the ThuringenGardens' best in his hand. "Teach? I thought your school was bringing great edifices of never-before-seen mathematics to this world. How could I help with that? I've barely begun the study."

"More than you'd think. You can teach Euclidean geometry, right?"

Will nodded.

"Solid geometry?"

Nod.

"Algebra?"

"Much of it. Some of the notation has changed, and there are theorems I've not seen before."

"And how long would it take you to catch up with that? A month? Two? Your reputation precedes you."

"Well . . ."

"Never mind, here's the point." Trout's hands waved with energy that had to find an outlet. "This place is bursting at the seams. We've got so many students now, we're running in shifts, and the Ring of Fire left a lot of our teachers up-time. The army and the military labs have taken some more. We're hurting. If you join us, and just teach an introductory course or two, you free somebody else up to teach trig. Or calculus. Or something more advanced. And it wouldn't surprise me any if you were teaching one of those courses yourself, a year from now. So whaddya say? Interested?"

Will took a few moments to catch up to the blizzard of words and consider the question, before responding. "There is a certain attraction to the notion." He paused.

Trout took that as an invitation to rush on. His finger came up, pointing vaguely off into an upper corner of the room. "Another thing, faculty can sit in on any lecture they want to, as long as there's space. It's one of the benefits."

"Hmmm, that could be of use. Having seen how the miracle slashed the very earth asunder, I've conceived a desire to understand what was done there. Perhaps there's learning here that could advance such an enterprise."

"Earth sciences? Sure. There's a lot of interest in that now; there are minerals we need to find, soon as we can. I'm recruiting for that department too."

"I shall look into that, then. However, it was for other reasons that I came to Grantville, and I have certain responsibilities. I have inquiries to make, letters to write . . ."

Trout's hand waved in a quick gesture of acceptance. "Pretty much every scholar who comes here does. So we pay by the course. You tell us how much you can handle. All right?"

"That does seem fair enough. There is one other matter. I have heard that professors here, or instructors, or however they are styled, are not required to take holy orders?"

Trout sat back in his chair, wide-eyed for a moment. "Holy orders? Good grief, no, this is a public school. Government here doesn't stick its fingers into religion, not allowed to, except to defend everybody's right to practice it whatever way they want. Or not practice it. Whatever."

"So the freedom of religion clause in your constitution is seriously meant and upheld, not a theoretical formalism of law?"

"Oh, yeah, it is. Better believe it."

Murphy's Run

April 1632, near Easter

Tim Morton was playing hide-and-go-seek with his stepdaughter Sybil near the edge of their land. Every time he found her—or she him—she squealed, pealing with joy. Sybil was such a pretty, red-haired poppet, just like her mother! Today it was sunny but cold, with snowy patches still lingering here and there. Tim dearly wanted to get her something nice. She was going to be four years old on Sunday. One thing to be said for Grantville, neither of his Deborah's little ones had died or even taken sick since they'd decided to marry last December and settle here. Between his son Jack and Deborah's girls, their pretty little house was packed so full they sounded like a chattering monkey horde.

Sybil came running from her hiding place, calling, "Lookit, Papa! Lookit I found! It looks like purple fire! Come here, Papa!" She grabbed onto his hand and tugged him to the edge of a melting snowbank a few yards from the Ring Wall.

The rock she held up to him was so pretty . . . and there were a good many little stones just like it, lying all over the side of the road! Hmmm. He knew a barkeep in Jena who had a jeweler for a steady customer. Maybe these pretty things would bring a bit of money, enough for a little present or two, just when there was the need. It could do no harm to mention that he'd found them near to the Ring Wall, when he went there next week.

God worked in mysterious ways, right enough.

"Let's show Mama!"

Tim smiled to himself and let her pull him along. If the little whirlwind was done with the game just now, there was that next letter to His Lordship awaiting his hand. What Arundel paid him for snatches of tavern gossip, those bits of political mumblings, wasn't a king's ransom, or even a swayback donkey's ransom, but it all helped. Pretty stones found in the dirt by a Ring-hacked roadside were for another day. Master Oughtred might fancy one of these bright shards, though, the old man being so keen to know what-all the Ring was made of.

Lower Buffalo Creek

Early June

"Does this look all right, Mrs. Penzey?"

Christie went over to look at what Hans Brinker was doing. The label on the sample box he'd just closed looked all right; the boy's name, a sample number, and the date. She turned her eyes toward the field book he was holding up. "You want to be able to find the exact place again, if something looks interesting after you examine your samples in the lab. You have the distances and bearings from the witness trees, but how about the elevation?"

"Oh. Stretch the tape measure up from the ground?"

"That'll work, for now. In a regular geological survey we'd have at least a compass equipped to measure elevation angle, of course. But you've got the idea."

Hans nodded and reached in his bag. She looked around to see how her other students were doing. Will Oughtred and Douglas Jones were doing as much in the way of coaching the kids, as practicing the techniques themselves. The sooner Jones could teach this course, the better.

When she got to the other end of her flock, she had a good view downstream, and saw a familiar figure working at something in the bank. "Hey, Carlos, got a minute? There are a couple of guys I'd like you to meet."

Padua

April 18, 1634

James Rothrock arrived at the blue salon out of breath. The earl of Arundel was gripping a printed publication so hard that it half-crumpled. He thrust it forward, saying, "Look!"

James took it and examined it. It proved to be one of the new scientific journals, printed in Leiden barely two months before. It fell open to a description of the inner structure of the Thüringian mountains, revealed by the Ring of Fire's awesome slicing.

The authors were Rev. William Oughtred, M.A. and two associates in natural philosophy whose names he had not seen before, a Carlos Villareal and a fellow of GreshamCollege named Douglas Jones.

James looked up in astonishment. The earl's face was grim, as he pointed to the top of the page. "You see the date of publication? It must have gone out at the time of my last letter to Oughtred, or not long after. And since that letter left my hands, nothing more, nothing to us."

He began to pace before the window, with a look of furious concentration on his face. It was a minute or two before he spoke again, slowly at first. "That, you will recall, was the letter inquiring as to anything he might know of the nature of the Ring's Fire, this strange gem which has become such a craze among the great and mighty.

"James, I'd felt that I was coming to know and understand Grantville, from his many letters and the writings of others that he sent. But now? I wonder how well I understand anything. One thing that I am certain of—I do not believe William Oughtred would cease writing of his own accord. So. Was I foolishly indiscreet? Has someone been reading our letters, and been moved by its mention to interfere? Or acted for some other reason? To what purpose? And, what harm might they have visited upon him in the doing, to bring about this silence?"

"Sir, you correspond with others there, do you not? Might you ask?"

"Humph. I correspond with Tim Morton, who kept him safe along the journey. But Morton fell silent as well, after that letter left my hands. He would be a much tougher nut to crack, but still, this worries me. What have we all stepped into?" He paced, twice more, back and forth. "Are they safe? Do they need our aid? And what else may be coming our way?"

George Bennet, a recent addition to their circle, had been gazing with dreamy bemusement at a painting on the wall. Now he turned and spoke for the first time. "We cannot answer these questions sitting here in Padua, milord."

"No. No, we cannot. And that being so . . ."

"It is necessary to go see."

"So it is, James. And further, this is no task to entrust to strangers. I understand that all too well." The earl gave him a sharp look. "I know your thought; I see it on your face. But this is no simple light-hearted adventure. It requires, above all, circumspection. If you go there, can you keep your eyes open and your mouth shut while you discover whether William Oughtred lives? Whether he needs rescue, or funds, or some other thing? Can you?"

"Yes. Certainly. Am I some witless maiden, to babble whatever comes into my head?"

"Good. And I have seen you at practice with arms, often enough. You've a fair hand. Still, it would be foolish to go alone into uncertain circumstances."

Bennet was looking their way as he leaned casually against a heavy reading table. "You'd wish me to ride with young James? Well, perhaps it's time to see other parts of the world once more."

"If you would, George. All right, let us consider details. It should be possible to join an armed party traveling in that direction for strength against ordinary brigands; I will have inquiries made. Probably best to communicate through the ordinary postal service; it's regular enough. Your letters can be made to appear as family correspondence. And on no account ask prying questions about the Ring's Fire, lest you attract attention you cannot fend off. If you come across common knowledge of the jewel, well and good, but Oughtred and the Mortons before anything! Once safe, then find some way they can get their messages to us again. Perhaps through Hartlib in Leiden."

Rothrock gave him a half-bow. "Just as you say."

May 4

Rothrock was bewildered.

Like many of these hill towns, Chiusa was beautiful. Vineyards stretched up toward the castle. Ceccoletto’s inn was most comfortable, and it would have been pleasurable to stop a while, but this was not meant to be some leisurely tour. Bennet had been no stranger to drink and the gaming table while in Padua, even to opium, but this obsession was something new. For two infuriating days, it proved impossible to pry him away from a card game with others of the party. Was this change only because they were no longer under Arundel's eye? When Bennet did emerge, he was filthy, not only with the dirt from the road, but also with grease and wine stains, and had a wild look at times. About four miles out of town Bennet decided to bathe in a cold stream. Unclothed, he exhibited livid purple bruising all over his torso. And his breath smelt bloody, like rotten meat.

Innsbruck was worse. Bennet went prowling for companionship; no whore would touch him after seeing his bare flesh. His conversation became truly foul; he spoke words Rothrock would not have repeated to a sailor. Bennet's headaches, the invariable coughing-up of blood with any exertion, were distressing to the entire party.

The air of relief was palpable as they passed Kamsdorf, and the party began to scatter upon private business. Rothrock and Bennet crossed into Grantville's awe-inspiring circle with the last of their companions.

****

"This? Do you imagine we are paupers?"

"Have you looked at the cost of accommodations in the town, George? Aside from that, milord Arundel bade us strenuously avoid attention. What do we need for the time we are here, beyond a place to sleep and keep our possessions? Small it may be, but it's clean, and the other tenants do not seem given to riotous living. And as far from the center of things as this rooming house is, the 'tram' is close by and not expensive."

"No, it's merely a rabbit warren full of common laborers. Well, I suppose it will do. We took enough time tramping about to find it."

"So we did. Let us speak to the landlord, then, and set about our business."

****

"This is a fool's errand, James!" Bennet turned over the last page of the months-old newspaper before him and dropped it onto the pile at his left hand. He glanced at the twilight outside the library's window. "At least let us go find something to fill our bellies, before the last of the light goes." One of the graybeards scribbling notes at the next table cast them a black look, and pointed a finger at the "Quiet, Please" sign on the end of a bookcase.

Rothrock leaned forward and spoke in a much lower voice. "Supper, yes, and perhaps a short stroll to relieve the kinks in our bones. Then we resume." His chair scraped as he rose and turned toward the main door. It was fortunate that there were cheap places to eat nearby if one did not insist on exotic up-time cookery, but then, not all of the scholars flocking to this place were blessed with jingling pockets.

Bennet fastened a sneer on his face as they headed down the driveway. "Do you really expect that we will happen on the trail of you-know-who this way? He whose name must not be spoken? The reference librarians supposedly can find out anything; why not just ask them where he is?"

"I wish, George. I wish we could know what is safe and what is not. I wish this town had one main square, where we could watch and wait, and be sure that everyone would pass by sooner or later. Slow and laborious it may be to winnow through telephone directories, and business directories, and newspaper archives looking for a hint, a clue, but it has the great virtue of anonymity. Until we know what has happened and what forces are at work, that counts for a great deal."

"The man himself seems to be anonymous. Who's Who in Grantville was disappointment enough. Perhaps he's not considered somebody, regardless of his accomplishments."

"Hardly. The preface explained clearly enough that it's merely a first attempt to list and describe the up-timers, of whom there will be no more. We must cast a wider net, and persevere."

A few minutes' walk brought them to the modest eatery they had settled into the habit of patronizing. It felt distinctly odd to be in a foreign place, and be addressed in English by the counter man. Not any sort of English they were accustomed to, or even the Americans were accustomed to, but English nevertheless, and mostly understandable. It was just as well; the man spoke no Latin, and they could afford little time as yet to make a serious start on German. Equally odd was the complete lack of table service, but perhaps that helped to explain the reasonable prices.

"How very dull this is! Be sure to boast to His Lordship of how well we dined in Grantville."

"George, your complaints grow dull. Perhaps, if all goes well, there may be enough left in our purses to sample other fare before we leave, but for now, it's as well to keep far away from the places the notables frequent. Until matters become clearer. Finished?" Rothrock rose from the bench and deposited his empty bowl on the shelf outside the kitchen.

It was a warm, pleasant night, with tiny creatures chirping everywhere. People dressed in all styles of clothing were leisurely strolling along the street; though the sky was full dark by then, there was no difficulty seeing their way. Enough of the lights on the poles outside the high school and library were kept in operation, that it was impossible for anyone to approach unobserved at any hour of the day or night. Master Oughtred's letters had made it all too clear why that was.

Rothrock managed to keep Bennet at the work for another hour. After that, he simply wandered off—presumably to a gaming table somewhere. I wish milord Arundel had sent someone else. Almost anyone else. He must have muttered it aloud; the Dane at the far corner of the reading table glanced at him for a moment and went back to his page-turning. Rothrock kept on until he could no longer absorb the words in front of him. Then he brought everything to the returns desk and set off for their lodgings. The tram ran at all hours.

****

By the time Bennet staggered in, Rothrock was already dressing. The sky would soon grow light. Rothrock came to a sudden decision.

"George, I believe it's time to take thought, and see some of the strangeness of this place for ourselves."

"Better than burying ourselves in musty words all day. What do you propose?"

"The high Ring Wall first, perhaps. The tram runs as far as the coal mine; the cliffs there are supposed to be striking in the morning light."

"Good enough, James, good enough. I can sleep later; I've done it often enough before. Ha! Onward to the tram stop."

****

It was, indeed, a rare sight. Once past the mine works, the view of the cliffs opened up. The changing colors of the eastern sky reflected from the perfectly spherical inner surface, rising from the valley floor to an astonishing height and incongruously topped with a ragged edge of soil and trees. Small sprays of miniature waterfalls flickered in the changing light. Part of the wall was adorned with striking diagonal bands; in places, it glittered.

As the sunlight reached the ground, Rothrock began to look more at their surroundings. In places, there were lines of dirt and gravel, where loose stuff must have fallen from the cliff top. Some untutored artist had painted a slapdash depiction of an up-time car, emerging from the cliff face where the cataclysm had made an end of the road. That seemed to catch Bennet's eye; he started to move closer.

"Have a care, George, the pamphlet warned against coming too close under that overhanging wall. See how much has already fallen!"

Bennet seemed oblivious. Suddenly he went to one knee beside the road, and pointing to the ground, exclaimed, "Look, James!" His head moved from side to side. He waved to Rothrock to stand behind him and look over his shoulder.

And there it was. A tiny fragment, too small to make out its shape, and as Rothrock moved to get a better view, the morning sunlight glinting from it changed from amber to violet. Rothrock sucked in his breath. He had seen this once before, at a salon in the company of the earl, set into a golden ring on the hand of a French nobleman. The enigmatic Ring's Fire. Here! Mere yards from the foot of the Ring Wall itself!

Rothrock's thoughts flew into turmoil. This chip itself was insignificant; it might bring a few shillings, conceivably a pound, nothing more. He looked more closely. The earth around it showed signs of considerable disturbance, and not recently. Someone had been thorough, and undoubtedly left nothing worth taking. But such things rarely are found atop the ground. Could it have fallen from above? While Bennet carefully lifted the little thing from its resting place with the tip of his dirk, Rothrock stepped back a hundred yards and looked again at the awesome wall. There was a man-high dark hole near the top, almost directly above the spot where George was rising to his feet. Perhaps . . .

****

Unlike some towns, Grantville didn't divide itself into different quarters where neighboring shops practiced related trades. On the contrary, this small shop dealing in an eclectic mix of unusual minerals, the tools and supplies for seeking them, and all manner of rugged outdoor equipment was tucked into a mechanical laundry. The building itself was a mélange of construction styles.

Rothrock watched the girl behind the counter listing the climbing equipment in front of them on a printed rental contract form. She was a bit slow totaling the charges. Perhaps she was new to the abacus. Probably so; she worked the sum twice.

When she straightened up and separated the forms to hand him the "carbon copy," he was startled to see the signature at the bottom, Paola Villareal.

Villareal? Some relation? Do I dare try to make conversation, and see what we might learn from that?

Before he could carry the thought any further, she suddenly glared over his shoulder. When Rothrock followed her gaze, George Bennet was licking his lips lasciviously. He hurriedly concluded the business without another word, and directed a cold look at Bennet on the way out. "Have you lost all sense of where we are? It could be disastrous to attract the attention of those men in blue uniforms across the way. Our absent friend has written of them; they are expert at what they do. Merely because we see her flesh up to her knees does not make her a whore. Such is not the custom here."

Bennet laughed. "No, just a slut and maybe a witch. I've heard about up-timer women! The presumption of the temptresses is beyond belief!"

Rothrock was disquieted beyond words.

The Thuringen Gardens

June

The noon rush was about to hit. Carlos did a quick eyeball check of the stock behind the bar, to see what they'd need to bring up right away. A glitter in the lost-and-found box caught his eye. He picked it up for a better look. It was a little polycrystalline cluster, with a void near one end. Somebody had strung it on a leather shoelace, with a complicated knot. He tilted it. The color changed from burnt orange in one direction to purple the other way. Huh? What in hell? Ametrine? He mumbled, "How the heck did this turn up?"

Jake Chekhov was out front, wiping down tables. If Chekhov wasn't the king of grouches, he was at least a count. He half-turned his head and growled, "How is what a turnip?"

"Huh? Not a turnip, Jake. I said 'turn up.' It means, how did it get here?" It didn't make a damn bit of sense for a chunk of ametrine to be in Germany—or anywhere in Europe, for that matter. The part of South America that stuff came from probably hadn't even been explored yet.

Chekhov glanced at the cluster Carlos was holding, and said, "That junk? It was onna floor last night. I woulda swept it out, but that string says it belongs to somebody, so I stuck it in lost-and-found like you said to. Why?"

"Why is because it's a rare mineral. Really rare. If anybody asks, tell them I've got it. I want to show this to Oughtred and ask him if he's seen anything like it."

Chekhov got a funny look on his face. "That mean somebody'd pay money for it?"

"They would, up-time. But who the hell knows, now?"

July 9

A bang like a howitzer shook Carlos awake and blew away the remnants of his dream. Livie was up on her knees, looking out through the blinds with a broad grin on her face. She looked down at him when he moved. "Did you see that? What a heck of a fireworks show!"

Just as he turned his head to look, another blue-white lightning bolt lit up the sky. He pushed the covers off and swung around to see better. Livie moved in and put an arm around his shoulders. She kissed his earlobe for a moment, then looked out the bedroom window again. He glanced at her sidewise, speculatively. "Are you thinking about making some thunder of our own?"

"Could be, big boy, could be. Kiss me right here."

****

Olivia was humming to herself when Carlos finished shaving and came into the kitchen. "Toast'll be ready in a minute." She poured the coffee.

For a few minutes they didn't talk; they didn't need to. There were a few distant rumbles as the storm line moved on and the rain tapered away.

As Carlos finished washing up and put away the silverware, he snapped his fingers and pulled open the next drawer down. "Oh, yeah, don't want to forget this."

Olivia looked over at the small cluster of crystals he was holding, strung on a strip of leather. It didn't look familiar, but she'd never been quite the rockhound Carlos was. It was more the outdoors itself that she enjoyed. "Mm? What's that?"

"Real good question. It looks like ametrine, and that doesn't make a whole lot of sense. The janitor found it on the floor at the Gardens. I want to show it to Will, and see if he's seen anything like it."

"Oh, yeah, it's about time to load up our gear and get over there, isn't it? I just wish he'd built up a little more rock climbing experience, before tackling this mineral survey grant on the Wall. If you ask me, all these down-timers take too many chances. As sensible as he is most of the time."

"Well, that's why we're going along this first time, right, to show him the ropes?"

Olivia stuck out her tongue and threw a gardening glove at his head.

"Seriously, it should be a lot more manageable once we help him get that first line of fixed anchor points set. And it's not like El Capitan, this is all business. Won't be any hot-dogging."

"Better not be. I'll give him an earful if he pushes things."

"Yes, Mother."

Murphy's Run

This was nothing like sport climbing. Will began by shooting an arrow trailing a lightweight cord across to where Carlos was standing on the clifftop. In a few minutes they had a line dropping from a solid-looking tree, protected by a heavy canvas covering where it went over the edge, coming down at an angle to their starting point on the south slope. Will anchored a second line close to where he and Olivia stood, and looked at her inquiringly. Olivia nodded. Good. They had a few minutes' wait, until Carlos could work his way back down through the woods. Olivia used the time for one more visual check of their equipment.

Carlos buckled on his harness and hung his gear, ready for use. "Will, suppose I demonstrate the first few, and then you take the lead? Livie, you want to belay?"

"That seems reasonable, Carlos."

"Sure. On belay."

Will watched closely while Carlos clipped onto both lines, then Olivia started carefully paying out slack in the side line from their starting point while he "ascended" the overhead line at a slant, ending up several yards out on the Wall at their original height. There was nothing but mirror-smooth hard rock wall at that spot. Carlos pulled a star drill and a hammer out of his tool belt, both of them secured with lanyards, and proceeded to drive a hole a couple inches deep. Next he brushed the dust out of the hole, tapped in a lead shield, and cranked a forged eyebolt into it and set a carabiner ring. Next, he hauled in the line that was to be left in place, slipped that and his trailing line into the ring, and closed it. No, this was nothing like sport climbing. This was somewhere between high construction work and ship rigging. "Want to watch another one, before we switch?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay, slack."

Will continued observing as Carlos maneuvered out further and set the next rock anchor.

"Very good, Carlos, I believe I understand it. Did you capture the dust you drilled out?"

"I got some of it. It's in these two bags. Just a second while I number them. After that, I'll come back and we can switch. Livie, you want to take up on the side line for me?"

Will turned and made a series of hand signals to the student down on the valley floor with a theodolite and a field book. There wasn't much wind, but it was still difficult to shout that far. Carlos came back to the starting point, and they went to work.

Along the Schwarzburg road

James Rothrock looked to be sure Bennet was ready to resume the upward trek. It was laborious to take a roundabout route up the slope to where it met the original Thüringian terrain, then up again on the hillside outside the Ring, but far easier and safer to climb to the clifftop and then descend by ropes, than attempting the route straight up to the cave above the place where George had found that tantalizing fragment.

This time they were bringing a collapsible canvas bucket and a spare line, so that they could haul away a much greater quantity of what they'd discovered than they could carry on their backs while climbing back up.

Rothrock casually glanced toward the Wall to his right, and froze. Another party had come into view around the flank of the cliff. That in itself was not to be wondered at, but . . . there was something familiar . . . He reached into the handcart, snatched at a side pocket of his backpack, and pulled out a small telescope. Bennet looked at him curiously as he focused the thing. He couldn't quite make out the faces, but by the shape of the man, and the rhythm of his movements, Rothrock knew. "Mars and Jupiter! George, Oughtred himself is crawling sideways across that cliff! What a strange way to proceed!"

"What? Let me see."

Rothrock passed over the instrument. Bennet stared at the cliffside for a short while. "There are two others there with him. Who do you imagine they could be?"

"Not anyone I can recognize, but by their size and the cut of their clothing, I should think up-timers, Americans, more than likely. We had best watch what they do, and not reveal ourselves until we know better what is happening here. Come, we can watch from under the trees there."

Hours passed. The party on the cliff moved slowly, starting and stopping, as if they were searching for something, or closely examining what they saw as they went along. But then . . .

"James! Look where they are now!" Rothrock saw, and his lips tightened. They were coming close to that cave, the one where they'd made their discovery. The party reached it. And went inside.

Rothrock stared in consternation. "Our mine is there! Do they intend to poach on it?"

"Ha! If they try, we could put a quick stop to that. After what we have risked, they certainly shall not."

"What? What do you mean?"

Bennet pointed to the far ridge, the one that held back a deep, still lake.

Rothrock could not stop his jaw from dropping. "Murder? Have you lost your mind? Why, by all that's holy? Our mining right is already recorded in the county archives! By the law here, it's ours! And even leaving that aside, how in the turmoil that would surely follow, could we accomplish the purpose for which we came here, to restore the correspondence between Oughtred and His Lordship?"

"Oh, a record, my young friend, a legally recorded right to bring forth what we found! Do you really imagine that these people, who made all these laws and offices for their own purposes, all of them related by blood, could find no way around that? Yes, we saw it recorded in ink in a bound record book. Do you care to wager that they couldn't cause it to vanish into thin air, like a conjurer's trick?"

Rothrock felt his face tighten.

Bennet laughed until he started coughing up blood, gagged on the clot until he spat it on the ground and could speak again. "He thinks nothing of showing that hidden place to those others. He shows not the least sense—nor, I do think, do you!"

"You call him a fool, now? Whether he is or not, remember our errand. We have found William Oughtred; he not only lives, he looks to be well. But now we must watch for a chance to speak with him in strict privacy, and learn whether he acts freely, or whether those strangers have some hold over him. Look, they have come out; they couldn't have penetrated so quickly to where we did. We shall watch where they go."

William Oughtred's cabin

Murphy's Run

It had been a pretty good day, with two rows of anchors set, but they'd all had enough. Carlos finished writing up his observations in one of Will's regular-size scientific notebooks, refreshing his memory from the little dollar-store address book Will carried in the field. He passed it over to Olivia, so she could make her own additions. It was just such a compliment that a real scientist thought a couple of country rock dealers had ideas worth listening to. And that's what he was now, too; it hadn't taken William Oughtred long to understand what Francis Bacon's controversial ideas would have flowered into, in another generation—not that Bacon was the only one questioning the old ideas of where knowledge came from.

About the time Will brought coffee to the table, along with some bread and cheese, Olivia put down her pen and looked up. "Carlos, what was that thing you wanted to show Will?"

"Oh. Yeah." Carlos picked his pack off the floor and dug into it. He laid the little crystal cluster on the table. "You've been looking at rocks all over the place. Seen anything like this?"

Will turned it back and forth in the late afternoon sunlight for a minute or so, then he got up and took down a box of labeled rock samples from an upper bookshelf. After a few seconds of poking around, he took one out.

"Here, Carlos. Tell me what you make of this. Tim Morton brought it to me two years ago, but as yet I have no idea where it fits in the world." The chunk was half the size of Carlos's hand, but it was crystals on one side and a rough crust on the other.

Olivia was looking at it from the other side of the table, though. She suddenly reached out and pointed her finger at the dull backside. "Oh, my God, Carlos! Look at this!" She grabbed it and turned it over. There was a painted number 214, weathered out. It was a piece of their stolen cathedral geode.

And the colors flashed as she turned it. "Madre de Dios! It's ametrine!" The guy who'd sold the unbroken cathedral geode must have thought it was something a lot more common. What he'd charged was a long way short of what it must have been worth.

Will was looking at Carlos as sharply as he'd looked at the rock. "You know what it is?"

Carlos got himself back under control. "Yeah, we do. Ametrine is a rare precious stone, it's a kind of fusion of amethyst and citrine and has zones of the different gemstones. The source I know about is a place in Bolivia called the Anahi Mine. Legend up-time had it that Spain has a good-sized piece in its royal jewels, had it since the sixteenth century. Anybody's guess whether that's true or not. Sometimes it's called trystine or Bolivianite."

Olivia zeroed in on the thing that mattered. "Will, you said Tim Morton found it? Where?"

****

On the way over to the Morton place, Carlos was still trying to take it all in. Olivia filled Will in on what had happened at the storage shed in 1631. All the evidence had screamed that it happened up-time, and what was gone was gone forever. It was such a crushing loss. What it all might have been worth down-time—now this.

Jack Morton came out at the sound of footsteps on the front porch. When Carlos took out the little cluster, his face lit up. "Hello, Mister Villareal. You've found my lucky piece? I wondered what became of it."

Carlos was too speechless to tell him. Livie did, gently. More of the story came out, as Jack led the way down to the edge of the property, by the road along the bottom of the run. He pointed to the patch of dirt and weeds, where he and Tim had found fragments of all sizes, fanned out around an old concrete well casing a few feet from the road. Will squatted down for a close look. "See here, this is scarred and cracked on this side. This is where the geode must have struck and broken apart."

"Hit? You think . . ."

"Yes. Consider the physics. Olivia, you told us that you found the stones gone a few days after the Ring of Fire, and thought they must have been stolen up-time? What we can see here tells us that the thieves must have used an open truck, and rushed off without securing the load properly—likely because of haste or stupidity. So, then, there is a deep pothole, and there is the well casing. I believe the geode was dislodged by the jolt, and fell free, still moving. That motion then carried it on a ballistic arc—" He showed what he meant with his hand, and then pointed his boot at the banged-up well casing. "—here. Where it struck at the speed the truck was traveling, and shattered from the impact."

Carlos felt a flicker of hope. "Jack, did you guys keep any of it? Besides that little piece you had, and the hunk you gave Oughtred?"

"No, just those. Father found someone to buy all we could find. It was a considerable task to carry it all off. It took us several trips."

I can imagine. That beast weighed two hundred pounds. They sure didn't get what it was worth, not if Tim is still tending bar for me down at the Gardens.

Meanwhile, Olivia was looking at the painting on the wall, of the front of a jeep. She suddenly asked, "What's this, Jack?" She was looking at one spot.

"Oh, the car? I painted that when we first moved here, with a bit of what was left over when we repaired the window frames. Not something I would stand here and do again, I'll tell you, not after hearing a couple of rocks thump into the ground. Cool, isn't it?"

"Yes, but what's this?"

Carlos looked at where she had her hand, and froze.

Jack ran on, "Those two little boulders? They were lying just over there. I thought they would do well as headlights, if I were to cement them in the right place and paint them."

Carlos sucked in his breath. The things were spherical, about six inches across, and the last time he'd seen them was in the shed behind the laundromat, before the Ring of Fire. They were two of the three smaller geodes, from the same lot as that monster cathedral geode.

"Livie, do you mind if we ask Will to dinner tonight? I think we have a lot to talk about."

****

Olivia pushed a little bit, trying to make it home before the rain really got going. They still had to dash in through the garage to keep from getting drenched.

A couple of minutes later Paola and Beth came in and vanished into the photography studio behind the kitchen. Will looked at them intently, and raised an eyebrow.

"My two younger daughters."

Paola had a package in her hand when she came out, and said, "Mom, I have to go to Leanna's, I need the keys—Oh, hi, Mr. O!"

"Wait! I need to know—" She was out the door while the words still hung in the air. "Mr. O?"

Will chuckled, "I'm sometimes called that at the high school. Some of the students are quite impressive." He smiled toward where Paola had gone. "That one is what they call a math head. She has a quick theoretical grasp. She would do well to continue with it."

"Oh. Cute. I hadn't heard that name, but then I hardly ever get to the high school."

"But you do teach, I recall?"

"Well, I taught photography for a while, more the artistic side than the technical. But I decided I'd better hang onto the film I still have in my freezer. I hear they're about ready to start making it, though, so maybe I'll start giving lessons again."

Will gave her a sympathetic smile and went over to look at the large portrait on the wall above the fireplace. He studied it closely for a few moments. "Speaking of photographs, this one is quite impressive. I don't believe I've seen one this fine. Done by a student of yours?"

"No, my mom and I took a trip to Malta in 1981. We went over to Gozo for a couple of days, and when Mom spotted a portrait studio near the beach, she wouldn't let up until I had my picture done. He really was an artist, but I think he went overboard with the costuming and props."

"Mmm-hmm. I like the way he used the mirror to show your face from two angles. Quite ingenious. Well, that explains the wall plaque beneath the mirror. Do you know what it says?"

"No, it's Greek to me."

"Ha! It's from Homer, the Odyssey. 'There is an isle, Ogygia, which lies far off in the sea. Therein dwells the fair-tressed daughter of Atlas, guileful Calypso, a dread goddess, and with her no-one either of gods or mortals hath aught to do.' A very apt description of Calypso, I might add."

July 10

Grantville looked a lot different ever since the food crisis in '31 made a deep dent in ornamental gardening. Olivia sat on the back patio resting her eyes for a while on the two white rose bushes they'd kept, turning over in her mind the problem of cutting three verses of poetry down to two, and still bringing it to a clean ending. Finally, she decided the best thing was to leave it for a while, and turned her hands to the potato patch.

Finally the sun got her attention. The afternoon was getting on, and she hadn't gone off yet to Miller's Hardware for some string, or to Sternbock's in town to replenish the espresso. She scribbled a note to Carlos and the girls to let them know she'd be back around six, and left it by the drain board in the kitchen, weighed down with a salt shaker to make it stay put. It was so hot, she left the French doors in back open, with just the screen doors closed.

On the way out, she saw Will's pocket notebook lying on the dining room floor under the chair he'd sat in the night before. "Oh, fiddle!" The traffic around the high school would be a mess that time of day. Better to do the shopping first, then run it out to his place.

****

Olivia pulled up by the path to Will's cabin, intending to leave his notebook in the mailbox if he wasn't home. But she heard him all the way down where she was, talking to somebody, the loudest she'd ever heard him, maybe arguing. She parked and started up the path.

Next thing she knew, she was face-to-face with a man in a lavender coat. By the long, blond, curly hair, he was some kind of upper-class down-timer, but by the way he'd suddenly materialized from behind a bush and planted himself in her way, he didn't look friendly. She turned to run for the truck; if she could slam the door and hit the lock button with her elbow, she'd be able to drive off before he could do anything else. If he knifed a tire, there was always the pistol in the glove compartment.

Before she was halfway around, somebody else grabbed her from behind. She tried to grab the one she could reach and pull him in, so she could slam her knee into him. Then she'd only have the one behind her to fight; if she could shift her footing enough she could probably throw him. But that blond hair came off in her hands, and she saw a shaved head covered with scars and sores. Before she could get hold of him some other way, or just try a kick below the belt, his hand came up at her face. She heard a crackle, then smelled something obscenely sweet. The world spun around her. There was a sensation of dragging, and lifting, and dropping, and pain, like someone kicked her between her legs. Somewhere along the way she got her eyes open and saw only black, then a face, then nothing.

****

Much, much later, Olivia woke to a faint breeze. Her head pounded. She felt shaky. Her whole right side felt like pins-and-needles. Everything was spinning. Light, what there was, came from somewhere on the far end of a crooked passage. By the texture of the rock all around her and over her head, there was only one place she could be; this far in, though, there were glittery crystals. How in hell had she gotten here?

With her free hand she touched her body, and felt only chilled flesh, not clothing. She was shaking, she was so cold. She cried for a long while.

Carlos would explode in fury when he found out.

I . . .

God, I feel stupid, leaving my gun in the glove compartment like that.

She got up on her hands and knees, still too shaky to balance upright. Her legs and hips and middle hurt. One arm was bloody from a slice, and there was more blood on the cave floor, but it didn't seem to be bleeding now. Must have gotten slammed into a sharp edge, being hauled up here. She crawled toward where the breeze was coming from, and reached an opening. In the twilight she discovered that she was right above the road that slammed into the wall, if hundreds of feet was right above. The mine buildings below told her for sure.

Whatever way she'd gotten here, the rock shop had likely rented the equipment to the wrong people. But there was no climbing gear here now. Try free climbing? Not on that wall.

Just behind where she'd been lying on some kind of mat, there were camping supplies piled on a rickety table: food, water, toilet paper, a small oil lamp and striker, and a chemical toilet behind that. Her framed photograph from Gozo was standing up on top of it, leaning against the cave wall—what the hell? Never mind, that could wait. Drink some water right away, eat something. That was a start.

Who were these maniacs? She cried, and passed out again.

Evening

When Will Oughtred came to tell Carlos and Olivia of the mad sensation their stolen gemstones had ignited among the rich and mighty of Europe, and the commodity of influence and power they'd become, there was a police car out front, along with a fire truck and eight or nine other cars and trucks. The house was dark. In the wisps drifting across the headlight beams came the smell of charred wood. The neighbors were telling the police they'd seen a couple of strangers go around back, one of them wearing a fancy purple coat, and a while later they'd heard a smoke alarm go off and seen flames coming up over the back patio. They'd caught the blaze right away, and fought it back with a garden hose while the firemen were on the way.

Carlos was standing just outside the door with a flashlight in his hand, pointing out something to a police technician inside. Will came and stood by his shoulder, and saw; the house was a shambles. The big portrait of Olivia was gone entirely, leaving empty wall above the fireplace.

Olivia could not be found anywhere, only her note, and it was long past the hour she'd written of. There was nothing to be said, until Officer Neubert came to him with a notepad in his hand.

"James Rothrock called on me at home today . . . foster son of the earl of Arundel, residing at Padua . . . What was it we spoke of? Other than some difficulty with letters, he sought to know the origin of a gem called the Ring's Fire, reputedly forged in the cataclysm . . . No, Officer, stolen property of the Villareals, found all-unknowing and innocently sold . . . "

Chief Richards arrived just as Will finished telling everything he could think of that might be remotely useful. Richards listened to Neubert's clipped summary, then went to the radio in his patrol car and issued his first orders. Within fifteen minutes the passes through the Ring were all guarded, and VOA was broadcasting the call for volunteers to join in the search for Olivia. The chief brought writing materials from his car, and asked for a sketch of Rothrock.

At the cemetery above Grantville

James Rothrock stopped his furious pacing on the graveled path and matched Bennet glare for glare. Even in the dimness up here, he could make out the black eye and the gash on the man's face easily enough; he had no doubt there were more scratches beneath Bennet's clothing. He put as much fury into his tone as it was possible to project without raising his voice so that it could be heard at a distance. "Do you have the least idea how stupid you are, George? We can never return to our lodgings!"

"What? Why ever not?"

"Why not? Because of the hue and cry rising all around us! If I hadn't heard a radio blare as I passed an open window . . . Have you entirely lost your wits? You and that scruffy little man you hired were to do no more than keep watch, to distract and delay anyone who might blunder into the meeting with Oughtred! But seizing her and stealing her away, and then going to her house afterward and rampaging through it to make it blindlingly clear that she didn't merely forget the time on some ordinary errand! You have kicked open a raging hornets' nest! I can no longer appear on the street in daylight; my name is heard everywhere and Oughtred's sketch of my face is on the television! Our business here could have already been concluded successfully; there is no difficulty with Oughtred beyond the unexplained missing courier. But now . . . George Bennet, what have you done with Olivia Villareal?"

"I did nothing wrong." Bennet's tone could have belonged to a naughty child.

"Her family and her fellow citizens disagree."

"So, pleasuring myself, like a man should, you'd begrudge? James, she is so much like a real goddess."

Rothrock's bowels clenched in terror. "You raped her?"

"So? Did you see how she was attired? She's a whore! I eliminate the mistress . . ."

"By Mars and Janus! Thor and Odin! She's not Oughtred's mistress! Stripping her! Ravaging her—Hellfire, George, this is beyond madness! Olivia Villareal is a married woman, a greatly respected and loved one! You should hear what the radio announcer said about her! She's an up-timer, George! They all dress that way, it doesn't make her a whore anymore than the queen was a whore, God rest her . . ."

"Ha! It wasn't ravaging. We gave her opium and she was not inhibited after that. Besides, she was stupid enough to come."

"Did you leave her clothing? Did you leave her food? What about water? Who else did you share her with? Is she even alive? Damme, you were to do nothing but keep whoever came from discovering the meeting with Oughtred, and if at all possible, without noticing that they were being deliberately fended off!"

"Rothrock, you're an ass. Of course she is a whore and a witch. Why should I listen to you? You have been seduced by this place—only try to put me off."

"Put you off? Put you off!? You have overthrown everything Oughtred achieved, everything Arundel hoped for, and put an end to any hope that we could stay and profit by the gemstones we found. No, they are not Ring's Fire, but they would have been enough for us."

"Damnation, Rothrock! Listen to me, you are nothing but a hasty witted, impertinent, wet behind your ass, jolt-headed, bastard if you think exactly why Arundel wants Oughtred is the reason he gave you. We shall take his Ring's Fire. I do not much care what you think. Then we can sink Oughtred in that lake and tell Arundel we could not find him."

"What? Bastardy is nothing to what you propose now! Murder? Robbery? And as to telling Arundel anything, my letter recounting the meeting with Oughtred is well on its way by now."

Bennet was no longer listening, he only ranted on. "I'll buy myself a Genovese countess! You can buy yourself a damned pedigree and move to damned Spain and turn damned Catholic and claim Arundel as your rightful father. I'm still going to kill Oughtred's damned mistress and take my half of the money."

Rothrock's mind whirled in chaos. He could not imagine why Bennet had called the woman a goddess—then he remembered the painting at the palazzo in Padua. The resemblance to the television picture of the missing woman was astonishing. But a blinding realization drove that thought right out of his head. He suddenly was certain of where she must be.

He had one final word as he turned and started down the hill. "George Bennet, if you place any value upon your life, be out of Grantville within the hour and never stop until you are beyond the borders of this state. I shall not be far behind, after I do what I can to repair what you have done, if that is still possible."

****

To be continued in Grantville Gazette Volume 37

Highways of the Sky

Written by Iver P. Cooper

In late twentieth-century America and Europe, freight and passengers are transported by autos and trucks, trains, ships and aircraft. However, there was once a dream that lighter-than-air airships, capable of powered flight, could play an important role in the transport network. Both Kevin Evans and Kerryn Offord have explored the possibility that airships could be built at a relatively early date in the 1632 universe, and carve out a niche for themselves.

In this article, I will consider what routes an airship of given capabilities can fly, and how the choice of route can compensate for the deficiencies that can be expected in early airships, i.e., that they are under-powered and have limited fuel capacity.

I'll take the High Road, You Take the Low Road . . .

At the time of the Ring of Fire, trade routes linked together Europe, Africa, Asia and the Americas. Some routes were by land, others by sea, and these could be in competition. The sea route between Europe and India required circumnavigating Africa, and thus was much longer than the overland route across the Middle East. However, it was also safer (despite navigation errors, storms and pirates), faster (a ship in a good wind was several times faster than a train of pack mules), and able to accommodate larger volumes of cargo (it takes a lot of pack mules to carry as much as a single large merchant ship).

An airship can travel at least as fast as a watership and can take an overland route (at least if there are no mountains in the way). It is not vulnerable to piracy (except when it lands) and it can safely sail at night (except in mountainous regions).

Since airships can travel over land just as easily as over sea, they are likely to first make their commercial mark on those trade routes for which the land route is much shorter.

The shortest distance between two points on the Earth's surface is a great circle route, and I'll explain how to calculate that distance in the next section. Unless a mountain barrier blocks the way, an airship can fly a great circle route (although there are reasons that we will reveal that it might want to deviate from such a route). Waterships are more constrained, since any intervening land forces them to find a way around.

To calculate the length of a sea route, use the Portworld calculator:

www.portworld.com/map/

Be sure to disallow the Panama and Suez Canals!

For example, the sea distance from Amsterdam to Chennai is 12,634 miles (and that's for a modern ship, that isn't worrying about catching the right winds). That's more than twice the great circle distance (4,899 miles)!

There are similar advantages to flying from Europe to China, or from Europe to the west coast of the Americas (e.g., Spain to Peru).

That said, airships can compete on the normal oceanic shipping routes, too. If they have enough fuel and engine power, they can behave like steamships, more or less ignoring the wind (although the wind will have more effect on any airship than it would on a water-bound steamship, because the airship doesn't have an underwater section to confer lateral resistance if the wind is coming cross-course). If the airship needs to conserve fuel, then it behaves like a hybrid sail-steam watership, powering through regions of neutral or unfavorable wind (horse latitudes, doldrums) and taking advantage of favorable winds.

Route Selection: Great Circle, Rhumb Line and Composite Routes

Since the Earth is (more or less) spherical, the shortest path between any two points on the surface is a great circle route. The great circle is defined by the intersection of that surface with a plane containing the origin, the destination, and the center of the earth.

If you have the longitude and latitude, you may calculate the great circle distance using the Great Circle worksheet on my spreadsheet.

However, it's nice to be able to actually see the route displayed graphically. If you have Google Earth, use that. Draw a line with the ruler between your origin and destination; that line is a great circle route. You can see where it crosses coastlines, or particular latitudes or longitudes. In addition, if you save the line as a path, you can right-click on the pathname in the sidebar and pick "show elevation profile." This is by far the easiest way to figure out what is the minimum altitude you need to fly at to avoid an embarrassing tête-à-tête with a mountain (the mountain always wins).

If for some reason you can't use Google Earth, you may try use Great Circle Mapper

www.gcmap.com/.

Prior to the Ring of Fire, it was impractical to sail a great circle route. On such a route, the course (the angle of the ship's track relative to true north) is continuously changing. You must adjust your heading depending on where you are. However, pre-RoF navigation capabilities were gravely limited. Latitude was determined by sightings of the sun at noon, or stars at night, and the accuracy was no better than a quarter-degree. Longitude was determined by dead reckoning and could be wildly in error (tens of degrees!) if you had spent a long time at sea.

I discussed the possible improvements in the art Sof marine navigation in my two part article, "Soundings and Sextants" (Part I, "Navigational Instruments Old and New" in Grantville Gazette 14; Part II, "Celestial Navigation Methods," in 15). Ultimately, of course, we will have sophisticated sextants and accurate chronometers, but it will take years, if not decades, for these to become commonplace.

Moreover, since an airship travels substantially faster than a watership, the time between celestial observations is more of a factor, and there are obvious problems with measuring the elevation of a celestial object above the horizon when you are in the air.

The Hindenburg didn't in fact rely much on celestial navigation. Rather, it used the combination of a gyroscopic compass and dead reckoning. If it were traveling in still air, its position could be accurately calculated from its airspeed and heading. Wind could be assessed by flying a special pattern; every hour, head 45 degrees off course, first to port and then to starboard, and take drift readings. (Dick 60). The zeppelin was equipped with a searchlight and a telescope; water ripples or landmarks below were studied to determine the ships angle of drift (the angle between its heading and its course). (Grossman).

Prior to RoF, the standard navigational practice was either to follow a coastline (or other landmarks), or to sail a rhumb line (loxodrome). The latter means to sail with a constant compass heading. Even that had its difficulties, as it was difficult to correct compasses for magnetic deviation or variation, but at least at night the Pole Star provided a check on the accuracy of your compass reading. Even so, navigators preferred whenever possible to "run down a line of latitude," that is, sail directly east or west, as that way the noon sun sightings could be used to verify that they were still on course.

Even after the introduction of the sextant and chronometer, mariners didn't follow a perfect great circle route even when the winds were not an issue. For one thing, taking a great circle path could force the ship into high latitudes with stormy weather. Hence, even modern sailors sometimes follow a "composite" route in which they truncate the great circle at a particular maximum latitude, thus following a great circle route at the ends and a rhumb line (of constant latitude) in the middle.

For another, it's inconvenient to make all the necessary course changes. A modern sailor might approximate a great circle route by a series of rhumb lines, changed daily. An airship might make hourly changes but the principle is the same.

Winds, of course, offer another reason for deviating from the great circle route. In general, you want to take the shortest path through a region of unfavorable winds, and keep the route as much as possible where the winds are favorable.

If the great circle route is overland, then it may pass over mountains. You have three choices: (1) fly above them, but at the cost of having to carry more hydrogen and less cargo in order to achieve the necessary buoyancy (and there are some mountains you still won't be able to fly over), (2) skirt them, at the cost of increased travel distance, or (3) thread through the same passes that the mule trains do, but at risk of encountering turbulence and mountain storms.

Limits on Route Length

The length of the route is limited by the amount of fuel that the airship can carry, the energy content of that fuel, the efficiency with which the airship transforms fuel into propulsion, and the availability of refueling stops en route. The more fuel the airship carries, the greater its range, but the less its cargo capacity.

The loss of hydrogen, whether through leakage or deliberate venting for altitude correction, can also limit the route. The less hydrogen, the less buoyant the airship is. It eventually needs to stop at a depot with a supply of iron, fuel and water so that it can make more hydrogen by the steam-iron process. (Hydrogen may also be made by the acid-iron process, but sulfuric acid is likely to be harder to find, especially outside Europe.)

Prevailing Winds Navigation

The minimum distance route (always a great circle) is not necessarily the minimum time or minimum energy route. That's because winds affect how quickly an airship can travel and how energy it must expend to move a particular distance. Ornithologists tell us that "birds will wait to embark on a migration until they can fly with a tail wind and minimize the energy they must spend." (Deblieu 77). Airships can take advantage of the wind, too.

Initially, the best that the characters will be able to do is to plan their routes to take advantage of prevailing winds; later, "pressure pattern" navigation, which takes advantage of chance "highs" and "lows," will be possible. Prevailing winds are "typical" winds; on a day-to-day basis, the wind varies in speed and direction. Indeed, the average wind velocity distribution itself varies, at a single location, on a seasonal basis.

While sailors have taken advantage of prevailing winds for millennia (since a sailing ship cannot sail directly upwind, and can only beat obliquely upwind with difficulty, they had no choice), the formal mathematical theory of planning a minimum time path for a sailing ship was developed by Francis Galton in the 1860s and 1870s. Maurice Giblett, in 1924, proposed a similar scheme for use by airships. Unlike sailing ships, airships need fuel, and therefore there has also been interest in identifying the minimum energy route given a particular wind distribution (Munk; Zhao).

In my article, "Untying the Wind," (Grantville Gazette 35), I explain what the characters might reasonably be expected to know, or find out, about the prevailing winds, and guide prospective 1632 universe authors to sources of more detailed information.

Speed Variation

Just as with a sailing ship, an airship can expect to experience both poor and good passages, depending on the vagaries of the wind. In December, 1934, over the Mediterranean, the Graf Zeppelin encountered northwest winds of 45-56 mph, which increased its ground speed to 122 mph. (Dick 52).

For the Hindenburg, the Frankfurt-Lakehurst passage varied from 52h49m to 78h57m, while the return was usually faster, ranging from 43h02m to 60h58m. The latter no doubt resulted from the advantage of flying with the westerlies. For the passage from Frankfurt to Rio, the Hindenburg's times ranged from 85h13m to 111h41m, and the return was 93h17m to 105h57m. (airships.net). There was a fairly wide variation in westbound routes—as far south as the Azores and as far north as the Orkneys—but the return flights were, at mid-ocean, between the latitudes of Bordeaux and Aberdeen.

Not only did airships pick their routes to benefit from favorable winds, they chose their cruising altitudes with the same consideration in mind. The normal cruising altitude of the Graf Zeppelin was 575-820 feet, but it went higher if the upper winds were better. (Dick 67).

What a drag . . .

A balloon rises until the buoyant force lifting it and the gravitational force pulling it back toward the surface are equal. Its horizontal movement is dictated by the wind, which exerts a drag force on it, pushing it downwind. A force, by definition, causes an object to accelerate (gain speed); the less massive the object, the faster it accelerates.

The drag force on the free balloon is proportional to the square of its airspeed, that is, its speed relative to the air mass. Its airspeed is thus the difference between its ground speed and the wind speed.

When the balloon is launched, it has no ground speed, and so its air speed is equal to the wind speed (but opposite in sign). The drag force on it is high, and it accelerates quickly. As it accelerates, its ground speed increases. This causes the air speed to decrease, and thus the drag force on it to decrease. Thus, it continues to gain speed, but more slowly. If the wind remained constant, its ground speed would approach, more and more closely, the wind speed. A gust could cause it to temporarily travel faster than the "normal" wind speed, in which case the drag force would cause it to decelerate.

While only one horizontal force (the wind) acts on free balloon, an airship is subject to such forces, the wind and the propulsive force of its propellers or jets. For the purpose of this article, we assume axial propulsion, that is the engine drives the airship forward.

It's time to talk about velocity. To a physicist, velocity isn't the same as speed, velocity is a vector which has both a magnitude (the speed) and a direction.

The basic equation of airship motion is:

velocity (ship relative to ground) = velocity (ship relative to air mass) + velocity (air mass relative to ground).

This equation may be rearranged to solve for the velocity (ship relative to air mass).

The ground velocity is defined by a ground speed (ship relative to ground) and a course (the geographic direction toward which the ship is moving). The air velocity is defined by an air speed (ship relative to air mass) and a heading (the geographic direction toward which the nose is pointing). And the air mass (true wind) velocity is defined by a wind speed and direction.

Course, heading and wind direction are all defined so that north is zero degrees, and the angle increases clockwise. (This is not, by the way, the same convention that mathematicians used to express angles, so some mathematical conversions are necessary in order to apply trigonometric functions properly.)

A further complication is that for the vector mathematics to work, the wind must be expressed as the direction the air is moving toward, whereas meteorologists define the wind direction as the direction the wind is coming from. If I refer to the direction of the wind vector, I mean the TO direction.

The drag force is based on the apparent wind, that is, the velocity of the air mass relative to the ship. That's the opposite of the velocity of the ship relative to the air mass. The ship's heading is chosen so that this apparent wind is coming over the nose (headwind) or over the tail (tail), i.e., so that there's no crosswind. (The ship, aided by its fins, acts like a weathervane, turning into or away from the wind to make this happen).

If the ship is unable to quite make this heading (because the wind keeps shifting faster then the ship can turn), then it will feel an apparent crosswind, creating a side force that causes it to "crab" or "sideslip," a movement sidewise in the direction the apparent wind is blowing (the equivalent of leeway for a watership). For the purpose of this article, we will be ignoring sideslip and side drag.

If there's no wind, the air speed equals the ground speed. A wind that's a headwind (directly opposing movement down-course) increases the airspeed (and thus the drag), and a tailwind decreases it, by the amount of the wind speed.

Vector mathematics is necessary to calculate the effects of in-between winds. To add (or subtract) vectors, we "resolve" the vector into two mutually perpendicular components, for example, a north-south and an east-west component. If you are heading 20 mph northwest, that resolves to 14.1 mph north and 14.1 mph west.

If vectors are to be added, we separately add up their north-south components, and their east-west components, and then recombine the components to get the combined vector (resultant). For example, motion 40 mph west and 30 mph north corresponds to movement of 50 mph in a direction about 37o north of west. Trigonometry, which is known to the down-timers, is needed to make these calculations, but vector mathematics is new to them.

Sometimes, it's informative to resolve a vector into components other than geographic. For example, if we resolve the wind into a component in the direction ("down") the ground course and one perpendicular ("cross") to it, then we can readily see how much a favorable wind is helping us along and how much it's trying to blow us off course.

The CWV angle in the table below is the unsigned angle between the course (C) and the true wind vector (WV). Thus, if your course is due west, and the wind is from the northeast, the wind vector is to the southwest and the CWV angle is 45o. The CWV angle is 0 for a down-course (tail) wind and 180 for an up-course (head) wind.

The underlying equation, if you're wondering, is rather simple:

(AS/GS)=sqrt((WS/GS)^2 -2*(WS/GS)*cos(CWVang)+1) [equation 1].

It shouldn't be surprising that even an oblique headwind increases airspeed as a percentage of ground speed.

However, notice that even a pure crosswind is bad. Why? because to keep the crosswind from pushing you off course, you have to point the nose a little bit upwind to compensate, and then you have to increase power so you maintain the required ground speed.

If you're familiar with sailing ships, that may seem strange. Sailing ships do quite well with a wind off the beam. However, sailing ships capture the wind mostly on their sails, not their superstructure. The sails can be braced about to face the wind more directly. The more directly it faces the wind, the greater the percentage of the wind force that is felt by the ship. However, the greater the bracing angle, the greater the percentage of that felt force that is driving the ship sidewise rather than forward. But a watership isn't forced directly downwind like a free balloon because the lateral resistance is proportional to the density of water (much higher than air) and the resistance is increased by the keel, centerboard, etc. The bracing angle chosen compromises between increasing driving force and increasing leeway. For a wind off the beam, it would be 45o.

For an airship, which doesn't have sails, only the component of the wind in the down-course direction is helpful, the cross-course component must be fought.

Note that if wind speed exceeds the desired ground speed, drag increases even when the wind is from a favorable direction. Drag is the result of the relative difference in speed between the ship and the air, and it doesn't matter which is moving faster. Of course, it's likely that if you are in an area of strong wind of favorable direction, you will happily allow your airship to behave like a free balloon, and let its ground speed equal the wind speed and its airspeed (and drag) drop to zero. But if there was a reason you couldn't do this—perhaps you're escorting a surface ship—then you must pay the piper.

****

Now, let's look at the consequences of the numbers in the table. Drag is proportional to the square of the airspeed, and the power to overcome the drag is proportional to the cube of the airspeed. The energy required for the journey is proportional to the square of the airspeed (and the distance to be traveled).

So, if the airspeed is 50% of the ground speed, then the drag is 25% of what you'd experience with the same ground speed in still air, and the power requirement just 12.5%.

Plainly, if you don't have to go very far out of the way to take advantage of a favorable wind, you should do so.

The Effect of Altitude

We want to minimize airspeed, obviously. The wind speed is partially under our control—we can choose our course and we can choose our altitude. Once we fix our course, the CWV angle is fixed, but how do we determine the optimum altitude?

If the CWV is at least 90 degrees, the wind is definitely unfavorable, pick and altitude at which the wind is weak.

For smaller angles, there is an optimum ratio of wind speed to ground speed for minimum drag, and you can adjust your altitude up or down to obtain it.

If we rearrange equation 1 to solve for (AS/GS)2, differentiate (AS/GS) with respect to (WS/GS), set the derivative equal to zero, and solve for WS/GS, we get the marvelously simple result:

(WS/GS)=cos (CWVang) [equation 2]

****

In general, wind speeds increase with altitude. If the wind shear exponent is 0.2, a ten-fold change in altitude results in a 1.58 fold change in wind speed. So that gives you an idea of how much of a wind speed change you can effectuate by flipping between 100 and 1000 meters altitude.

However, there are exceptions. For the Graf Zeppelin, returning to Germany from South America, it had to fight through the northeast trades. It found it advantageous to ascend to 4000–5000 feet, where the trade winds were weaker. (Dick 58).

****

Increasing altitude also reduces drag. Drag force is proportional to the density of the air, which decreases linearly (temperature lapse rate of 6.5oK/kilometer) as altitudes increase, up to the tropopause at 11 kilometers. The physics-trained up-timers will realize that they can calculate the pressure and density using the temperature, the Ideal Gas Law and the hydrostatic equation. The necessary constants should be in CRC.

Air Speed versus Ground Speed

As a practical matter, an airship pilot is going to have a much better knowledge of the air speed (displayed on the dashboard) than the ground speed (calculated from observation of time between positional fixes). As Munk was perhaps the first to point out, the power requirement for an airship is proportional to the cube of the air speed, and the consumption of fuel over a segment is proportional to the power divided by the air speed. Given the wind velocity and course, it's possible to calculate (Munk 4) the airspeed and heading that the airship should be holding. On the other hand, a passenger or freight shipper cares a lot more about the ground speed.

In my route planning spreadsheet, I allow the user to specify either the ground speed or the air speed for a route segment. An experienced pilot has told me that I need only worry about setting the air speed, since aircraft engines are designed to work efficiently only in a narrow power band, which will in turn determine the air speed the pilot will seek to maintain while in flight. That will, in turn, limit what missions a given aircraft, whose engine has a given power band, will fly.

I understand his reasoning, but I think the 1632 writing community needs a more flexible tool. Airships, especially large airships, will be extraordinarily expensive by seventeenth-century standards. While a pilot may be more concerned with air speed, the airship customers are more interested in ground speed—how soon will passengers or cargo be delivered to a particular destination. Being able to meet particular ground speed requirements may determine whether an airship even gets built.

It's also worth remembering that there are no pre-RoF aircraft engines in Grantville. All of the engines used in the first decade of the 1632 universe will be re-purposed auto and truck engines, or down-timer built first generation steam and gasoline engines. Their performance characteristics will be different from those of a modern general aviation aircraft engine. In particular, I would expect that they will have a broader but lower power band.

Still, it's worth taking a closer look at the issues of internal combustion engine and propeller performance. I will be doing just that, in a future article.

A Look at the Hindenburg (Still Air Conditions)

Table 2A presents the dimensions of the Hindenburg, which can be used (with air density) to calculate the drag force upon it for a given air speed, and the propulsive power required to overcome that drag.

With a few assumptions, I have calculated (Table 2B) the required engine power and required fuel for the reported cruising speed, and required engine power for the reported maximum speed. I assumed energy density of 40,000 MJ/kg; and the following efficiencies: diesel powerplant 40%, propulsive 85% (but bear in mind that that propeller efficiencies are dependent on airspeed and most likely optimized for cruising speed), and thus overall 34%. The notes are to sources/explanations given in Appendix 3.

At the stated altitude, air density is 98% that at the surface. For the cruising speed, the required power almost exactly matched the published cruising power and the implied range was only 5% greater than the published range. But bear in mind that the assumed efficiencies are educated guesses, they aren't known values for the specific diesel engine and propeller used on the Hindenburg. I was actually surprised by how close the published and calculated numbers were.

Flight 14 demonstrated just how vulnerable airship performance is to adverse winds. It was "one of the longest flights to Lakehurst of the entire 1936 season:" (Dick 126). The Hindenburg encountered a front, and its ground speed dropped as low as 30 mph. (127). Later, "head winds, some as high as force 9 [47-58 mph] . . . were encountered until the ship was almost five hours out of Lakehurst" (130).

Wind-Adjusted Power and Fuel Requirements for Different Routes

Once we try to take wind into account, the calculations get hairy quickly. For this reason, I constructed a spreadsheet to do the heavy lifting. In Appendix 1, I will describe how to use the spreadsheet.

Please note that none of the calculations are actually beyond the down-timers; we know that they can do trigonometry and they can certainly learn spherical geometry and vector arithmetic. It will just take them longer, and the calculations will be more prone to error if they don't have access to one of the up-timer's computers or calculators.

I have not attempted to make the exact calculation for a great circle route. Why not? Since the course is constantly changing, the effect of the wind (even a constant wind) is also constantly changing along the course of the route. We are talking about solving the integral of a very complex nonlinear function, and it is not a standard integral, so it has to be approximated by numerical methods.

But if they're curious about what would be the benefit of a great circle route crossing particular wind zones, there is a way to obtain an approximate answer. In essence, you calculate intermediate points on the great circle route, and calculate the power and energy requirements for rhumb line segments connecting those points.

The more segments there are, the more computational work you are inflicting on yourself, but the closer you come to approximating a great circle route (if that's what you want).

In any event, in order to quantify what fuel is needed for different routes we need to

1) break the route down into segments, each segment expected to experience a "uniform" wind (that is a wind that doesn't change mid-segment) and calculate the length of each segment

2) specify what the wind is for each segment (this could be an "average," "worst case" or "best case" prevailing wind, or the wind forecasted to occur on that segment on a particular flight by the time we traverse it)

3) specify the desired ground speed for each segment, which, together with the segment length, will determine the expected travel time;

4) calculate the resulting air speed for each segment,

5) calculate, for each segment, its power and energy requirements.

The winds obviously, are educated guesswork, but the rest of steps 1-4 are straightforward spherical geometry and vector trigonometry.

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To calculate engine power, fuel energy, and fuel weight requirements, we need some additional numbers.

First, we need to calculate the drag force based on the airspeed. That force equals one-half times the air density times a dimensionless drag coefficient times the reference area of the object times the square of the airspeed; this formula is likely to be known in Grantville; see McGHEST/Wind Stress, Aerodynamic Force, etc.

Determining the dimensionless drag coefficient would have to be determined by wind tunnel experiments if the data wasn't in some book in Grantville. Airship designers typically calculate it based on a reference area defined as the 2/3rd power of the volume, in which case it's called a "volumetric drag coefficient" but the computation could just as easily be based on the cross-sectional area or the total surface area. A particular drag coefficient is only good for a particular shape, anyway. Determining the reference area of course requires additional calculations but the formulae are well known to the mathematically-trained up-timers.

To calculate fuel requirements, you would need to know the energy content of the fuel, and the efficiency with which the engines burn that fuel and use it to generate a propulsive force.

There is probably data in Grantville on the energy content of individual hydrocarbons, and of some typical up-time fuels, that can be used for estimation of the energy content of down-time fuels. For more precise information, you would ideally measure the "heat of combustion" using a constant volume "bomb" calorimeter (OTL, the first one was built by Berthelot in 1881), with combustion occurring inside the calorimeter. Energy content of fuels is measured in undergraduate chemistry labs, but more approximately, using a constant pressure calorimeter and external combustion.

As long as we are using up-time engines, there is reasonable chance that one of the up-timers will have a car manual that provides a performance curve (power versus engine speed) for that engine. It may be possible to determine the power of an engine made down-time by some sort of "tug-of-war" test against an up-time one of known power. If not, then we will need a dynamometer. OTL, the first dynamometer was invented by Regnier in the 1780s (Horne), for measuring the strength of men and animals, but improved versions were commercially important from the 1820s on, when they were used to measure the tractive power of locomotives.

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The characters will have to do these calculations the hard way—unless they have a computer or calculator. You may use my spreadsheet to do the work for you.

Sample Route Analysis: Cadiz to Havana

Cadiz to Havana—the Spanish treasure fleet route—wouldn't be one of my first choices for an airship route, but hey, for enough Spanish reales, I'm happy to oblige.

The great circle distance from Cadiz (latitude 36.5361o, longitude -6.29917o) to Havana (23.133, -82.3833) is 7300 km (4536 mi.), and the initial course is 281.65o . In contrast, the rhumb line distance is 7456 km (4633 mi.), and the constant course is 258.48o. (All of the numbers in this section come from my spreadsheet, and I will sometimes allude to spreadsheet results that are not included in the tables quoted below; putting all the numbers in the tables would have made them unwieldy.)

Here are the assumptions I made in creating tables 3A-3D:

Airship Volume: 1,008,300 ft^3 or 28,552 m^3 (thus, volumetric area of 10,657 ft^2 or 934 m^2)

(while my spreadsheet no longer allows volume as an input, this volume can be achieved with an ellipsoid having a length of 345.1 feet and a diameter of 74.7 feet, yielding a length/diameter ratio of 4.62 (which Zahn said had minimum drag).

This assumed volume was based on one of the many iterations of Kerryn's airship design. However his design has changed since then so we will have different results for required power and fuel consumption. Note that he postulates different envelope volumes depending on the type of engine, because they have different fuel weight requirements for the route, and his goal is to carry a fixed amount of cargo.

Efficiency: engine is hot bulb with efficiency of 0.14, overall efficiency is 0.1, so the assumed propulsive efficiency is about 0.71.

Energy Density of Fuel: 40,000 KJ/kg.

Cruising Altitude: 3000 feet (914 meters).

Drag Force: drag force nominally proportional to square of air speed, but the drag coefficient is itself a function of airspeed and length/diameter ratio, according to Konstantinov equations 1.19 and 1.24. Note that Kerryn calculates drag differently.

If we ignore the wind (pretend that you are traveling in still air), the ship's air speed will equal the ground speed. If we assume a ground speed of 30 mph (13.41 m/s), the drag force is 3,642 newtons, the propulsive power is 66 hp, and the required engine power output (given the propulsive efficiency) is 92 hp. Note that because the air density is 92% that at sea level, you have to use a higher engine setting (in terms of rpm) to achieve the required power output than you would at sea level.

Fuel consumption is at a rate of 96.92 pounds/hour or 3.23 pounds/mile. The specific fuel consumption is 1.06 pounds/hp-hr—about double that reported for gasoline aero engines, consistent with hot bulb having about half the efficiency of a gasoline engine.

Total fuel consumption would depend on the route; on the great circle, it's 7.4 tons, one-way. The rhumb line route is only about 2% longer.

It's easy enough to compute the (still air) effect of a different ground (and thus air) speed; just remember that the drag force is roughly proportional to the square of the speed, and the power and fuel consumption rate to the cube of the speed.

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Now, let's consider winds. Let's assume that the northern limit of the northeast trades at 30oN and that these winds are from the NE (duh!) at 14 mph at the surface (10 m height), and that the southern limit of the westerlies is at 35oN and that these come from the west at 21 mph, surface. Finally, we are going to assume (for now) that the variables, in-between, are on average without wind.

Suppose we aim to fly at a ground speed of 30 mph (unless the wind will let us fly faster for "free"), and at an altitude of 3000 feet (unless otherwise indicated). The winds are stronger at that height; given a typical "wind shear exponent" of 0.2, the trade winds are 34.54 mph, and the westerlies 51.81 mph!

Let's begin by assuming that the airship ignores the wind; it flies the rhumb line back and forth from Cadiz to Havana. The rhumb line crosses the 35oN line at 15.5869oW and the 30oN line at 44.6861oW. Because we are in three different wind zones (westerlies, variables, trades) on each of the two passages, we have a six segment route (Table 3A).

The required engine power is the propulsive power divided by the propulsive efficiency (0.71). The required fuel energy is the propulsive work divided by the overall efficiency (0.1).

The total travel time is 301 hours. Assuming an energy content of 40 kJ/kg fuel, we would need to carry about 49.5 tons of fuel to fly this route (without any allowances for mishaps). That's a lot of fuel, more than three times the still air requirement!

Why did we end up in this strait? We face unfavorable winds in segments 1 and 4 (their effect could be muted by flying at a lower altitude). And we spend relatively little time in the favorable winds of segments 3 and 6.

It's also wise to look at the engine power required column (in the spreadsheet). For the table 2A route, the highest engine power required is 1487 hp on segment 1. If your engines can't put out that cruising power at cruising altitude, then you can't fly the route with the conditions given. (And of course you actually need more power, because winds could be worse than the average values placed in the spreadsheet.) If your power is inadequate, you need more powerful engines, more efficient transmission, or a less power-demanding route.

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Now let's examine a wind-friendly route Table 3B). The simplest assumption is that we fly directly south from Cadiz through the westerlies and variables to 30oN (this is the shortest route to the trade winds zone), then fly directly (rhumb line, although great circle would be shorter) to Havana (completely within the trade winds zone), then directly north through the NE trades and variables to 35oN, and finally directly (rhumb line) to Cadiz (completely within the westerlies zone).

If the wind is unfriendly (segments 1 and 4), then we fly low (300 feet). If the wind is favorable enough so that the down-course component is greater than 30 mph (segment 6), we take advantage of this and set the ground speed accordingly. On segment 6 it's disadvantageous to fly a ground speed less than 52 mph, we want to "free balloon."

This time, the fuel requirement is 7.9 tons, only one-seventh that for the "brute force" strategy. While the route is longer, the total travel time is only 282 hours.

I experimented with the effect of flying NW, rather than N, in segment 4 (out of the NE trades). While this reduced the power requirement, it increased the distance even more so, and the net result was that it was less energy efficient.

Segments 1 and 4 have the least favorable winds, and we can reduce fuel consumption even further by reducing ground speed for those segments. If they were both reduced by 50%, the travel time would increase to 301 hours, but the fuel requirement would drop to 9.6 tons.

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Is it helpful to fly a great circle route? I replaced (Table 3C) segment 3 of the last example with a great circle approximation, four smaller segments (3-6), with intermediate waypoints at 25%, 50%, and 75% of the great circle route between where we entered the NE trades and Havana. This reduces the total distance to 10,178 miles.

For segments 1 and 7 (old 4), the wind direction is unfavorable, so it's advantageous to reduce the strength of the wind aloft, and hence we fly low. And for segments 6 and 9 (old 6), winds are favorable enough to mandate a ground speed higher than our 30 mph default.

The route is 75 miles shorter, 4 hours quicker, but less energy-efficient (8.4 tons fuel). Why? On segment 3 in table 3B, the CWV angle was a constant 39o. On the corresponding segments 3-6 in table 2C, it was 54, 44, 33 and 25o. Because of the nonlinear nature of drag, the higher angles on segments 3 and 4 hurt more than the lower angles on segments 5 and 6 helped.

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What if we replaced the return passage with a great circle approximation? Segments 1-5 are the same as for table 2B, whereas segment 6 is replaced with segments 6-9. On those segments, the ground speed is increased (48, 51, 51, 49, respectively) in view of the high down-course winds. Segments 1 and 4 are still flown low to minimize unfavorable winds.

The travel distance is 10,141 miles, and the travel time is 283 hours. The least efficient segment has a propulsive power of 363 hp and the best a mere 0.5. The total propulsive work done is 11,340 hp-hr. With the assumed overall efficiency, fuel consumption is 8.4 tons.

Why? The CWV angle for segment 6 on the table 2B route was a mere 1o! So the great circle return route, while shorter, will certainly experience more drag. The CWV angles aren't bad—5 to 20o—but they can't beat 1o.

****

If those fuel requirements are still too high, then you need to bring down the speeds, increase the altitude, and/or shorten the route.

If you can't find a workable combination of route, set air or ground speed, and altitude, then you have to reexamine your airship design. In essence, use a more efficient engine (diesel instead of hot bulb, hot bulb instead of steam) or find ways to increase the propulsive efficiency.

Remember, the calculations above assume overall efficiency of 10%, so the fuel requirements are ten times what they would be with an ideal (100%) system. (Of course, an ideal system is impossible, but you can do better than 10%.)

Other Routes

There isn't space to discuss alternative routes in the same detail that I did Cadiz-Havana.

What I can do is give some idea of the magnitude of the task they present.

Spain-Peru. This is quite tricky. I imagine that the outward flight would feature a refueling stop at a Spanish holding in the Caribbean, possibly Hispaniola or Puerto Rico.

The obvious continuation is to take the northeast trades over the Amazon and on to Peru. There are two considerations here. The first is timing. Northern South America has a monsoon and the winds are from the northeast in January but from the east or southeast in July. The other problem is, how to you get over the Andes?

So, you say, let's cut across Central America. Fine. Now what? All along the South American coast, the winds blow north up the coast. Sailing ships had to beat down, but an airship will have to pour on the power (and consume a lot of fuel).

The return isn't much easier, because you're fighting across the entire north-south extent of the northeast trades.

Whether this airship route is worth it, to avoid the long watership haul around Cape Horn, remains to be seen. The Spanish didn't try; they shipped gold and silver up the coast to Portobello and then moved it overland across the isthmus for pickup by an element of the flota.

Europe-India. By way of example, the great circle route from Amsterdam to Chennai is almost entirely overland, although it does cross the Caspian Sea. Unfortunately, while it avoids the Himalayas, the Elburz Range and even the Plateau of Iran, not to mention the southward extension of the Hindu Kush, are quite high enough to cause problems. Hence, it's likely to be necessary to head south first, skirting the Alps, then follow the Mediterranean eastward, cross the Saudi Arabian Peninsula to the Persian Gulf, and then follow the coast to Gulf of Gambay. If the airship has sufficient cruising altitude, it can cross the Deccan Plateau, otherwise it must work its way around India. Timing will be important because of the Indian monsoon; the winter is the best time to be crossing the Arabian Sea if you need to make southing; however, if you must round the southern tip of India, the winds of the eastern (Coromandel Coast) are more favorable in April on. Winds aren't favorable for a return until November, and then you want to work your way over to the Red Sea and back to the Mediterranean.

India-China. Unfortunately, the great circle crosses quite a few mountain ranges. So we'd need to take a mostly oceanic route, which subjects us to several monsoon belts.

Europe-China. We probably would need several refueling stops for this to be feasible, but I can envision an overland route, more or less the great circle route from Amsterdam to Beijing. It passes north of the major Russian and Chinese mountain ranges. The winds on this route are mostly light, on the order of 4 m/s. Fly high on the way eastward (to maximize the westerly wind) and low on the return (to minimize it).

Mexico-Philippines. This would follow the standard Manila galleon route.

Pressure Pattern Navigation

Up until now, we have assumed that you will play the odds, that is, plan your route with the expectation that the actual winds you encounter will more or less correspond to the winds that prevail during the current month over the stretch of land or water you are flying over.

However, with the right resources, you can make ad hoc adjustments to your flight plan to take advantage of the winds that are actually blowing at the time of your flight.

The lower atmosphere is characterized areas of high and low pressure; these appear, intensify, move around, stay in one place for a while, fade, or disappear altogether. In low pressure areas, the air rises, and clouds are formed. In high pressure areas, the air subsides, and is dried out. Air flows (wind blows) out from highs and into lows. However, because of the coriolis force caused by the rotation of the earth, the near-surface wind is deflected. In the northern hemisphere, the winds spiral clockwise out of highs and counter-clockwise into lows.

So, that means that if a storm system is crossing the North Atlantic at the time of your flight, you can take advantage of the winds around it by staying south of the storm when flying to the east, and north of the storm when flying to the west.

At a minimum, this pressure pattern flying requires that you have reliable meteorological information for the area you are crossing. The reports could come from ground stations, or from ships or aircraft. Preferably, you have access to reliable meteorological forecasts, because, by the time you fly from point A to point B, the winds at point B have probably changed as a result of the movement of that storm. On the Graf Zeppelin (1928-37), the navigator picked route segments in one hour flight time increments, based on weather reports and forecasts.

Unfortunately, it will be some years before there's a good network of weather stations across the shipping routes of interest, and it will be even longer before we have reliable weather forecasting.

The next stage in the evolution of pressure pattern flying was made possible by the invention of the radar altimeter. Previously, the aircraft altimeter inferred the altitude on the basis of the barometric pressure. Since the radar altimeter measured altitude directly, that meant that a barometer could be used to measure the air pressure at the known altitude. Winds, especially at high altitude, tend to follow the curves of constant pressure (isobars) so you could use the barometer (pressure altimeter) , adjusted for your altitude, to follow the wind. If you found that your pressure was dropping, it would warn you that you were getting closer to the center of the storm.

Predicting when the 1632 universe will develop radar altimeters is well beyond my area of competence, but I would not expect them until the 1640s at the earliest.

The Graf Zeppelin determined height "by firing a shotgun and calculating altitude from the time delay of the returning echo." (Miller; Dick 61). The Hindenburg had a fancier sonic altimeter, using "a compressed air whistle at station 228, whose sound bounced off the ground and was picked up by a receiver at station 188. (Dick 88; airships.net). Yet another trick, used on both the Graf Zeppelin and the Hindenburg, was to drop a water bottle overboard, and time its fall with a stopwatch (Dick 61-62).

The Graf Zeppelin also is said to have dropped smudge pots and observed the smoke to determine wind direction and speed (Miller) , but that would only speak to surface wind velocity.

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It's important not to expect too much of pressure pattern navigation. Even if you know exactly where the lows and highs, and the associated winds, are, it doesn't guarantee that it's worth detouring to exploit them. It all depends on the size and intensity of the pressure system, its location relative to that of the airship at a given time, and its own speed and direction of movement relative to the airship's intended course.

During World War II, pressure pattern navigation typically reduced transatlantic flying time "an average of 10% compared to a great-circle track, with occasional savings exceeding 25%. . . ." (Kayton 12).

Conclusion

"The Bozo people, who live on the southern fringes of the Sahara, believe that Wind wrestled with Water, and Water lost. . . ." (DeVilliers 12). If the new airships of the 1632 Universe, fight the wind, instead of exploiting it, they too will lose.

Author's Note: Appendices, bibliography and the spreadsheet will be posted to www.1632.org in the Gazette Extras section.

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A Trans-Atlantic Airship, Hurrah

Written by Kerryn Offord

This is a report of the process I followed as I tried to put together design specifications for a Spanish airship for the Cadiz-Havana trade. It is provided "for your information," in case anybody might be interested in the process. Other than the hard science, nothing in this article should be considered canon.

I decided on a Spanish airship because someone has to make it, and it might as well be the Spanish. Not the government of course—they'd never be able to put together the will and the money for the project. Instead, I've picked on Don Juan Manuel Pérez de Guzman y Silva (1579-1636), the eighth duke of Medina Sidonia. Who, as probably the premier duke of the Spains, has the added benefit of being the father-in-law of the Duke of Braganza—the man who became John IV, the first king of Portugal of the House of Braganza, in 1640 OTL. Together, these two command the significant resources that such a project will require. Currently the airship is running under the name São Martinho—named for the seventh duke's flagship in the 1588 Armada—but I'm open to alternative suggestions.

The two ports were selected because Cadiz is the main Atlantic port of Spain, while Havana is the forming-up port in the New World for the Spanish treasure fleets. The Great Circle (shortest) distance between the ports is 7,326 km (4,552 miles), and the only possible landfall on that route is the Azores, which are Portuguese (technically under Spanish control) and are some 1,934 km (1,202 miles) out from Cadiz.

Getting started

Where to begin?

First we need to set some basic parameters. I started with a desired payload of five thousand kg (5,000 kg)—about a quarter of the Hindenburg (LZ-129) payload, which suggests a final airship less than a quarter her size (or, less than 50,000 m^3).

Now we need a structure to carry our payload. Examination of data for historical rigid airships finds that the "weight empty" (deadweight) takes up something like forty to sixty percent of the gross lift (See Appendix 1). The Hindenburg, the last of a long line of Zeppelin designs, and a commercial rather than military airship, is probably the best rigid airship design we can base our calculations on, had a deadweight that was 60% of the gross lift, so we'll use that value for the São Martinho. Thus, with a payload of 5000 kg, we have a deadweight of 7500 kg, and a total gross lift required of 12,500 kg.

Using lift from hydrogen of 1.09 kg/m^3 (at 15 degrees C and 760mmHG: Woodhouse, p.209; Brooks, p.202), we need ~11,468 m^3 of hydrogen to lift the São Martinho off the ground.

If that was all it took, we'd have a pretty small airship. However, we also need to move the São Martinho. To calculate the power we need to move the São Martinho we have two choices. Either we use brute force to follow the shortest route, powering through unfavorable winds approach, or we make use of the prevailing winds just like the sailors of the period do.

Brooks [p.163] indicates that the Graf Zeppelin (LZ-127) lacked a high enough cruise speed to fly a scheduled North Atlantic route, but the 32.5 meters per second (mps) (73 mph) cruise speed was considered sufficient to fly the Frankfurt-Recife route. Comparing average flight time on the Frankfurt-Recife leg (68 hours) with the Great Circle distance (7,688 km), the average speed of 31.4 mps suggests they were flying a route close to the Great Circle route. However, this type of brute force took power, and thus fuel. The Graf Zeppelin (LZ-127) carried some 40,000 kg equivalent of fuel (8000 kg of petrol and 30,000 m^3 of Blaugas).

We aren't planning a scheduled route, so we can get away with a lower cruising speed. In 1919 the British airship R.34 completed the first east to west crossing of the North Atlantic. The R.34 had a maximum speed of 26.8mps (60.3mph) and a cruising speed of 20.6mps (46mph). If they could cross the North Atlantic with that cruising speed, then surely the São Martinho can cross the mid-Atlantic with a cruising speed of 20.6mps. Unfortunately, the R.34 completed that trip consuming nearly all of the 17,500 kg of fuel she carried to cover 5,760km (3,600 miles). This suggests that a São Martinho designed using the brute force approach could be over 70,000m^3 in volume (2,477,000ft^3). Nothing that big has ever been built using timber framing.

This leaves us with the "follow the prevailing winds" approach. After discussions with Iver Cooper (See his companion article in this issue) I have decided that an airship with an endurance of 90 hours at 15mps (33.75mph) should be adequate for the task of delivering 5000 kg of cargo between Cadiz and Havana (See Appendix 2 for the route).

Now we've added speed to the equation, we need to know how much engine power we need to achieve that speed. This is important because engine power defines fuel consumption, and fuel consumption defines how much fuel we need to carry.

A hunt on the internet for how to calculate engine power led me to the Wikipedia and the "drag coefficient", which in turn linked me to "drag equation".

The "force" needed to overcome air resistance is defined by equation one.

Force = (Cd x Rho x V^2 x A)/2 (Equation 1)

The engine power needed to produce that force is defined by equation two.

Power is = Force x velocity (Equation 2)

Substituting equation one into equation two, we get:

Power = ((Cd x Rho x V^2 x A)/2) x V (Equation 3)

= ((Cd x Rho x V^3 x A)/2) (Equation 4)

Where

P is the engine power in watts need to propel an airship at speed v

Cd is the drag coefficient of the airship

Rho is the density of air (we'll use the 15 degrees C, at 760mmHG value of 1.225 kg/m^3)

V is velocity in mps

A is the cross-sectional area of the object.

However, because it better reflects the impact of surface area on drag, we are told that "Airships . . . use the volumetric coefficient of drag, in which the reference area is the square of the cube root of the airship's volume" [wiki: drag equation] rather than A. So, substituting the square of the cube root of the airship's volume for A, we get:

P = (Cd x Rho x v^3 x Vol^(2/3))/2 (Equation 5)

Where Vol is the airship's volume in cubic meters.

The essential value, which can only really be obtained by testing in a wind tunnel, is the drag coefficient (Cd). Lacking a wind tunnel, I've used data from Zahm, Smith, and Louden [p.258] to program my spreadsheet to automatically estimate Cd based on the speed and fineness ratio (length / diameter) of the airship. My initial state Cd is 0.05.

If we plug our values into equation five, we get:

P = (0.05 x 1.225 x 15^3 x 11,468^(2/3))/2

P = 52,562 watts (or 70.5 HP)

So, in theory, we could move our airship at 15 mps using about 70.5 HP. However, we need to carry enough fuel for the voyage—which means we need a larger airship to carry the fuel, which means more air resistance, which means we need more power to overcome the greater air resistance, which in turn means we need more fuel for the same range, which means we need a bigger airship to carry the extra fuel, which needs . . .

Using a Maybach petrol engine (as used on WW1 Zeppelins) that burns 0.250 kg of petrol and oil per HP per hour [Woodhouse, p.198], the São Martinho's engines are burning 17.625 kg per hour to produce 70.5 HP. With an endurance of 90 hours, at 17.625 kg/hr, we would use 1,586.25 kg of fuel.

We add that to our payload, to give a revised disposable load of 6,586.25 kg, but we also need to include water ballast in our disposable load (Brooks, p.186, tells us this was typically assumed to be about four percent of gross lift. We'll use our previous calculation as a basis, so 0.04 x 12,500 = 500 kg).

Normal cruising altitude will be less than 3000 feet, and we will be flying into the tropics. As altitude and air temperature both effect air density, we'll add another ten percent to our disposable load to reflect the reduced lift due to altitude and air temperature (0.10 x 12,500=1,250 kg). With a disposable load of 8,336.25 kg, deadweight is calculated as being 12,504.375 kg. We have a new gross lift requirement of 20,840.625 kg, which requires a gas volume of 19,120 m^3.

Before we start the necessary iterations to calculate a final specification we have to modify our equation. Zahm, Smith, and Louden assume a smooth shape, without gondolas. As soon as we start hanging gondolas off the São Martinho we start increasing drag. I have adjusted the equation to handle this by assuming each gondola is a much smaller version of the hull, and simply add the power needed to propel the gondolas to that needed to propel the hull.

Another problem with Equation 5 is that it assumes that the volume is the total volume of the envelope. If we store cargo internally, then we have to increase the size of the envelope to include it. There is also crew accommodation, and various walkways inside the envelope. These volumes have to be added to the gas volume to obtain the volume value for Equation 5. As it is proposed that the São Martinho could carry passengers, we need more cargo volume than if we were just carrying gold and silver. I've allocated 0.1 m^3 per kg of cargo to account for passengers and services. That means an addition of 500m^3. For walkways and crew accommodation (Hammocks to the side of walkways.), I am allocating 3m^3 per meter of length of the airship.

One hundred iterations later, and we have stabilized on an airship 79.76 m long (261.51 ft), an envelope volume of 23,261 m^3, gas volume of 22,522 m^3, and required engine power for 15mps (33.75 mph) of 64 HP.

But we are missing something . . . a crew. For such a long trip we need at least two shifts. So, a possible crew list is:

1 x Captain

2 x Officers of the watch

2 x helmsmen

1 x navigating officer

1 x engineering officer

6 x riggers (to keep the wires tight, pump the trim ballast or fuel, and repair any damage in flight)

2 x "engineers" per engine. We'll assume 6 engines, so 12 men.

Total crew is 25 men (Compatible with the actual crew aboard the R.34 on her historic west bound crossing), at 75 kg each [Brooks, p.210] this adds 1,875 kg to our disposable load. However, on a multi day voyage crew need an allowance for baggage, food and water, and bedding, so we'll add another 50 kg [Crocco, p.17] for a total crew allowance of 125 kg per man, or 3,125 kg. Fortunately, we are doing the calculations on a spreadsheet, so it's a simple mater of adding the crew and we get . . .

An envelope of 35,913 m^3, a gas volume of 35,041 m^3; engine power for 15 mps of 90 HP; a fuel load of 2,030 kg; a deadweight of 22,346 kg; a gross lift of 37,243 kg; and a final Cd of 0.0293.

That is all it takes to get 5,000 kg of cargo the 7,326km from Havana to Cadiz using prevailing winds.

Of course, that's an ideal, petrol driven world. The first problem is going to be finding engines. There are four possible types of engines that come to mind. Steam engines, with efficiency rates of 6-10%; hot-bulb engines at about 10-14%; Petrol engines are 20-30% efficient; and diesels are 30-40% efficient. Using middle of range values, based on the Maybach petrol engine at 0.25 kg /hp/ hr. Steam would burn 0.78 kg/ hp/ hour, hot-bulb would burn about 0.52 kg/ hp/hr, and diesel would burn about 0.18 kg/ hp/ hr.

Table1. The size of the São Martinho using alternative propulsion systems would be:

Now to build the São Martinho

We have the basic parameters—mostly "volume"—so now we try building the São Martinho.

We don't have aluminum, let alone duralumin, so we have to use wood framing (More specifically, we'll be using plywood). The biggest known airship design built using wood was the German WW1 period Schütte-Lanz S.L.20. This class of airship had a gas capacity of 56,000 m^3, a maximum diameter of 22.96 m, and it was 198.3m long. A rough calculation (Gas capacity divided by a cylinder of those dimensions) gives a form factor of 68.2%. This very rough estimate of form factor is used to predict the length of the São Martinho.

Petrol and petrol engines are likely to be hard to obtain, so we'll concentrate on the next best thing, hot-bulb engines, which are, by canon, being produced down-time. If we assume the São Martinho has the same form factor as the S.L.20 we get a cylinder of 48,103 m^3/ .682 = 70,532 m^3. No wood airship was ever built with a maximum diameter greater than 22.96 m, so we'll assume this to be the engineering limit for diameter using wood framing. Divide by the cross sectional area of the S.L.20 (414 m^2), and we get a length of about 170 m—which gives a fineness ratio (length / diameter) of about 7.42.

Are the numbers reasonable?

There has been some discussion between Iver Cooper and myself about the validity of equation 5 (and one or two other assumptions, especially the estimation of Cd values, but we'll ignore those.). If we put what we know about the Hindenburg into Equation 5 (using a Cd of 0.028 based on Zahm, Smith, and Louden), we get a result of 3,285 HP at 34.7 mps (76 mph). Which is close to the 3400 HP we know the engines of the Hindenburg produced at cruising speed [Airships: Flight ops]. Equation 5 is a crude estimator, but it does appear to give something close enough to real world values for the purpose of working out a rough design. The alternative is a lot of very complicated mathematics.

Of the remaining values, "Deadweight" is probably the least reliable. So, how reliable is the value of 30,798 kg? Using the formula from Crocco (see Appendix 3i), I calculated deadweight of 19,357 kg. However, that doesn't take account of the trim ballast, plywood rather than duralumin structure, or the heavier engines. Using very rough estimates, the weight of items contributing to the "Deadweight" are: (For details, see Appendix 3ii)

a) The basic framework: 16,876 kg.

b) The gas bags (including valves): 3,745 kg.

c) The envelope: 4,071 kg.

d) Running rigging for steering and valve controls: 298 kg.

e) Gondola cars: 1,050 kg

f) The engines: 1,560 kg

g) Trim ballast and trim pumps and pipes: 1,260 kg.

h) Fuel tanks, fuel piping, and pumps: 810 kg.

Sub Total: ~29,670 kg

i) Everything else. 30,798 - 29,670 = 1,128 kg

Given how rough the above calculations are, and how close they are to the value I assumed, I think it is safe to assume that the "Deadweight" allocated to the São Martinho is a reasonable compromise value.

The Lifting gas

With no access to helium, this has to be hydrogen—nothing else provides sufficient lift for a reasonable volume. We are using a lift value of 1.09 kg/m^3 (0.068 lb/ft^3) at 15 degrees C and 760mmHg [Brooks, p.202]. Take careful note of the definition. If we travel to Havana, and say the air temperature at sea level is 35 degrees C, then the hydrogen in the gas bags will expand in accordance with the standard gas equations (Equations 6 and 7). Which means the available lift at ground level in Havana will be less than the lift calculated at 15 degrees C.

P1V1/T1 = P2V2/T2 (Equation 6)

With pressure constant: V1 = V2T1/T2 (Equation 7)

V1 = 1m^3 x (273 + 15)/ (273 + 35)

V1 = 288/308 = 0.935% of maximum capacity

For the São Martinho, this means a loss of up to 3,337 kg of gross lift when in Havana—and you were wondering why I put in that 10% penalty for altitude and temperature into the design specification.

The other part of the lift penalty is due to the fact that for every thousand feet of altitude air density drops by about an inch of mercury and air temperature drops about 3.3 degree F. If we set the air density at 100% at 15 degrees C and 760mmHg, at a thousand feet, air density is down to 97.3%. At 2000 ft it's down to 94.5% [Cuneo].

Hydrogen has to be made. There are three probable methods: electrolysis of water, the action of acid on metal, and by forcing steam over red hot iron.

Electrolysis of water has a specific energy per m^3 of hydrogen produced of 4.5 to 5.45 kWh [LookChem], which suggests that electrolysis is not the way to go.

The Union Balloon Corp during the American Civil War [Wiki: Union Balloon Corp] used a pair of wagon mounted sulfuric acid- iron filings hydrogen generators per observation balloon. The reaction formula Fe + H2SO4 <=> FeSo4 + H2 indicates that one mole of iron will produce one mole of hydrogen gas. At STP (standard temperature and pressure) one mole of gas occupies 22.4 liters. Therefore, to produce one m^3 of hydrogen, we need (1000/22.4=) 44.64 moles of iron. Iron is 55.85 grams per mole, so one m^3 of hydrogen gas at STP needs the reaction of 2.493 kg (44.64 x 55.85) of iron filings (and 4.375 kg pure acid). Each of the civil war hydrogen generators could produce about 60 m^3 per hour (2166 ft^3) [EB9th: Vol.1 p200]

The steam over red-hot-iron method has the reaction equation 3Fe + 4H20 <=> Fe3O4 + 4H2. Three moles of iron produces 4 moles of hydrogen, or 2.493 x 0.75 = 1.870 kg of iron per m^3 of hydrogen gas. Normally the iron has to be recharged after use, but there is a hydrogen generator that can reuse the iron. The Lane producers used after 1909 could recycle the iron. They were available in models with production rates of 14 to 284 m^3 (500 to 10,000 ft^3) per hour [Lane].

Using the largest Lane producer, the hydrogen vented after the crossing the Atlantic to allow landing (up to 5,410 m^3), would take about 19 hours to replace. However, that size plant is likely to be exceedingly expensive. Something able to replenish the lost hydrogen in about 48 hours is more likely

The lifting cells

There are several options for gas bag construction, but I'll only consider the two actually used on rigid airships before the advent of modern polymers. There is the tried and proven "gold beater's skin," and then there is elastomer coated fabric—basically rubber, sometimes mixed with gelatin, spread over cotton or silk (Although it wasn't unknown for people to use a combination of goldbeater's skin and rubber.).

Gold beater's skin is well described in the article by Chollet, and after reading that article, you'll understand why it isn't still used. The process is drawn out, and labor intensive. You get two skins per animal, and an airship such as the ZR-1 Shenandoah (gas capacity: 60,915m^3) needs about 750,000 skins [Wiki: Goldbeater's skin; Steadman]—Remember, the São Martinho has a gas capacity of 47,092 m^3, so it would need something of the order of five hundred and eighty thousand skins (And only you get two skins per fully grown cow).

An acceptable alternative is to dissolve the raw rubber and mix it with gelatin, and spread it on cotton fabric. This was the material used for the gas bags on the Hindenburg and many other airships. The weight of this material was about 180 gsm, compared with a standard goldbeater's skin gas cell, which weighed about 145 gsm. Simply spreading rubber over fabric produced gas tight cells that weighed 240 gsm [Cooper].

Gold beater's skin is considered "tight". That means the diffusion of hydrogen through the layers is slow—only a few liters per m^2 per 24 hours. On the São Martinho, with gas bag surface area of 19,116 m^2, that's a loss of 38-134 kg of lift per day. The latex coated cotton is good for less than 9 liters per m^2 per 24 hours [Woodhouse, p.211], or no more than 172 kg per day. Generally, lift freed by burning fuel will be enough to counter this loss on a voyage, but hydrogen will need to be replenished on a regular basis.

Through his relationship with the Duke of Braganza, it is hoped the Duke of Medina Sidonia can obtain natural rubber from the Amazon for his airship.

Fuel

What fuel is to be used? Well, the final design for the São Martinho has assumed we'd use hot-bulb engines that can burn nearly any flammable liquid. However, no matter what propulsion system is used, the fuel will be in liquid form. This is a simple matter of energy density and ease of handling.

The steam engine variant is the only propulsion system that might consider solid fuel, but that involves using a much less efficient boiler system—one that needs constant stoking, and clearing away of the ashes. There are also problems with the fuel. Solid fuel has to be manually moved, or you use heavy automated systems. It is also heavier for its energy content. Coal is about half the energy per pound of petrol, and as for wood, that's about a third the energy per pound. A cord of wood (3.6 m^3) has about as much energy as a 450 kg of petrol, and it weighs about 1360kg. Using solid fuel doubles or triples the mass of fuel required for a steam propulsion system. Worse yet, moving the mass of fuel around the airship will cause significant trim management problems.

One thing to remember with liquid fuels aboard an airship is that, as the airship climbs, the ambient air temperature drops. That means fuel will thicken. Air temperature hits freezing at about 8,000ft. Heaters, or something may have to be added to allow the fuel to flow if the airship is to regularly fly at higher altitudes.

Engines:

We have stated that the São Martinho will use hot-bulb engines. These are heavy and not very economical compared with petrol or diesel engines. However, they are being made down-time in the desired power range (at least 40 HP) as early as 1634 ("The Boat" By Kerryn Offord, GG#30).

We could use petrol spark-ignition or diesel engines, but the Spanish are unlikely to be able to purchase up-time built engines. There are currently no new diesel engines being built, which leaves new build petrol fueled spark-ignition engines. The best bet would be new-build variations on the radial engines in "The Spark of Inspiration" by Gorg Huff and Paula Goodlett (GG#13), or "The Boat" by Kerryn Offord (GG#30). These are nominally 125 hp engines, and they will tend to be less economical than the water cooled inline Maybach engines we've been basing our petrol engine calculations on. However, they have significantly better power to weight ratios than the Hot-bulb engines. Two such engines could easily provide all the propulsion the São Martinho needs, releasing the weight of 4 gondolas and engines (1,510 kg) and removing the drag of four gondolas—something to look forward to when the Hot-bulb engines are upgraded to petrol spark-ignition engines sometime in the future.

Operating Ceiling

When you research airships, you might see a value called "static ceiling". This is the altitude at which an airship's gas capacity is at 100%, and it is only lifting the deadweight.

For the São Martinho, that happens where air density is 60% of sea level. From tables we can find that this happens at about 14,000 ft. Note that this does not mean that the São Martinho can actually climb to 14,000 ft in normal operations (because there should always be some disposable load on board).

Something else to consider is the reduction in engine efficiency when the air density reduces with altitude. For example, when air density is at 50% of sea level density, engine performance is also down 50%, so to maintain the same delivered HP you had at sea level will take something like twice the fuel.

The normal operating altitude of the São Martinho will be about in the range 100-200 m, as this offers significant fuel economies over higher altitudes. The Hindenburg was usually operated at about 650 ft (198.25 m), so "we are not alone". However, the São Martinho has an "altitude and air temperature" allowance of 10% of gross lift. That means the São Martinho can fly, fully laden, in conditions at sea level of 15 degrees C, 76mmHg, to an altitude with an air density of 0.90—about 915 m (3,000 ft)—without having to vent hydrogen. For every hour of flight at cruise power the São Martinho will gain about 40 m^3 of buoyancy due to fuel being consumed, and if nothing is done to prevent it, she will naturally gain altitude. At about 915 m the gas bags will reach 100% inflation, and as more fuel is burned, the São Martinho will want to climb higher. To prevent the gas bags rupturing, safety valves will automatically vent hydrogen. At the static ceiling, gas volume will be 100%, but we will have vented almost 40% of the hydrogen we started with.

Ground operations

You don't absolutely HAVE to have a hangar to store an airship. However, it is nice to have somewhere safe to put your airship, especially in bad weather. This is especially so for timber-framed rigid airships. Wood is naturally hydroscopic (will absorb water). Irrespective of what water might do to the glue holding the airship together, there is the added weight of absorbed water. That is one reason why all wood surfaces have to be waterproofed with paint or varnish. However, paint scratches—enough said.

For short periods (days), there is no real problem in leaving an airship outdoors attached to a mooring mast. Just as long as it is a low one, as the airship virtually needs to be flown (trim etc maintained) at all times while moored to a high mast [Brooks, p.146]. Certainly, on the South America run, the Zeppelins didn't have a hangar in South America until the Brazilians built one at Rio de Janeiro in late 1935, and they never built one at the Recife stopover, where they just used a low mooring mast.

However, you do HAVE to have a hangar to build your airship. These are enormous, and thus expensive structures, as witnessed by the willingness of the Germans to limit the size of the Graf Zeppelin (LZ-127) to the dimensions of the available hangar, rather than build a larger hangar. Even though they knew the resulting airship would be a sub-optimal design.

The São Martinho is based on the maximum diameter of the Schütte-Lanz S.L.20 class, and they were built in hangars between 26 m - 38 m wide, and 25 m - 35 m high, and up to 240 m long. The larger hangar was in Berlin (was 38 m wide, 35 m high, and 240 m long), and it took 6 months during war-time to build.

It'd be a tight fit putting a 22.96 m diameter airship into something 26 m wide and 25 m high, but a 30 m by 30m opening might be a more comfortable fit. It also has to be over 170 m long. To give an example of how big this is, St. Paul's Cathedral in London has a nave 37m wide and 30m high, and the cathedral is about 175 m long. The airship hangar for the São Martinho is about the volume of the main building (excluding the dome and the transepts).

The United States built two, mostly timber construction, airship hangars at Tustin, in California [RDF Consulting]. Each hangar was about twice as long and three times as wide as what is predicted necessary for the São Martinho and took about six months to build under wartime urgency. Each hangar required about three million board feet of wood, of which 750,000 board feet was needed for the 51 roof arches, 79 tons of bolts and washers, and 30 tons of ring connectors. It sounds a lot, but each hangar only used about 33 tons of structural steel, whereas a regular design would have required 4,000 tons of structural steel. The airship base, with two hangars and other buildings, cost about US$10 million Y1943 dollars, that's about US$100 million in Y2000, suggesting a price for the São Martinho, purely on a per square meter basis, of around 80,000 thaler, which is probably an under estimate of what the hangar might cost down-time. And yes, it could be possible to build a hangar for the São Martinho down-time in six months, although a year to eighteen months would be a more reasonable schedule.

Ground handling is where a lot of accidents happen, and trying to thread 170 m of airship through a small opening—into or out of the hangar—is "difficult". The Germans "tied" their airships to ground vehicles on rails to run them in and out of their hangars. This is what I'd like to see for the São Martinho.

Outside the hangar, ground handling is still mostly done by humans. The purpose of a ground party is partly to move the airship, and partly to provide ballast to hold down a buoyant airship. With all disposable load removed the São Martinho has excess buoyancy of forty percent of gross lift, or 20,532 kg. At 75 kg per man, that is a minimum of 274 men.

Costs:

There are two basic airship designs. Either you have a cylinder with curves at each end, or you have a modified "teardrop" shape. The cylinder design has the advantage that most of your ring frames are exactly the same size and shape. This provides savings in time and money, as you can use jigs. The down-side is that the aerodynamics of the cylinder design is less than optimal.

The teardrop design has a better drag coefficient (being a more aerodynamic design). However, this is at the cost of ease of manufacture. In the teardrop design, nearly every ring frame is a different size, so you can't just use a standard jig to build every ring frame. That adds costs in construction, but the lower drag coefficient means that for a given size airship (gas capacity) you need less power for a given cruising speed, which means you use less fuel. Meaning you can carry more payload. For these reasons the São Martinho will be a modified teardrop design.

Brooks [p.199] suggests that the late WW1 airships needed something of the order of 800,000 - 1,000,000 hours of "direct shop-labor" to build the first airship of a new type, while the post WW1 airships took two million, or three, or even more direct shop-labor hours to build. The São Martinho is probably big enough to require at least one million hours of shop-labor. That equates to something like 100,000 man days. At the standard rate for skilled tradesmen (carpenters and blacksmiths) of 0.3 thaler per day (USE$30), that is 30,000 thaler. We know the Vasa (lost 1628) cost about 40,000 thaler [wiki: Vasa], but that was for a completed warship. The São Martinho's labor cost alone is three-quarters what the completed Vasa cost. As you can see, airships are going to be very expensive down-time.

As we can't find period prices for most of the components, any pricing beyond the base labor content would be just be guessing. However, we know labor is usually a fraction of any construction cost, so the materials aren't going to be cheap.

There is some good news. From the German experience, it has been shown that airship construction follows the "learning effect" [Brooks, p.199]. For every doubling of production of a design, man hours required drops by twenty-percent.

Cost in operations. These include fuel to propel the São Martinho, and to produce the hydrogen gas, the labor cost of flight and ground crews, depreciation to reflect repairs and maintenance, and then there are "opportunity costs". For now, we'll just look at the cost of fuel and hydrogen generation.

Fuel for each inbound or outbound flight is budgeted at 5,897 kg (~6,700 liters). That's about 1,770 US gallons, and if we cost it as Greenland Whale oil (0.35 thalers/gal) we get close enough to 620 thaler (USE$62,000) each way.

Hydrogen, made by blowing steam on to red hot iron filings (See Appendix 5 for calculations) to replace the vented hydrogen (5,897kg fuel at 1.09 kg/m^3 = 5,410 m^3), will need about two thaler worth of firewood to generate the steam. Keeping the iron filings red hot will use a bit more fuel, but probably not enough to bring the cost of hydrogen generation much above two thaler (about five cents per cubic meter of hydrogen). However, at 1.870 kg/ m^3 of iron filings, that's 10,117 kg of iron filings. Maybe they can be reused, but that's about 602 thaler (USE$50,500) worth of iron, based on period wholesale prices (5.95 thaler/ 100 kg of Swedish bar iron). There are also manpower costs to consider, even if we have a good Lane Hydrogen producer, and it only takes 48 hours, that's likely to add another 20 thaler (USE$2,000) per fill. For a rough estimate of 625 thaler (USE$52,700) per fill.

Then we have to pay for crew and maintenance personnel. But how much do you pay an airship crewman? We have nothing to compare the skill sets with, so any number would just be guessing. However, twenty-five men at an average of, say, 0.4 thaler (USE$40) a day (About 150 thaler pa) is a total of about 3,750 thaler pa. If they make one return flight per month, that's 156.25 thaler per crossing. On any trip carrying first-class passengers, there will be a need for passenger service crew. They'll add a further 25 thaler per trip. Then there are airship and hangar maintenance personnel. We don't really know how many are needed, nor how much they should be paid.

We can make a reasonable guess at the cost of the massive ground crew needed for launching and landing the airship. The job is mostly low skill. A handful of men who know what to do can control several hundred unskilled laborers. Still, ground parties will cost around 50 thaler any time you want to "ground handle" the airship (Assuming standard European pay rates), or 100 thaler for each trip (launch and landing parties).

A rough guess would suggest, ignoring wages of the maintenance staff, the direct labor and consumables cost of a one-way crossing of the Atlantic would be about 1,526.25 thaler (USE$152,625) per trip.

Conclusion

With an allowance per passenger of 150 kg [Crocco], the São could carry thirty-three passengers. Make eight of those passenger service crew, and we have space for maybe twenty-five paying customers. At 100 thaler per head (about a year's wages for a tradesman, or a month's pay for a military captain/ lieutenant-colonel) there is a gross income per flight of 2,500 thaler. With one return trip per month, that is a revenue stream of 60,000 thaler, which we hope would cover expenses.

Alternatively, the São Martinho can carry high value freight (like the gold, silver, pearls, and jewels of the fabled treasure fleets). The 1628 treasure fleet captured by Piet Heyn carried about 80,300 kg of silver and 30 kg of gold. The São Martinho might not be able to carry that all at once, but she could carry it all if she could manage 17 return trips a year (About one return trip every 21 days.). The savings in ship days, provisions, and wages for ships to carry the treasure across the Atlantic should easily justify using an airship for the task. It'll also provide a more regular revenue stream, which will make balancing the books easier, and keep the bankers happier.

This analysis suggests that a rigid airship large enough to service the Cadiz-Havana trade could plausibly, and profitably, be built by the Spanish using down-time resources. It won't be easy, and it will take time. A suitable hangar needs to be built. The plywood framing has to be developed by trial and error (before it goes into the first airship). Gas bags need to be made, engines need to be produced, and there is a need for suitably skilled workers to build the airship. If we assume the Spanish started working with airships in 1632, and start building a hangar in 1634, it is possible that work on the São Martinho could start as early as 1636-37.

Appendix 1.

The "weight empty" or "deadweight" is the weight of the airship after removing everything that can and is normally removed between voyages (Things like water, crew, food, payload, fuel and oil for the engines, and ballast—usually water or sandbags.)

Table 2. Percentage of Gross lift given to Weight Empty for the last of the rigid airships (using numbers from Brooks). Gross lift is calculated at 1.09 kg/m^3 of gas capacity The ratio is calculated by dividing Weight empty by Gross lift

Yes, some of the WW1 Zeppelins had ratios below fifty percent, but that was achieved by seriously weakening the structure—essentially, removing a third of the ring frames—and halving the number of layers of goldbeater's skin used on the gas bags. That might be acceptable for war time expedients, but we don't want what happened to LZ-114 to happen to our airship. (LZ-114, a war prize, being operated by the French as Dixmude, suffered a structural failure in flight and fell, burning, into the Mediterranean, with the loss of all fifty aboard. [Brooks, p.108].).

The Hindenburg was the last rigid airship design, and we can assume she was designed using all of the available knowledge built up over the years, making her suitable for commercial operations. Therefore, for this exercise, we will allocate the same sixty percent of gross lift to "weight Empty."

Appendix 2: The route, based on Iver's Route 2.

Iver's article assumes that the power delivered by the propeller (i.e., the propulsive power implicit in airship motion) is 71% of the power output from the engine [Cooper]. I used this setting in his spreadsheet when calculating this route.

Depart Cadiz,

1) Head south through Variables for 5 hours at an engine setting of 211.26 HP, at an altitude of 100m

2) Continue south to Trades for 12 hours at 101.81 HP, at 200m.

3) Follow Trades westward for 157 hours at 20.64 HP, at 200m.

Arrive in Havana after 174 hours, with reserves of 2,620 kg fuel.

Depart Havana,

4) Head north to Variables for 24 hours at 207.74 HP, at 100m.

5) Head north to Westerlies for 12 hours at 101.81 HP, at 200 m.

6) Follow Westerlies for 66 hours at 9.86 HP, at 915 m.

Arrive in Cadiz after 102 hours, with reserves of 2,664 kg fuel.

You will have noticed that the reserves of fuel are about 45%. However, those flight times and power requirements are based on average winds. It is hoped that this reserve will be sufficient to ensure safe transit under most conditions.

Appendix 3: Calculating the Deadweight

Appendix 3i: Formula from Crocco [p.10].

Deadweight (kg) = (0.1759 + 0.00002275 x velocity^2) x Envelope volume +

(0.09994 x Number gas cells + 3.075) x Envelope volume^(2/3) +

(0.0019725 x Envelope volume^(4/3) + (Gross HP x 2.150)

Where Envelope is the volume of the envelope, and one gas cell per 9 m of length.

Inserting numbers = (0.1759 + 0.00002275 x 15^2) x 49,114 +

(0.09994 x 17 + 3.075) x 49,114^(2/3) +

(0.0019725 x 49,114^(4/3) + (240 x 2.150)

= 8890.644 + 6402.561 + 3547.834 + 516

= 19,357

Note that this value doesn't include trim ballast, and it uses lighter engines, and Duralumin rather than plywood for structure

Appendix 3ii

Appendix 3ii-a) The basic frame. 16,876 kg

The British R.31 class airships (Which are of a similar gross lift and gas capacity to the São Martinho.)were built using spruce plywood using three panels 10' long and 10" wide formed into equilateral triangles[Airship Heritage Trust: R31]. Assuming 28 lbs per cubic foot for air dried spruce, plywood half an inch thick, and that the holes cut into the panels leave 30% of the panels, each 10' girder is 0.03125 ft^3 or 8.75 lbs.

However, wood is hydroscopic (absorbs water) so we need to seal the plywood. We'll want to apply at least two coats of varnish, at 9 lbs per 450 ft^2. Each girder has a basic surface area of about 15ft^2, so that’s an extra 0.60 pounds for 9.35 pounds per girder (4.25kg). Note that I'm ignoring nails, glue, and any internal framing.

As everything else is metric, we'll convert these to 3m girders weighing 4.18 kg. How many do we need? Let's approximate. The envelope volume is 49,114 m^3. The radius of our structure is 22.96m. We could call our airship a cylinder with a cross section area of 414m^2 and ~117 m long (rounding down the actual value of 118.63 to give a value divisible by 3 and 9).

If we put a major ring frame every 9m, and minor rings every 3m, and we have a lateral every 3 meters, then:

a) each ring is ~72 m circumference, needing about 24 girders

b) each lateral is 117 m, or 39 girders

c) there are 39 ring frames (13 being major frames)

d) there are 24 laterals.

e) double frames for major rings 13 frames at 24 girders

a x c + b x d + e = (24 x 39) + (39 x 24) + (13 x 24) = 2,184 girders = 9,129 kg (1).

Admittedly there is another (170-117 =) 53 meters of hull to frame. A wild guess would be ad an extra 25% (53 m is ~31% of the cylinder, but it is made up of two curved shapes)—2,282 kg (2).

Next we add the fin surfaces. Based on the Hindenburg fins [Brooks, p.180], these are aerofoil shapes, having two layers of girders. Laying out the girders I estimate there are 80 x 3m girders per fin. With four fins, that is 320 girders, or 1,338 kg (3).

There are Keel and central walkways on the Hindenburg. Each running the full length of the airship, if we just call that one girder wide for ~170 m or 57 girders per walkway (114 girders), 477 kg (4)

Then we have to add the lattice that actually stops the gas bags pushing against the outer envelope. This is made of cable strung between the girders, and in a photograph of R29 under construction (Brooks, p.117) they look quite thick. If we call it 3/8" manila at 23 ft to the pound (0.065kg/m), and make a 0.3m lattice on our cylinder (72/ .3 = 240 circumference runs (240 x 117 = 28,080), plus 117/0.3 laterals (390 x 72m = 20,080), we need about 56,160 m of "rope", or about 3,650 kg. (5)

Total structure (Sum(1:5)) = 16,876 kg

Appendix 3ii-b) The gas bags 3,745 kg.

The surface area of the gas bags can be estimated based on a cylinder based on the gas volume of 48,103 m^3. It is ~116 m long, with a circumference of 72m. Each end (two per bag) is 414m^2.

Each gas bag is 9m, we have 13 gas bags, so area of gas bags is:

116 x 72 + 13 x 2 x 414 = 19,116 m^2. Using the Hindenburg standard latex-Gelatin formulation to produce gas tight fabric at 180 gsm gives a total gas bag weight of 3,441 kg (1). To which we have to add the actual (170/9=) 19 bleed valves etc at 16 kg each =304 kg (2).

(1) + (2) = 3,745 kg.

Appendix 3ii-c) The Envelope 4,071 kg.

Woodhouse [p.211] talks about an envelope being made of rubberized fabric with protective coatings of heavy spar varnish, "Valspar" or its equivalent. Actually, he says the fabric should have at least five applications of nitrocellulose, and final coat of "Valspar". The protective coating should be at least 70 grams per m^2, and no piece of fabric should weigh more than 440 gsm.

Just using the surface area of our cylinder (From Appendix 3a), we have 117 m x 72 m + 2 x 414 (ends) = 9,252 m^2 at 440 gsm = 4,071 kg.

Appendix 3ii-d) The Running Rigging 298 kg.

The Command gondola must be able to transmit signals to the tail surfaces, and it must also be able to vent gas from each gas bag at will. Assuming steel wire at 10m /kg . Assume two cables per fin. Four fins (upper and lower rudder, left and right elevator) for 8 wires. Assume the controls have to travel 170 m, to give 1,360 m.

Gas vents. Assume 19 vents (there should be one per gas bag, and one gas bag per 9 m), there is one cable per valve, and an average distance from the control gondola of 85 m, to give 1,615 m.

Running rigging is 2,975 m or 298 kg.

Appendix 3ii-e) The Gondolas 1,050kg

I have no idea. Gondolas need to be able to carry the engines and people servicing them, plus the command gondola. Woodhouse [p.209] allocates about 150 kg each. We have decided on 6 engines and a command gondola, so, 7 x 150 = 1050kg.

Appendix 3ii-f) Engines 1,560 kg

Woodhouse [p.209] allocates 260 kg per 100 hp engine, for engine, mufflers, radiator, water, propeller, and hub. Hot-bulb engines aren't known for their power to weight ratios, we'll assume 260 kg for every complete 40 HP engine. Our airship needs 104 HP for 15 mps as a cruise speed. We want some spare power for emergencies, so we'll assume 6x 40 hp = 240 hp. 1,560 kg (6.5 kg/ hp). Giving a top speed in still air of 16 - 19 mps (37.9 - 42.7 mph)—the lower value represents performance with only 71% power being delivered as thrust. The six engines means the São Martinho can provide the required cruise power of 126 HP even with two of the six engines out for repairs and maintenance.

Appendix 3ii-g) Trim ballast and trim pumps and pipes 1,260 kg.

An airship flying level is an airship flying economically. If there is an angle of attack—using the hull to gain lift—more drag is experienced, and more power (thus more fuel) is needed for a given forward velocity. To maintain level trim an airship has trim ballast. This is usually water that can be pumped to various holding tanks to balance the ship (The crew can double as emergency trim ballast.). Normal ballast, which is dumped to reduce weight when trying to gain height (averaging 4% according to Brooks [p.186]), is not trim ballast.

Woodhouse says a navy patrol blimp has 90 lbs of trim ballast on a 5,275 lb gross lift airship (1.7%). Using this value, the São Martinho would have trim ballast of ~873 kg (1).

We now have to be able to move it to tanks forward and aft. We'll assume 5/8" inch copper tube at about 0.5kg/m, and we’ll want about 340 m—170 kg (2).

Hand operated pumps at, call it 25 kg (3)

Copper tanks to hold 1,500 liters. 6 x 275 liter drums at 16kg = 96 kg (4).

(We need some empty space so we can move water from place to place, hence available volume exceeds actual volume of trim ballast.)

We also need water tanks for the ~2,097 kg of ballast water in say, 6 x 300 liter tanks at about 16kg each = 96 kg (5).

Totaling 1,260 kg.

Appendix 3ii-h) Fuel tanks, fuel piping, and pumps 810 kg.

We have 5,897 kg of fuel. Assume it is petrol, and we have ~6,700 liters. We want to spread them along the length of the keel, so 12 x 600 liter tanks at 20 kg each = 240 kg (1)..

Plumbing for the fuel, 85 m x 10, plus two runs of 170 m to connect all tanks = 1,020 m at 0.5 kg per m 510 kg (2).

Pumps per tank 12 x 5 kg = 60 kg (3)

Total 810 kg.

Appendix 4: Conversion rates

All currency conversions are based on an exchange rate of one guilder = USE$40.

One Guilder = 36 kruezer)

One Guilder = USE$40

One Thaler = 90 kruezer

One Thaler = USE$100

One Spanish Ducat = 110 kruezer

One Spanish Ducat = USE$122

One Spanish Reale (a "piece of eight") = 10 kruezer

One Spanish Reale = USE$11

One Venetian Ducat = 88 kruezer

One Venetian Ducat = USE$98

One English Pound = 400 kruezer

One English pound = USE$444

One French Livre = 36 kruezer

One French Livre = USE$40

One Florin = 60 kruezer

One Florin = USE$67

One Gulden = 60 kruezer

One Gulden = USE$67

One Rixdaler (Swedish) = 90 kruezer

One Rixdaler = USE$100

One Rigsdaler (Danish) = 90 kruezer

One Rigsdaler = USE$100

(Note: there are 3 kruezer to the groschen, and 20 groschen to the thaler.)

One cubic meter (m^3) = 35.315 cubic feet (ft^3)

One kilogram (kg) = 2.204 pounds (lbs)

One meter per second (mps) = 2.237 miles per hour (mph)

One KW (1000 watts) = 1.34 horse power (HP)

One Horse Power (HP) = 746 watts

Appendix 5: Calculating energy to produce one m^3 of hydrogen by blowing steam over red-hot iron filings:

The chemical equilibrium equation is:

3Fe + 4H2O <=> Fe3O4 + 4H2

This tells us that for every water molecule input, we get a H2 molecule.

At STP one mol of a gas occupies 22.41 lt. One m^3 of H2 at STP needs 1,000/22.41 lt/mol = 44.623 moles.

Atomic weight H2O = 18.01528 g

44.623 mol x 18.01528 g = 803.92g (0.80392 kg)

To heat 1kg water from say, 10 degrees C to 100 degrees C

Specific heat = 1 cal/ gram/ degree C. 1000 g x (100-10) = 90,000 cal

Latent heat of vaporization (convert water to steam at 100 degrees C) = 540 cal/g @100 degrees C. 1000 g x 540 = 540,000 cal

Total energy to get 1 kg of water from 10 degrees C to steam is: 90k + 540 k = 630,000 cal/ kg

@ 4.1813 j/cal = 2,634,219 j/kg

Energy to make steam to produce 1 m^3 of H2 = 2,634,219 x 0.80392 = 2,117,701 j.

At 2,117,701 j per m^3, we are replacing all the hydrogen vented to cover burned fuel (5,897 kg, / 1.09 = 5,410 m^3) = 11,456,762 kj.

Charcoal at 29,600 kj/ kg = 387 kg at 4.2 thaler / 1000 kg = 1.63 thaler

Coal at 27,000kj/kg = 424 kg at 2.28 thaler / 1000kg = 0.97 thaler

Dry wood at 15,000 kj/kg = 764 kg at 2.64 thaler/ 1000kg = 2.02 thaler

A very big, permanent double-boiler system might produce 284 m^3 (10,000 ft^3) per hour. Portable systems, similar in size to the wagon mounted systems used by the Union in the ACW might have a capacity of up to 60 m^3 per hour. Refilling airships is a slow process.

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****

The Future of The Field

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Maybe it’s my age.  Maybe that’s why I’ve recently taken refuge in the history of science fiction.  Or maybe it’s just the realization that I’m now one of the old-timers.  I can actually remember meeting or knowing many of the legends of the field, now gone.  And I have been in this field for a long time, even though it seems like a nanosecond to me.

Some of this is the rapidity of change.  Readers of The Grantville Gazette appreciate history, and know that sometimes lives, institutions, countries, and everything else can change in the blink of an eye.  If you look at a world map from five years ago, it’s different than a world map from fifty years ago, and different from a world map from five hundred years ago.  And let’s not even talk about how those maps were made.

Some of the reasons I’m reading about the past, though, is the breadth of time.  When you’re a kid, adults say, “Wow, you’ve grown up so fast,” and you think, “Fast? Are you kidding? This day is already a year long.”

But as an adult you realize that time really does speed up, and all of the other time periods live in your head as real, not imagined places. (Which probably explains why time travel books are so popular.)

I got hit with the breadth of time—again—in May. I stood on a stage in Hollywood, California, at the annual Writers of the Future award ceremony, and read my lines off the TelePrompTer:  Twenty-five years ago, I . . .

Twenty-five years ago, I was twenty-five. So the entire length of my time on this Earth has doubled since that day, twenty-five years ago, when I went to the very first Writers of the Future workshop.  The workshop was so new that it wasn’t even called a Writers of the Future workshop, although it was sponsored by WoTF.  The workshop was an experiment, something that—if it failed—might not be repeated ever again.

I hadn’t won an award from Writers of the Future, which was a brand-new competition—and a somewhat controversial one at that.  I was chosen to go because winners had flaked out or couldn’t afford the time and money to attend.

Algis Budrys had called me seven days before the workshop started and said, “I’m inviting you to a free workshop taught by myself, Fred Pohl, Gene Wolfe, and Jack Williamson in Taos, New Mexico.  It starts one week from today, and you have to pay for everything.  Hotel, food, plane tickets.  But the workshop is free.”

I jumped at the opportunity.  Fortunately, I had a thousand dollars saved up.  It was my first and last on the apartment I was going to rent due to my impending divorce, but hey, what’s more important? A workshop? Or fees for an apartment?

I figured I would never have the chance again, and I was right.  I never did win Writers of the Future, despite entering at least a dozen times, but I got more out of that workshop than anyone else ever did.  I met my husband, Dean Wesley Smith, and we’ve been together ever since.

Now our relationship and all the things that have come from it, from our own writing to Pulphouse Publishing to our various editing stints (mine at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Dean’s at Pocket Books) to the workshops we’ve taught for the last ten years, have become part of Writers of the Future lore.  In May, many people at Authors Services, who sponsor the current workshop, mentioned my meeting Dean at the very first workshop as if discussing a fairy tale come to life.

That was strange for me.  But what was stranger was the realization that this controversial contest that many new writers wouldn’t enter when it started twenty-seven years ago has become a venerable proving ground for new writers in the modern era.

Writers who win Writers of the Future really are writers of the future.  The past winners have had multiple book contracts.  Many of these winners are New York Times bestsellers or win other awards.  Writers—and Illustrators—of the Future winners have gone on to win everything from awards in the sf field to Oscars and National Book Awards.

I realized a lot of this while watching the ceremony, listening to the young writers accept awards that mean a great deal to them—and to writing and publishing in general.  To these writers, the contest is what it was envisioned to be: a validation of their talent and a send-off into the world of publishing. The controversy is long gone—and remembered only by those of us who have been in the field for decades.

These writers and illustrators truly are the future of the field, if they can navigate the changes ahead.

And those changes are vast.

I noted that as well, as I listened to my fellow professionals give advice at the workshop proper.  In the past, we all gave the same advice on how to have a career in publishing. Oh, the details might have differed—publish short stories first or stick to novels only; go after awards or don’t bother with awards—but the principles we all espoused were the same.

And now they aren’t.  Half of us told the new writers to learn about e-publishing; the other half thought e-publishing was a fad.  A few of us said that getting an agent is a treacherous and perhaps unnecessary thing in the modern era; the rest believed that writers can’t survive without agents.

The only thing we long-term pros could agree on was this: the industry is changing and only those people who know business will survive the change.  The rest will fall by the wayside.

Right now, writers have more opportunity than they ever had before—especially short story writers.  (Writers of the Future winners submitted short stories.) There are more magazines than there have been since the pulp era.  There are more viable short story markets that pay good money and need content than ever before.

The flip side is that it’s hard to get noticed. Twenty-five years ago, everyone in the sf/f field read the fiction in the same six magazines: Amazing Stories, Aboriginal SF, Analog SF, Asimov’s, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Omni.  Omni paid the best, but only published one story per issue.  Asimov’s  and F&SF had the most prestige, but Aboriginal and Amazing often found the best new talent.  Analog had the most consistent voice, and any writer who sold to them was pretty much guaranteed to have a long career in hard sf.

There were other magazines, like Weird Tales, which published on an irregular schedule and some prestigious anthologies. Twilight Zone still existed then, but had begun the struggles that eventually killed it. (And it didn’t publish much science fiction.)  Writers of the Future came in and filled a void, first publishing writers from Dean to Nina Kiriki Hoffman to Karen Joy Fowler.

Now most of those magazines are gone.  Asimov’s and Analog are doing great, thanks to the forward-thinking that got them into e-publishing early. Their subscription rates, if you count e-editions (which I do), have gone way up.  F&SF has one-tenth the circulation it had at its peak.  Omni, Amazing, and Aboriginal are long gone, memories to those of us who sold to them, like the pulp magazines were to the generations ahead of us.

But now there’s a dozen other magazines that exist mostly online or in e-format, from Subterranean Online to Lightspeed.  They’re starting to dominate the awards, and the stars who first appear in those magazines are starting to dominate the field.

Kinda.  Because there isn’t that  much of a field left to dominate. The rise of the new magazines, of e-publishing, and of big mega-conventions like Comic-Con and DragonCon have meant that what was once a small little club of about 10,000 people who read the same thing (and disapproved of newcomers, like Writers of the Future) has been subsumed by mass culture.

Writers of the Future has moved into that mass culture.  The little workshop I attended, held in a tiny Taos hotel, has morphed.  In the late 1980s, WoTF added the workshop to the awards ceremony.  Then the contest went to spectacular places like the United Nations to hold that ceremony.  But the contest and its “event” as the organizers call that week didn’t really take off until the rise of the internet.

Now, the judges, speakers, and contestants go through a Hollywood-style to-do, complete with clothing approval and all-day make-up/hairstyling sessions. This is so that we’ll look presentable for the television cameras that are filming us during the ceremony, which has become the biggest such event in all of writing.  The ceremony gets streamed live over the internet, and the WoTF organizers say that millions of people eventually watch it. Since the ceremony initially streams worldwide and remains on the website for a year after the initial airing, I have no doubt that eventually millions do watch some or all of it.

This has come a long way from the tiny little workshop that I attended twenty-five years ago.  Some of the new writers I met at the later WoTF ceremonies are now old hands in the field.  Many of them have moved to other fields, like Jo Beverly, a New York Times bestselling romance writer.

The one thing that has remained the same, however, is the support from WoTF and Authors Services. They do their best to prepare the new writers for a career in publishing.  Not for another award ceremony, but to actually make a living at the profession. And with the exception of the workshops Dean and I run, some of which are shamelessly modeled on that first WoTF workshop, I know of no other writing workshop that trains writers to have a career.

Go take a peek at the website, www.writersofthefuture.com.  You’ll see how successful the contest has been over the years. Its track record is astounding.  Then look at this  year’s class picture, at the faces you don’t recognize scattered among those of  us you’ve seen too much over the decades.

You are looking at the future of the science fiction field. At the publishing field.

I realized as I scrambled down a flight of stairs at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel to get to the photograph session on time that a lot more of my anecdotes will start with phrases like “Twenty-five years ago . . .” because I am a bigger part of the history of the field than I ever thought I would be.

Part of that history stood beside me in Hollywood. Someday, fans of the genre will look at that photo and say, “Wow, look at all the famous writers who hung out together.” And they won’t be referring to me or Eric Flint or Larry Niven. They’ll be referring to the winners, who have become long-term professionals in the field.

Those fans will be looking at their past.  But right now, it’s our future.

And that’s really cool.

****

The Comfort of Your Wake

Written by J. F. Keeping

The joyous din of feeding time—bursts of conversation, crunching bredfish, the wandering ghosts of lost echolocation clicks—faded when a sobering message of silence spread through the gathered pod: They're here. Fear sapped the strength from Squeak's tail and flippers and the frightened taste of her urine filled the water.

Squeak couldn't see them, of course—eyes were useless in the liquid night of Europa's ocean. She could only listen helplessly as they drew near. Then her mother outlined them with her sonar beam and Squeak read the echo image: four large orcas, male judging by their proud dorsal fins, dangerous judging by their scars and confident, sinuous stroke.

"Stay close," said her mother.

Squeak obediently took up a position beneath her left pectoral fin.

The nearby orcas gave way and the newcomers began circling Squeak and her mother.

One of them directed a tight beam of high-frequency clicks at Squeak's mother. It was a private message, but Squeak with her experience in eavesdropping could hear it: "I am Hammerhead-mater-Grabjaw. That female cowering under your flipper—she is your calf?"

Squeak noted that the other males, probably Hammerhead's brothers, did not identify themselves—a breach of whale etiquette.

"I am Tailspinner." Squeak's mother broadcast her reply so that everyone could hear. "What business is it of yours?"

Squeak noted the absence of the matrilineal name with bitterness.

"Our business is to ensure that the Breeding Laws are obeyed," Hammerhead replied in the same fashion. "I think that you can see how we need to catalogue descent to do that."

"She is mine." While she clicked these works, Squeak's mother said simultaneously in the slower squeaks and groans language that orcas shared with the Grandfather whales: Defy.

"You are refugees from Broken Tail Spire, are you not?"

"Yes! When the vent died, we had to move our herds. The whole pod was dispersed; families that had swum together for generations never to touch again. Only five tides ago did we join your pod."

"You are welcome to the Singing Valley pod. We ask only that you obey the rules." And like Squeak's mother, Hammerhead whistled a counterpoint: Punishment.

One of the other circling orcas took up this whistle as a refrain: Punishment . . . Punishment . . .

Squeak wondered desperately why the other whales from their old pod weren't coming to their defense.

"Please, my calf . . . my calf is no threat to anyone." Mercy.

"No one doubts that you love your calf, Tailspinner. Mother and calf, brother and sister are of one flesh." Compassion. "But you forget that all whales are one family. Your calf may be blameless, but her genes—her genes can do fathomless harm to future generations."

"She won't breed!" Please. "Nor will I. I haven't mated since . . . since . . ."

"We all swim in the same waters," Hammerhead recited. "What each one of us does affects us all. Without exception. Did they not have the Breeding Laws in your pod? Were they not orcas?" Hear me.

The circle of whales hemming Squeak and her mother drew tighter. She could feel the impact of every echolocation pulse. One of them beamed her in the face and she let out a little squeak of pain.

"Before the Migration, we were little more than animals. Before the Migration, we breathed air. There is no air here, and we breathe with gills. If we wish to maintain ourselves without regression, genetic hygiene must be observed." Hear me. "She is defective! Blind!"

As if reading the echo beam of one of her captors, Squeak imagined how they saw her: overgrown calf, head shriveled where her melon should be. Unable to produce the focused beams of sound orcas used for echolocation, she was dependent upon the beams of others like her mother to see.

A swell of water sloshed Squeak away when her mother rolled to one side, adopting the posture of submission. Squeak wondered fearfully what she was doing. But then her mother tight-beamed her a single word: "Flee."

Broadcasting a steady stream of sonar clicks, Squeak's mother rammed into one of the encircling whales.

Before the others could react, Squeak shot through the opening. Her tail pounded the water, the thought boiling through her mind: They want to kill me, they want to kill me! She imagined teeth tearing her flesh, the sharp tang of her blood filling the water. . . .

From behind came sounds of churning water and the explosive shock of a tail blow. Her mother! What was happening to her mother? Why was no one helping them? Squeak didn't know what to do. She wanted to help but her mother had told her to flee, and Squeak always did what her mother told her. And she was so afraid, terribly afraid. They want to kill me.

Then Squeak felt the brush of a sonar beam against her tail and realized they were pursuing her. Her heart pounding like a second tail in her chest, she fought to think. If only she could see! She recalled the image she had received from her mother's sonar a moment before. Below and to her left would be the herd of bredfish, hemmed in by circling orcas for feeding. Inclining her head in that direction, she heard in her jawbone the familiar rustling of dozens of small, agitated swimmers.

Into the herd she dove, mouth agape. Squeak whirled, batted her flippers, kicked her tail, sending the panicked fish flying. Without thinking she snatched one in her jaws and gobbled it down. Then she shot off in a random direction, leaving a confusion of sonar echoes in her wake.

Squeak fled on into the darkness, straining to hear sounds of pursuit. But none came. When she felt she could go no further, she drifted to a stop in the water.

Squeak was alone. She had never been alone before. The very notion seemed incomprehensible. Social as they were, most orcas went on occasional forays away from the pod, but not Squeak. How would she find her way back? What if she were set upon by a pack of Songless whales? So her mother had always said, and Squeak always listened to her mother.

Was she afraid? She didn't know how she felt. Her head was full of little explosions. She felt like she was losing her sapience, becoming one of the Songless. She was alone. Her mother's touch, the background hiss and grumble of whale voices, the wandering currents of a mob of milling orcas . . . all her bearings were gone. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to feel?

As the roar in her head subsided, Squeak began to hear sounds. Creaks and booms drifted down from above—that was the shell of ice that covered the ocean world, forever worked by Europa's tides. Back the way she had come was the soft susurration of the hydrothermal vent, spewing hot minerals that fed the euplankton which in turn fed the pod's herds of bredfish. The water had its own voice: a textured sigh, shaped by the slopes of the valley in which the pod made its home. And through it came the squeaks and groans of whalesong. Behind her was a muted babble of many voices, her own adopted pod. From another direction a faint call drifted, a message transmitted across the ocean to some distant friend or relative. And beneath it all was the Song of the Grandfathers, the living memory of the whale colony, telling of their voyage upon the vessels of the No-Fins from the dying seas of Earth and their lives on this new world. Of course, no whale was ever alone. It was the first lesson of the Song.

Then, as Squeak listened to the sea, a voice from out of the darkness touched her like a caress: Squeak, mother calls. To me, to me! It was one of the first songs a whale learned, simple and repetitive, intended to lead a lost child to her mother. Tailspinner was alive! Her mother was alive, and searching for her.

Squeak started to reply, then cut herself short. Were the tail-biters hunting her? If she spoke it would give away her position. But she desperately needed some contact with her mother. The danger seemed distant now, unreal. But her loneliness was very close.

She sang a short response: Tailspinner, await me, I come! Normally such songs would be repeated many times, so that the intended recipient would eventually hear it over the hubbub of whale life. But that would be too risky.

Moments later, a familiar male voice called out of the dark: Come home, little fish, we are waiting for you. It came from the same general direction as her mother's, but closer, much closer.

Squeak pondered several miserable seconds and then fled. Off to one side she could hear the moaning of the tidal current surging through a narrow channel. If she guessed correctly, this was the mountain pass through which she and the remaining stragglers of her former pod had wearily made their way here. It might offer some place to hide.

Why were they doing this to her? She and her mother weren't harming anyone! The Broken Tail pod only killed dangerous defectives such as the Songless—genetic throwbacks to pre-sapience—and those that were so terribly malformed that it was an act of mercy. Squeak and her mother had only been banned from breeding. Of course, no male would want to breed with a female once she had borne a defective. And Squeak's mother was always too busy taking care of her to be interested in more offspring anyway. She had always said that Squeak was all she needed. Their family status had suffered, but what did that matter?

The sound was very loud now—she must be almost there. Behind, her mother's call came again and she fought the desperate urge to respond. Then she heard traces of sonar clicks hunting for her. Too far away to resolve an echo perhaps, but for how long? Tired as she was, Squeak forced herself to swim faster.

Then there was an impact, and suddenly Squeak found herself bathed in cold water. She had entered the current! The border between the warm and cold water would confuse the echolocation signals—for a moment anyway, until her pursuers penetrated the current as well.

Squeak turned her head this way and that, getting a sense for the space. The sound of the rushing water was not as precise as a sonar echo, but it told her that she was in a long, narrow canyon sculpted by the tides. One side had collapsed, covering the bottom with a maze of tumbled stone. Hopefully she would be able to conceal herself there.

Worming her way through the rocks, Squeak had to proceed by feel. Her flippers kept scraping against the stone; there was not enough room to maneuver properly. A wave of claustrophobia came over her when she imagined getting stuck down here.

Moments later she found a nook beneath a slab of tilted stone and worked her way in tail-first. It was cramped, but visible only from the narrow passage she had swum down. Here she opened her mouth, willed her pounding heart to silence, and focused her whole body upon the act of listening.

Stray speech and sonar clicks found their way to her through the chattering current. She imagined her pursuers spreading out through the channel, echolocation beams prying among the rocks, hunting for her. So long as she made no sound, they would have to catch her directly in a beam in order to find her. Meanwhile, she listened. Echolocation pulses reverberated through the debris, bringing her faint jumbled images of broken stone. She ignored these and tried to use the sounds to track her pursuers' movements. She thought she could hear three distinct sources, some closer than others.

"I don't understand why we're bothering," came a voice. Through some trick of resonance, it sounded like it was coming from right beside her. "She's just going to die on her own out here anyway. Is she going to eat bottom lice and wavetails like a muck whale? The Songless will probably get her. She's blind! Helpless! Useless!"

The words barely stung at all. Squeak had been long used to being useless. Always riding her mother's wake like a nurseling, she could neither watch the herds nor tend to the calves. Some orcas specialized in monitoring local wildlife populations and others honed their sonar beams into surgical instruments, but not Squeak. She couldn't even play at stunning fish with echo pulses or engage in the roughhousing games that orcas enjoyed. But she had her mother, who never objected to the great burden that Squeak knew she must impose. She longed now for the comforting pulse of her mother's gills, her heartbeat. . . .

"What are you complaining for, Sideways?" said a second voice. This one came echoing through the jumble of rocks surrounding Squeak's hiding place, indicating its owner was close by. "This is fun. I'm tired of butting rostrums and nipping tails. I want to kill someone." Feast.

Squeak felt sick inside. She knew these males by reputation: third-generation offspring of the most powerful local matriarch, an ancient and fecund whale named Grabjaw. Orcas did not have leaders, but each family held a certain amount of prestige through a combination of force, persuasion, and utility.

"That's right, little fish, we're going to feed on you." The voice was even closer now. Little fish, tasty fish, crunchy fish, it sang.

"Shut it, Nipper." Only faint echoes reached her, but it sounded like this might be Hammerhead.

"I'm just trying to get her to piss herself again, lead us right to her." Laugh.

"Half-calf, why are you so selfish?" Hammerhead called out to her. "If you do not care for your pod, think of your mother. What kind of life can she have, with you trailing her wake every turn of the tide? Bad enough for her that you were born. Come out, and set her free."

No, that's not true, my mother loves me! Squeak screamed inside her head. She had never felt so helpless and wretched.

"This is stupid, I'm going home. Nipper can find a Songless whale to kill if he wants to." Sideways, on the other side of the channel and moving away.

"Fine. Just so long as you're the one who tells Grabjaw that the three of us couldn't catch a blind whale." Dare.

Nipper was getting closer and closer. Scattered echoes of his sonar beam were prying into her cubbyhole. If he didn't see her, soon her laboring heartbeat would give her away. She glimpsed an image of his jaws, caught in a reflection of his own beam.

Suddenly she knew what to do. With a kick of her tail, Squeak sprang from her hiding-place. Nipper was only a few whale-lengths away, his echolocation clicks scrambling the maze of stone with a cacophony of echoes. He stopped short, trying to ascertain her position amidst a swarm of reflected images. But his pulsing sonar signal told her exactly where he was.

Just as her mother had done, Squeak slammed the male with the full force of her charge. A satisfying meaty shock went through her rostrum as she thrust her opponent against the rock behind him. The metallic tang of blood filled the water.

Nipper didn't have time to make a sound, but that collision would have echoed through the channel. Squeak waved her head through the current to get her bearings and then plunged further down the channel. Her only hope was to get out of echolocation range before his brothers got a beam on her. She fled headlong, all the while bracing herself against the impact of an unseen boulder or knoll.

Strangely, the tail-biters seemed to be going in the opposite direction. She heard frantic communication clicks, too faint for her to discern words and growing fainter. From Nipper came no sound at all. That thought brought a mixture of fear, shame, and exultation.

Once out of the mouth of the channel Squeak turned right and hugged the side of the ridge. As the rush of combat faded, it was replaced by fatigue fringed with despair. What had she accomplished? She was no closer to her mother. She could no longer even be sure what direction her mother's call had come from. Why had she ceased calling? Hammerhead's cruel words echoed in her mind.

Back in her old pod she would have voiced her feelings in song. But with the Grabjaws still hunting for her, she dared not make a sound. Still, why not? There was a chance her mother would hear. She was tired of fleeing. Her song would bring either death or solace, and both were preferable to the way she felt now.

Her plaintive cry went out into the dark: Mother, the sea is vast and I long for the comfort of your wake.

She had repeated her song a couple of times and was about to begin another phrase when a reply came from not far off:

A calf calls with the voice of an adult. What is the meaning of this riddle?

That was no orca! That song, deeper than any orca could produce, could only have come from one of the Grandfathers. The Grandfathers were huge, krill-eating whales. They had their own feeding grounds and seldom consorted with orcas. But orcas sometimes sought their counsel—they were long-lived and singers of the Song, repository of all whale wisdom. Squeak had never met one, although she had listened to their voices all her life. Was it possible that this one could help her now? She was afraid to hope.

Grandfather, she sang into the sea, driven from my pod by punishing whales, homeless and motherless am I.

A singer such as you? What was your crime?

None but living. Echolocation eludes me; I am defective.

No reply came so she pleaded: Grandfather, what should I do?

Learn to eat krill.

Forgetting herself, Squeak cried artlessly: That is not helpful! I need to get back to my mother!

A whale swims forward, not backward. And even a defect can be perfect.

Such riddle-talk was typical of the Grandfathers. But Squeak was in no mood for it now. Can't you just give me a straight answer? she moaned.

Our song makes all whales one; to torture orcas is all we ask in return.

All right, she was going to have to play his game. Krill does not suit my palate. Is there nothing else I can do?

Some voices are silenced too soon; others never get the chance to find their song. Yours lies ahead of you, if you will hear it.

I don't understand! Squeak cried. What do you mean?

But in reply the voice only took up the chorus of the Song. That, it seemed, was all she was going to get.

Squeak swam on, confused and frustrated. Your song lies ahead of you. It sounded like an empty platitude a pompous old matriarch might offer to an impatient young orca. Squeak knew she was supposed to respect the Grandfathers and be grateful for what guidance they offered, but she felt that at a time like this she was entitled to something more! If he knew something she didn't, why not tell her? Why force her to swim upstream like this?

Squeak continued to brood over the Grandfather's words, when she heard an echolocation pulse. And another, and another. At first she thought the brothers had heard her song and tracked it back to her, but then she realized there were too many. Almost without sound, nearly a dozen whales descended upon her. Too despondent to run, she let them approach.

Quick and agile, these whales swarmed about her like a herd of bredfish. They were orcas, certainly, but smaller and sleeker than those Squeak knew—this she heard by the almost seamless way they cut the water. Their sonar beams roamed her body curiously, but they uttered not a word. Did they have something to do with the Grandfather’s cryptic message?

"I am Squeak," she said in tentative greeting. She sensed a shudder go through the group, but no reply came. That was when Squeak knew what she was facing: they were Songless whales.

Genetic throwbacks to the days of pre-sapience before the Migration, Songless whales were unable to comprehend the Song of the Grandfathers that wove the skein of whale civilization. They lived as savages, preying upon other whales. Her mother had terrified her with tales of how they took calves who strayed too far. They more than anything else were the reason for the Breeding Laws.

Well, let them have her if they wanted. Let them feast upon her flesh. It was no more than the civilized whales wanted to do.

One of the Songless made a careful scan of her from tail to rostrum. Then it directed a stream of what sounded like communication clicks at her. Squeak was taken aback—was this creature trying to talk to her? It repeated the call and then made a pass in front of her, close enough for her to feel its bow wave move along her body.

As Squeak was wondering what to do next, a second whale made a close scan of her and then sent an almost identical stream of clicks. Was this call a threat? A challenge?

Then to her surprise, one of the whales directed an intense beam of sound at the other, hard enough that it rang like a blow. She wasn't sure what happened next, but judging by the thrashing of the water and the sounds of tail-blows and aggressive echolocation beams, these two were fighting like a pair of young males over a female.

Slowly it dawned upon Squeak that this was exactly what they were doing—they were fighting over her. First the deep scan to confirm her gender, then the competitive behavior—she had seen it many times. It made perfect sense. Orcas travelled in family groups, so the males would always be on the lookout for a young female without calf. She was meat to them all right, just not the kind she had expected!

Squeak laughed—a rapid chattering of her teeth—for the first time since her old pod broke up.

What should she do next? She certainly wasn't going to mate with one of these creatures. Perhaps if she just moved off. . . . But off to where? There was nowhere for her to go. That tiny flicker of joy made Squeak realize that she didn't want to be alone. Her mother's absence was like an open wound and she didn't want to give up even the paltry comfort these strange, silent orcas brought.

But could she swim with them? Part of her recoiled at the idea. Everything she had been taught said that these were beasts, monsters, not orcas but killer whales. Still, at this moment, they seemed less barbaric than the members of her own adopted pod.

Over the sound of the duel, Squeak could hear the other Songless whales moving on. She decided to chance it and followed them at a discreet distance.

The sounds of battle ceased and Squeak felt two whales shoot past her. Each one took up a position ahead of her such that she was tugged along by their wake. Were they staking claim or attempting to curry favor? This brought mixed feelings; because of her deformity, no male had ever shown interest in Squeak before. At least this suggested that it was safe for her to accompany the pod.

It was not long before Squeak heard a small shape approach her. A miniature echolocation beam probed her tentatively and Squeak realized she was being examined by a calf. A calf! Of course Songless whales had calves too—the thought had just never occurred to her.

Squeak tried a call she had heard mothers use with calves before: a whistle that rose in tone to a peak and then fell again. She was rewarded with a happy squeal, which she returned.

Squeak was about to try another call when four more small, inquisitive forms appeared and swam around her. She laughed for a second time. Juvenile orcas were intensely curious and difficult to control. One of them appeared to imitate her laugh.

Moments later, the water was disturbed by the simultaneous approach of several adult orcas. Squeak made ready to flee, but the adults ignored her and instead prodded the juveniles with sonar beams. Emitting squeals of protest, the little ones were herded by their mothers back to the pod. Playtime, it seemed, was over. But Squeak hoped she would be allowed to play with these calves again.

Squeak followed the pod of Songless whales through the channel and down the slope of the ridge on the other side. Here she was about to leave them for fear of losing contact with her mother completely, but they turned to follow the contour of the channel mouth. It was not difficult to figure out why: the whales foraged constantly, and food was less sparse here where the channel gathered in the tidal current like a Grandfather scooping krill.

Wild whales did not eat only calves, as it turned out. In fact, they ate everything, as far as Squeak could tell: creepercrawlers, wavetails, bottom lice. . . . There was even the occasional bredfish—apparently enough had escaped from herds to form a wild population. But it was meager fare and everyone gobbled up whatever they found before another orca could get at it. It was easy to tell why they were all so small and thin, eking out an existence in this inhospitable environment. Was she going to have to live like them, if she didn't find a way to return to the Singing Valley pod?

The Grandfather had said she would find her song out here, but he couldn't have meant this, could he?

****

After a time, Squeak heard an unmistakable voice: Squeak, mother calls. To me! To me! Her mother, at last! Not caring if the tail-biters lay in wait for her, she swam joyfully toward the sound.

She was not far off. Drawing near, Squeak recognized her heartbeat, her breathing, even the rhythm of her tail-strokes. Squeak and her mother nuzzled, rubbed cheeks, and stroked one another with their fins. She was overcome with joy. Then she detected the acrid flavor of blood and felt a gash on her mother's side.

"What's this?"

"It's nothing. A little souvenir from the Grabjaws."

Squeak understood. They had given her a tooth-raking for standing up to the tail-biters. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"It doesn't matter," her mother went on. "We're together again, and that's all that counts." Joy, she sang.

"We're together again. . . ." Squeak echoed.

Then she felt an echolocation beam sweep over them. Her mother darted and directed a stream of sonar pulses at the intruder. Reading the reflection, Squeak recognized one of her suitors. When a second beam scanned them it was easy enough to guess who it came from.

"Mother, don't worry, I know these whales. They won't hurt us."

"I am Tailspinner. . . ." Squeak's mother said hesitantly.

One of the males responded with an inarticulate squeal of clicks. To Squeak it sounded like the mating call he had directed to her earlier.

"Squeak, these are Songless!" Her mother took up a position between Squeak and the two males. "We should get out of here!" Away! Away!

"Yes, Mother, I know they're Songless. But it's safe. They . . . like me."

There was an incredulous silence, and then Squeak said: "Mother, what are we going to do?"

"We're going to leave these waters and find another pod that will accept us."

"Oh." Squeak was disappointed. As unreasonable as it was, she had hoped her mother would have some solution that would allow them to return to the Singing Valley pod. "But it was difficult enough to find a new pod before. And now we're coming begging without our own herd. . . ."

"Oh, bitesize, I know it will be hard, but what does that matter as long as we're alive and together?"

"Together . . ." Squeak thought of all that had happened since she and her mother had parted. "Mother, I spoke with a Grandfather today."

"A Grandfather? Surely not."

"He said something about some whales never getting the chance to find their song and told me mine was out here."

"Are you sure it wasn't another orca? Or a muck whale?"

"No, it was a Grandfather! Listen, he said I would find my song out here. Do you think he meant with these Songless whales?"

"Squeak, of course not! You don't belong with these creatures, you mustn't ever think that. You're an orca, a true orca!"

"That's not what the Grabjaws think," Squeak said miserably. "Mother, I have an idea. You return to the pod and I'll stay here."

"Squeak, what are you saying?"

"The Grabjaw brothers are still hunting for me—it's not safe! But they would never think of looking for me with the Songless whales! You can pretend that you've given up on me and after a while they'll give up too. Meanwhile, we could send out discreet calls to other pods. You could even come visit me. If you want to."

"But if you stay with the Songless you're admitting that the Grabjaws are right and you don't belong with true orcas." Shame.

"Mother, I . . . I need to know if this is what the Grandfathers have in mind for me."

"Squeak, why are you behaving this way? Even if the Grandfathers do have some special role in mind for you, it can't be scrounging among the rocks with savages! Forget that and let's go." Calf, obey!

"Better that than to wander homeless and hungry until some pod deigns to let us swim with them! Please, Mother, go back. I'll be fine here. We will touch again soon."

Squeak's mother hesitated, her echolocation beam probing first Squeak and then the two Songless whales. "May the Grandfathers keep you safe," she said at last and with a splash she was gone.

Squeak listened as the sound of her mother's tail-strokes receded into the chorus of the sea. All this time she had wanted nothing more than to feel her mother's touch again, yet the first chance she got she had sent her away. Why? Did she truly believe the Grandfathers foresaw some place for her with the Songless? No, it was what Hammerhead had said to her: Bad enough for your mother that you were born. Squeak's mother had never shown any sign that she resented her role as caregiver for a defective calf. And yet how could Squeak be sure? Tailspinner loved her calf, there was no doubt about that, and a loving mother might sing a false song over her suffering. Once this fear had been planted in Squeak's mind, it was difficult to dismiss. And she would rather face the blindness of the empty ocean alone than cause her mother needless hardship.

Fortunately for her, she did not need to face it wholly alone. Her two friends called plaintively to her. Like the first faltering attempts of a nursling, there were no words in the cry, but its meaning was easy to guess. Squeak followed them back to their pod.

The little band of wild whales hugged the slope of the escarpment, following the lazy current as it wound its way among the ridges and furrows. Here they nosed about the stones, while above them sighed the echoless vastness of the open sea. The creatures were remarkably placid compared to the orcas that Squeak had known, who were always playing or gossiping or engaging in lying contests. These whales barely disturbed the water with their tail-strokes, gliding gracefully with a minimal expenditure of energy. They spoke rarely and made sparing use of echolocation. She even found that they calmed a little of her anxiety at being separated from her mother and chased into unknown waters by killer orcas.

The peace was broken only by the occasional advances of the two amorous males. On and off they would call to her, and sometimes one of them would brush against her as he swam by. Squeak did not want to encourage them, but at the same time was afraid to anger them in case they responded by driving her away. So she ignored them, hoping that was best.

****

By the time the tide turned, hunger became an issue—and with it, the uncomfortable question of diet. Orcas sometimes sampled Europan organisms to add variety to their diet of bredfish, but it was not possible to obtain adequate nourishment from this alien fare. Despite the occasional wild bredfish, Songless whales lived in a state of chronic hunger and malnutrition. Squeak would face the same conditions as long as she swam with them.

When the pod came upon a patch of wavetails—Europan crustaceans which clung to the rock and spread wide "tails" to filter the water—Squeak's hunger was urgent enough that she gobbled one down. She crushed its shell between her jaws and its pungent, pulpy meat squirted into her mouth. It tasted like bredfish shit and the choking fumes from the hydrothermal vent. She hoped it would not make her ill.

The calves continued to display interest in Squeak and their mothers allowed them to spend more time with her. She soon learned to differentiate between them through voice, touch, and the way they broke the water. Three of them were nurslings; two were recently weaned. Without the benefit of sonar, she could not determine their gender, but the one who first inspected her she judged to be male by his size and aggressiveness. And she decided one of the nurslings must be female because she was so quick and clever.

Squeak sang to them, the way her mother had sung to her. Simple rhymes, like: Swish, swish, tasty fish/Crunch, crunch, thanks a bunch. They would listen raptly, milling about her like a mob of admiring males, then suddenly dart away squealing to play hide-and-hunt among the rocks. Sometimes they tried to imitate her. Most of the time they managed only amusing warbling, but two of them—the curious male she had decided to call Nosey and the clever female she thought of as Posey—were surprisingly good at it. Good enough that Squeak tried teaching them a few words. "Eat," she said and mouthed chewing. "Eat, eat." They repeated after her: "Eat, eat."

She continued the game with several other words as they foraged among the ridges and furrows. Nosey and Posey tried, with varying levels of success, to imitate her. But the other three juveniles didn't seem to grasp the idea at all. The contrast between these two and the others was so striking that one conclusion seemed inescapable: they were not Songless whales!

Was it possible that they were orphans who had found a home among the wild whales, much as Squeak had? But Songless whales ate calves, didn't they? And Posey was a nursling, too young to survive away from her mother. Could it be that Songless whales sometimes bore non-defective offspring? The implications were staggering. If this was so, then who knew how many orcas were being cheated of their sapience by being reared by animals?

Squeak was suddenly certain that this was what the Grandfather had been talking about. Some never get the chance to find their song. But if the Grandfathers knew about these calves, why had they not told anyone before now? Or if they had shared the knowledge with orcas in the past, why had Squeak never heard of it? She could ask them, of course, but to do so would risk giving herself away to the tail-biters. And dare she presume that the Grandfathers would answer her call twice in as many tides? No, Squeak decided to wait and discuss it with her mother when she returned.

In the meantime, she threw her energies into continuing the language lessons. Eventually her charges' enthusiasm waned and they returned to their mothers to feed.

****

Finally Squeak's own mother returned. They rubbed cheeks and Tailspinner started to say something, but Squeak interrupted her, "Mother, I have the most amazing news!"

"Squeak, this isn't like you," her mother admonished her and Squeak lowered her head. "I was able to get a message through to my sister Swims-in-the-Reaches. She thinks her pod will be willing to accept us! But we have to leave now. I think I may have been followed."

"That's wonderful, mother," Squeak cried. "But I have to tell you something too! The calves here, some of them can speak!"

"What do you mean, they can speak? They're Songless whales."

"That's just it—they aren't Songless! They're like us. Come, let me show you—" Squeak started to turn but then a stunning blast of sound struck her full in the face.

The next few moments were a confused jumble of noises for Squeak. There was her mother's roar of rage, the thrashing of embattled water, and Hammerhead's voice shouting about lies and punishment. Somehow she found the presence of mind to move somewhere, anywhere, just as a snarling form surged through the water toward her. Teeth that would have torn her open scraped her side instead.

"Stop! Please stop!" she cried. "This isn't important any more! There are calves here, real calves, and they need our help!"

But the tail-biters didn't listen. Two sonar beams homed in on Squeak. She twisted, attempting to elude them—and then there was an explosive impact as another orca swept in from behind her to collide with one of her attackers. It gave a shrill, wordless cry and Squeak knew who it was immediately. A similar cry came from above, and the second of Squeak's two suitors joined the fray. Soon the water was filled by an impenetrable cacophony of bow waves, tail shocks, and dueling echolocation beams.

Moments later Hammerhead called a retreat and the violence ceased. "I see you've found a home among the other genetic refuse," he taunted. "We'll have to come back later and exterminate the lot of you." And then there was only the sound of their vanishing tail-strokes.

Immediately, Squeak's mother was swimming around her, running her sonar beam all over her calf. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Squeak said distractedly. "Why didn't they listen?"

"What about this?" Squeak's mother indicated where one of the brothers had caught her.

"It's nothing." Squeak waved her jaw about, listening for her two suitors. The taste of blood filled the water. "What about those two orcas that helped us?"

Tailspinner scanned the area and Squeak caught a pair of reflections hovering nearby. "They seem okay. As soon as the tail-biters realized they were in a fair fight, they turned tail. Who are those two?"

"They're—they're from this pod. Listen, mother, we have to go back. We have to tell everyone that there are sapient orcas here!"

"Oh, bitesize, what would be the point of that? Even if they believed you, what could they do?"

"Teach them to speak. Teach them to understand the Song. Teach them how to be orcas!"

My love, Squeak's mother sang. "A fine ambition, but how? Kill their mothers and abduct them? Do you think they'll understand?"

Squeak had not thought that far ahead. "No, I guess not." Her head was still a little muddled from the stunning blast. "But—but I could stay."

"You could what? Stay? What do you mean?"

"I could stay and teach them." Squeak spoke slowly, as the thought gradually coalesced in her mind. Of course. Even a defect can be perfect. . . . These calves needed someone to teach them and who better than an otherwise useless defective like Squeak? "They accept me. I know it'll be hard, but I'm certain this is what the Grandfather meant when he told me about finding my song."

"Squeak, enough about the Grandfathers! We can't stay! We have a new home to go to. And the Grabjaws might return. You heard what they said!"

"I'm not afraid of the Grabjaws! They can't fight the whole pod, and if they try we'll just run away! Mother, I can do something here. For the first time I can be more than just an overgrown calf."

Squeak's mother clapped her jaw in impatience. "Squeak, you're speaking like a calf right now. Do you want to live like these pitiful, half-starved creatures? We are orcas! We have our own course to swim. Now let's go!"

"Mother, please . . ."

"Do as I say!" A beam of sound struck Squeak in the face. It took a moment for her to realize it was from her mother.

"Go," choked Squeak. "You can go and I'll stay. You don't have to take care of me any more."

Her mother was silent for a long moment. Then she cried: "Oh, Squeak, is that what this is about? You are all the sea to me. I could never leave you."

"Then stay! Stay with me and help me save these orcas!" Please.

Her mother hesitated. "Squeak, please. Don't ask me to give up everything we have left."

"Everything we have left!" Squeak cried. "What do we have left?"

"We have what we are. Without a pod—a real pod—we are nothing!"

"I've always been nothing," Squeak moaned. Nothing. " This is my chance to be . . . something else."

"Don't say that, Squeak," her mother said quietly. "You're not nothing."

"Mother, I'm staying here. You can go if that's what you want."

Squeak's mother was silent for a long time, running her sonar beam over her calf. At last she said: "The Tailspinner pod. That has a nice ring to it."

"What?" Squeak was startled by the change in subject.

"If we're going to found our own pod of orcas with these calves, it needs a name. And it should be named for the matriarch, don't you think?"

"Yes! Of course!" Squeak let out a long whistle of relief. "Come on, you can meet the nurslings. . . ."

Squeak and her mother swam toward their new home. She didn't know how the Songless whales would react to her mother or how well the two of them would fare on their new diet of wavetails and bottom lice, but she refused to worry. The Grandfathers had entrusted a task to her and she was determined to see it through.

"Thank you. . . ." Squeak whispered.

****